grey!!

seoul, 1987

somewhere near the han river, a truck rumbles down a side street with its radio still playing, the tail end of cho yong-pil’s voice fading beneath the squeal of tires and the hiss of brakes. across the road, a row of vending machines flicker under a line of apartment balconies, one of them buzzing louder than the others. someone leans out their window to shout at a kid balancing on the back of a bike, and the boy only laughs, too fast for the scolding to catch up.

storefronts are open late, spilling light onto the sidewalks where kids in puffer jackets linger around payphones and newsstands. the corners of posters curl in the heat, faces of celebrities smiling from behind smudged glass. kim wan-sun in sequins. lee moon-sae in his round glasses. everyone looks a little too perfect in still photographs, like they don’t sweat or get tired or feel anything heavier than the heat of walking a red carpet. near the bus terminal, a woman in heels walks quickly, arms full of groceries, her hair held in place with more hairspray than structure. a cassette player clipped to her purse clicks softly as the song changes. she doesn’t notice. the streets are far too loud. 

on the roof of an old building, a group of students pass around a bag of tteokbokki wrapped in newspaper. they talk about their finals like they’re still far away. someone swears they saw cho yong-pil outside mbc last week. someone else says they heard he’s getting married. no one agrees, but the debate passes time while the sky shifts. it’s been doing that lately, turning pink at the edges before evening settles in, folding itself into the windows like steam off rice.

beneath it all, the buildings lean close together, cracked paint and rusted rails giving every street a sense of being halfway between old and new. payphones ring and no one answers. school uniforms hang on laundry lines. people keep moving. songs keep playing. posters get torn down and replaced.

in the middle of it all, a girl was going to meet a ghost. she just didn’t know it yet.

the light in your room is soft and warm, slipping through the gauzy white curtains your mother said made the place look unfinished. everything glows faintly under the late afternoon sun, and the dust in the air floats like glitter, stirred gently by the slow rotation of the ceiling fan.

outside, the city is a soft noise in the distance. it’s spring now, warm enough to open the windows, cool enough that your arms still get goosebumps if you sit too close to the glass. somewhere nearby, a bus rumbles by. a dog barks twice, sharp and rhythmic. you hear the clink of metal as someone adjusts a drying rack on their balcony. there’s a faint whistle too, thin and familiar, maybe from the rice cake vendor who usually stops in front of the building across the street around this time.

your vinyl player clicks. side b of the bangles tape starts with a soft hiss and pop, warped slightly from overuse. you stole it from sakura’s cousin last summer during a sleepover and just never gave it back. they both know, but neither of them have mentioned it. the sound isn't perfect anymore, but the songs feel embedded in your bones now. they play like background noise in your body.

kazuha is stretched out across your bed with her chin propped in her hands and her legs swinging slowly behind her. your mother would probably say something about posture if she saw. the vogue korea magazine in front of kazuha has been open to the same page for at least ten minutes. her hair is still damp from her earlier shower, leaving a dark spot on your pillow, and she smells like your shampoo because she never brings her own. you haven’t said anything about it and you’re not going to.

“god, you’ve played this tape so many times the vocals are starting to fade,” kazuha says without looking up.

“it’s not fading,” you reply. “you just have no taste.”

“your dog is disgustingly pampered,” sakura adds from the floor. she’s sitting cross-legged with hotdog curled up contentedly in her lap. the brown dachshund lies on his back, belly exposed, eyes barely open. his paws twitch with each pass of her thumb behind his ears. she’s wearing an oversized t-shirt with some baseball team’s logo and a red smear from her lollipop stains the corner of her lip.

you still remember the day your dad brought hotdog home. you were fourteen, in your defense, and absolutely horrific with names. you reach out and give him a quick scritch, then drop your hand and lean back in your chair with a small sigh.

“he’s well-adjusted,” you say.

“he tried to bite the milk delivery guy this morning,” sakura says.

“he did bite him,” kazuha adds.

you shrug. “he knew something we didn’t.”

kazuha glances up and arches a brow. “is this your way of validating your complicated non-feelings for he-who-will-not-be-named?”

