Chapter 107

Midterm week had finally ended, and the exhaustion clung to everyone like heavy rain that wouldn’t stop.

That was exactly how Jennie and Lisa ended up dragging themselves into a small karaoke bar tucked between neon-lit streets, both looking like they had survived a war made of textbooks, deadlines, and caffeine.

Lisa dropped into the booth first, tossing her bag aside with a dramatic sigh. “I think my brain is still writing essays even though I already submitted them.”

Jennie slumped beside her, laughing weakly. “Same. I saw a multiple-choice question in my dream last night.”

They stared at each other for a second—then burst into tired laughter that immediately made everything feel lighter.

“Okay,” Lisa said, grabbing the remote, suddenly serious. “We are healing tonight.”

Jennie pointed at her like a judge. “Agreed. No sad songs.”

That rule lasted exactly five minutes.

The first song was upbeat—too upbeat, actually. Lisa chose a classic pop track and immediately stood up like she was on a world tour stage. Jennie followed, holding an imaginary microphone like she had rehearsed her whole life for this moment.

Lisa started strong. Too strong. Confident. Loud. Happy.

Jennie joined in, trying to match her energy.

By the second chorus, they were already off-key—but fully committed.

Lisa attempted a high note, missed it completely, and laughed mid-line. Jennie saw it and lost it too, collapsing onto the couch while still trying to sing.

“WHY IS THIS SO HARD—” Jennie wheezed.

“I DON’T KNOW—” Lisa replied, also cracking, voice breaking halfway through the sentence.

Still, they kept going.

Song after song, they treated the karaoke room like a therapy session disguised as a concert stage. They sang heartbreak ballads like they had lived through ten breakups, even though both of them were just stressed from exams and sleep deprivation. They danced like no one was watching—because thankfully, no one was.

At some point, Lisa chose a power song. Big vocals. Big emotions.

Jennie pointed at her dramatically. “You’re going to regret this.”

Lisa ignored her.

And she did regret it.

Halfway through the chorus, her voice cracked so hard it sounded like the microphone itself gave up on her. Jennie froze for half a second—then completely lost it, falling sideways onto the couch laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

Lisa, offended but laughing too, tried to continue.

“THIS IS—SO—EMOTIONAL—” she sang, voice breaking on every word.

Jennie wiped tears from laughing. “It sounds like you’re being haunted!”

“I AM EMOTIONALLY HAUNTED BY MIDTERMS!” Lisa shouted back, which only made it worse.

They both collapsed again, completely out of sync, voices hoarse, laughing until their stomachs hurt.

By the time they reached the last song, both of them were sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, microphones loosely held like they had just survived something sacred.

Jennie leaned her head back. “My voice is gone.”

Lisa nodded slowly. “Mine left during that third song.”

They looked at each other.

Then, without saying anything, they softly started singing one last slow song—barely audible, cracked voices blending into something imperfect but warm.

It wasn’t good.

It wasn’t meant to be.

But it was theirs.

When the final note faded, Lisa exhaled deeply. “Okay. I feel like I deleted all my stress.”

Jennie smiled, voice rough. “Same. Even if we sound like broken radios now.”

Lisa nudged her shoulder lightly. “Worth it.”

Jennie nodded. “Worth it.”

And for the first time in weeks, neither of them thought about exams, deadlines, or pressure.

Just laughter, cracked voices, and a small karaoke room that felt like the world had finally slowed down for them.