Chapter 4: Finding My Rythm

The thud of my feet against the wooden floor echoed sharply through my bedroom.

"Five, six, seven, eight—"

I spun into a clean three-step turn, catching my balance just in time to slide into a body wave, the move ending with a neat flick of my wrist to the beat of the soft music playing from my phone.

Sweat trickled down my temples, but I barely noticed.

Everything felt sharper today.

Easier.

I was getting my rhythm back.

Yesterday, it had taken me forever to even remember the basics. I had stumbled through old steps, my body heavy and unfamiliar, the beats swimming past me. But today?

Today my body remembered the flow of a good pop song: where the beat lived, when to pop my hips, how to hit a pose with my hands framed just under my chin.

It was like a muscle memory buried in my bones, stubbornly refusing to be erased by death.

I grinned breathlessly to myself and reset, tapping out the count in a whisper.

Starting small, I practiced a basic eight-count routine: a sharp shoulder pop, side step, quick hip roll, then a double spin.

It wasn't perfect—yet—but it was mine.

After a few successful tries, I added a small freestyle section in between, just letting the music guide me. My arms sliced through the air in smooth arcs; my hips snapped sharply with the rhythm.

Every time I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my chest tightened a little.

It wasn't the face I remembered.

It wasn't Korn.

But it was becoming my body.

My future.

And I wasn't going to waste it.

I had barely caught my breath when Mom's voice floated up from downstairs:

"Thip! Come down! We need your opinion!"

I grabbed a towel and wiped my face quickly, tossing on a loose hoodie over my sweat-drenched tank top. My legs ached deliciously with the reminder of movement as I jogged downstairs.

In the living room, it was chaos.

Mom was holding up two outfits—one a soft pink sundress, the other a flowing white blouse with jeans—waving them like battle flags.

Before I could even react, Dad strutted by holding two different polos against his chest, looking deeply, tragically confused.

"Does this one say 'cool uncle,' or 'midlife crisis'?" he asked seriously, lifting a neon orange shirt like it personally offended him.

Ploy was sprawled on the couch, cereal bowl balanced dangerously on his stomach, flicking through his phone.

Bank was playing a game on the floor, headphones half-off, occasionally shouting triumphantly at some invisible enemy.

And Beam—Beam was sitting at the kitchen counter, sipping juice with narrowed, watchful eyes.

Still suspicious.

Still sharp.

I plastered on a smile and turned to Mom first.

"The sundress," I said without missing a beat. "It's lighter—you'll survive the heat."

Mom beamed, tossing the blouse onto the back of a chair like it had insulted her ancestors.

"And Dad," I added, barely suppressing a laugh, "literally anything but the orange one."

Dad heaved a dramatic sigh, tossing the shirt aside and picking a navy one instead.

"Thank god," Beam muttered under her breath.

I perched on the arm of the couch and peeked at Ploy's screen.

"Is that the new dragon game?"

"Yeah," he said, mouth full of cereal. "You can raise 'em from eggs and stuff."

"I used to love games like that," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. A soft ache bloomed behind my ribs.

Ploy grinned up at me. "You can help me pick my next one."

"Deal," I said, ruffling his hair.

Bank looked up and made gagging noises. "Neeeeerds."

Ploy flipped him off without even looking up from his game, and I laughed, the sound feeling bright and foreign in my mouth.

 "Try on the outfit I picked for you!" mom all but yelled in excitement as she grabbed a dress from the couch. It was a soft, pale yellow dress with delicate white embroidery.

Simple. Pretty. Very... not me.

I went to the bathroom and slipped it on anyway.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, a weird pang went through my chest.

The reflection was girlish, delicate.

I had passed before, back in my old life—extremely well, people had said. My voice, my body, my smile.

But now, even though this body was biologically female, the high voice that answered back to me sounded wrong somehow.

Like I was impersonating someone else.

Still... I could get used to it.

I had to.

I tied the little ribbon at the waist and back to the living room.

Beam was waiting.

She whistled low. "You clean up nice, Thip."

"Thanks," I said lightly, spinning once for Mom, who clapped happily.

Dad gave a dramatic fake sob. "My little girl is growing up."

Bank snickered. Ploy tried to high-five me and ended up almost knocking over a lamp.

It was messy.

It was loud.

It was... nice.

Somewhere in the middle of all this chaos, Mom announced: "Don't forget! Family reunion this weekend!"

I sighed inwardly. I couldn't forget.

A family reunion.

Strangers who would know me, expect things from me.

Would they notice how different I was?