“ah yes,” sakura says. “hotdog and his divine ability to sniff out men like soobin and all their pressed linen and moral purity.”

the mention of soobin drags a groan out of you before you can help it. it scratches up from somewhere deep, like it’s been sitting there all week waiting for someone to say his name. “exactly,” you say, emphatic and in no means trying to hide your frustration. 

soobin was nice. frustratingly nice. the kind of polite that made adults beam and strangers trust him with directions. you knew that. you weren’t denying it. he held doors open and remembered birthdays and complimented your mom’s banchan like it was his job. maybe kindness came easy to him.

but none of that changed the way your parents kept trying to fold him into your life like he already belonged there. like your future had a shape and a name and a boy who always did the right thing. and maybe it wasn’t even about him. maybe it was about them. the way they kept pushing him into your orbit like they were waiting for gravity to do the rest.

if you were being honest, too, your heart soared everytime hotdog seemed to pick up on your emotions (or lackthereof) and bark when the korean boy would come around. 

sakura lets out a soft laugh. “soobin’s not that bad. he bowed to your mom. he called your dad sir. he helped your grandmother into the car.”

“he also said my room had character,” you mutter. “like it’s a haunted rental property.”

truthfully, it bothered you more than it should have. it wasn’t even your idea to let him in. your mother had hovered near the door, chirping something about being polite, and before you could protest, he was already trailing behind you, his shoes still wet from the rain.

your dresser was clean but scratched along the edges, the varnish rubbed off from years of use. a few stickers clung stubbornly to the sides, mostly band logos, one faded photo of lee moon-sae ripped from a magazine and tucked beneath the glass of the top drawer. the desk beneath your window was tidy, every object placed with a kind of casual precision. stacked tapes, a portable cassette player, two sharpened pencils in a ceramic cup from your elementary school art project. your headphones were coiled neatly beside your mirror, which had a crack along the bottom from when you dropped it last year. it still worked, just split your reflection in two if you leaned too close.

your room wasn’t anything remarkable. not really. but it was yours.

“come on,” sakura rolls her eyes. “you’re not interested. we get it. you don’t have to keep setting him on fire with your eyes.”

“he’s just trying too hard,” you say. you lean back and let your chair creak under your weight. “and everyone loves that. my mom keeps calling him a gentleman.”

“i think you’re finding every reason in the book to convince yourself he’s secretly a bad guy,” sakura chimes. “you’re just painfully, obviously gay.” she grins, then taps hotdog’s paw like it’s a game show buzzer. “final answer.”

you don’t respond right away. the sun has shifted again and a line of light is now stretched across the floor, catching the edge of the mirror. your reflection flickers at the edge of your vision.

“yeah,” you say quietly. “i know.”

truth be told, all three of you did. hell, maybe even hotdog. you told them a while ago, just after your freshman year when you were still coming to terms with your own sexuality. you’d just seen grease for the third time and found yourself looking at olivia newton-john one too many times. the admission felt heavier at the time. you told them in a panic, fearing the dogma that plagued nineteen-eighties korean society (and perhaps always would). against all odds, they accepted you. now it just sits between you like an unspoken acknowledgment. 

hotdog whines dramatically and stretches one paw into sakura’s knee. she rubs his belly without missing a beat. the silence that settles afterward is calm. from the apartment next door, you can hear the clatter of pots and pans, someone getting dinner started. a warm smell drifts in through the open window. rice, garlic, something sizzling in oil. it wraps around the room slowly. 

after a beat, you sigh. 

“his parents are coming over again this weekend,” you say, peeling at the edge of your pencil eraser.

“again?” kazuha groans, finally placing her magazine down to entertain the conversation.

“they’re bringing wine this time,” you say. “like that changes anything.”