Would they see through me?

Later that afternoon, when the house grew quieter, I returned to my room, still humming faint remnants of the song I'd been practicing.

Rolling my shoulders, I started stretching again. I wasn't done yet—not even close.

I opened my playlist and scrolled until I found an upbeat song with a fast tempo. As the first few notes filled the room, my body moved almost without thinking.

Routine 1: Sharp Pops and Hips.

Tight shoulder pops—right, left, right.

Crisscross step, arms slicing clean through the air.

Hip thrust right, snap left, slow isolation roll forward.

Pose: arms framing my face, chin tilted just so.

Routine 2: Spins and Floorwork.

Step-step, tight pivot into a double spin.

Drop low into a squat, snap fingers overhead.

Slow roll back to standing, letting the movement ripple up my spine.

Sweat poured down my back, soaking through my hoodie, but I didn't stop.

I couldn't stop.

Every bead of sweat was a prayer.

Every shaky inhale was a promise.

I would be strong enough.

I would be good enough.

Again.

I lost track of time.

It could have been minutes, or hours, before my muscles screamed and my legs trembled. I collapsed onto my carpet, breathing hard, laughing breathlessly at the ceiling.

"This... is how it starts," I whispered to myself.

This body didn't have the same training.

This body didn't have the blisters, the calluses, the hardened muscles.

But it would.

I would carve my dream into it, one movement at a time.

Dinner was a blur of Mom fussing about reunion outfits and Dad trying to iron his polo shirts wrong side out.

Bank demanded help with some school project he had left until the last minute, and Ploy declared war on the cereal boxes in the pantry.

It was normal.

Normal in a way I hadn't had in years.

Normal in a way I had never really let myself hope for.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the house in shades of honey and gold, I found myself thinking—

about my old friends.

about my old agency.

about my brother.

Kiyoi's laugh, part scolding, part affectionate.

Her long black hair whipping around her as she danced, sweat flying off the tips.

The way she would flick my forehead when I was being lazy, calling me "Korn-kun" with a half-smile, half-sigh.

The way her arms had wrapped around me in those final moments—

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to trap the memory before it could slip away. I wonder how she reacted to my death.

King's bright grin as she launched herself into ridiculous live stream ideas. Brash, loud, and full of a kindness she pretended to hide.

The way her brightly-highlighted hair always seemed to catch the light, making her look like she was carrying a little piece of the sun. She'd always believed in me, even when I hadn't believed in myself.

 Kylin's rare, quiet smiles when she thought no one was looking. Soft-spoken but razor-sharp, her dark brown eyes catching every tiny mistake, every missed step.

But she never criticized to hurt; she corrected because she cared.

They had been more than friends.

They were my sisters.

My family, even more than the one I'd been born into before.

And now…

I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling the beat there.

Still alive.

Still real.

They would be moving forward without me.

But maybe someday, I'd be able to find my way back to them.

Maybe someday I could stand on a stage again, singing if not with them, for them.

My thoughts drifted next to my old agency—the polished floors, the endless training sessions, the stiff meetings where smiling meant survival.

Krystal hadn't been born from glitter and fun.

We had fought, clawed, bled to build it.

I could still feel the ache of those early mornings when the managers barked at us for being half a beat off, the sting of blisters forming on the balls of my feet, the taste of instant noodles at two in the morning when I was too tired to cook.

I had given them everything.

Everything.

And when I died—

Would they even remember?

Would they mourn?

Or would they just wipe my name off their roster, clean the blood from the stage, and find someone new?

No matter how much it hurt, I couldn't forget them. I couldn't hate them.

Because that life—That dream had shaped me.

And if I was going to survive in this second chance, I would have to carry all of it with me.

The love, the loss, the lessons.

Late at night, curled up under the covers, I pulled the pale yellow dress closer around me, running my fingers over the delicate embroidery.

Somewhere across the ocean, my brother was living his life, unaware I was still breathing.

I pictured him—the way he used to laugh until he cried, the way he'd pull me into rough, one-armed hugs that left me breathless.

He would have loved this chaos, I thought.

He would have loved Ploy's mischievous grin and Bank's fake swagger.

"I'll see you again," I whispered into the darkness, my voice cracking slightly.

"I don't know when.

But I will."

When I finally slept, it was to dreams not of endings—

but beginnings.

Of a stage waiting in the distance, golden lights blazing like a sunrise.

Of the beat of the music syncing with the beat of my own heart.

Of a name—

Kornthip—

carved not in stone, but in fire.

And for the first time, I believed it.