“maybe it’s a special wine,” kazuha offers. “marriage wine.”

you throw your pencil at her with a scowl, the thin object just narrowly missing her face and instead bouncing off her shoulder.

your parents talk about your future like it’s a destination you’ve already agreed to. law school. med school. something with an office and a title. they act like they’re offering options, but they flinch every time you hesitate. every meal is another quiet rehearsal of the same plan you didn’t write.

you look up at the ceiling and count the fan blades turning. four. five. six. still spinning.

as if she read your mind, kazuha hummed. she knew you well enough to know that the idea of marriage, or truthfully anything remotely close to soobin, made you sick to your stomach. you were still young, afterall.  

“have you given any more thought into what you want to do after you graduate?

you sit with the question for a moment, turning it over like a stone in your palm. you think about how often you’ve avoided it, dodged it in conversations, buried it under jokes or shrugged it off like it wasn’t pressing. but it always comes back. it’s always waiting.

“i don’t know,” you say. somehow, that feels more honest than anything else you’ve said all day. 

kazuha doesn’t press you. she just nods like she understands, like she’s been waiting for that answer all along. sakura doesn’t say anything either, but her hand shifts a little closer to yours on the floor, close enough that her pinky brushes the edge of your hoodie. hotdog snorts in his sleep, one paw twitching.

you think about saturday. the dinner your parents have been orchestrating like it’s some kind of royal summit. the wine, the good chopsticks, the careful glances passed across the table like coded messages. the way soobin will smile at you, probably because he doesn’t know any better. the way your mother will look at you every time you hesitate, waiting for you to become the version of yourself she thinks you should be.

you’re not looking forward to it. not at all.

but you’re used to doing things you don’t want to do. you’ve gotten good at surviving them, at least on the outside. you suppose you’ll take it one step at a time. of course, first things first, you just had to make it to saturday.

__

sure enough, saturday came faster than you expected. your house never feels smaller than when guests are over.

your mother’s been in a full-blown cleaning spiral since noon, scrubbing corners no one ever looks at and adjusting the same vase on the console table three different times. she brought out the porcelain dishes that usually stay behind glass and bought a table runner that still smells faintly of the department store. light pink, gold trim, too bright for the room but exactly her idea of elegance. your dad even dusted the old calligraphy frame in the hallway, the one no one’s read since it was hung. the good soju got moved to the cabinet by the window. the candles were lit despite the ceiling light being more than enough. she said it was for ambience. it just made everything feel like a play you forgot the lines for.

thankfully, you didn’t need to stick around and hear their nonstop jabberings. you had to work. 

the bowling alley at night never felt quite right. during the day it was loud and bright, full of families and birthday parties and little kids in light-up sneakers. it smelled like shoe spray and spilled coke and hot oil from the snack bar, and no matter how many times you swept, there were always crumpled napkins stuffed under the plastic benches and crayon drawings left behind on the score sheets. but after nine, when the neon signs still buzzed but the lanes sat empty, the place turned into something else entirely. too quiet. too big. like it was remembering what it used to be before people started showing up.

outside, it’s pouring. not just rain, but the kind that pounds the pavement and turns windshields into warped, useless glass. you can hear it, even in here. the steady hiss and slap of it hitting the roof, the occasional gust of wind rattling the glass doors up front. water streaks sideways across the big windows, catching the pink and blue glow of the signage in smudged, dripping lines.

you’re standing behind the counter, elbows on the sticky laminate, watching the clock click one slow minute closer to closing. it’s 7:57. you told your parents you’d be home before nine and in time for dinner, but truthfully, you found yourself dreading leaving. the place is almost dead. just two middle-aged men finishing a quiet game on lane seven and a teenage couple loitering near the claw machine. there’s an empty slushie cup on the floor by the shoe return and someone drew a dick on the napkin dispenser again. you make a mental note to clean it, then immediately decide to leave it for the morning shift. 

your manager had left two hours ago. didn’t ask if you were okay to close alone, rather just tossed you the keys and disappeared. his car’s not even in the lot anymore. just yours, parked crooked under the one working streetlamp, being pelted sideways by rain that doesn’t seem like it’s letting up anytime soon.

you’re tired. not just physically, though your shoulders ache from running shoes back and forth all evening and your feet are sore in your beat-up sneakers. it’s a deeper kind of tired. the kind that wraps around your ribs and settles into your spine, turning everything slightly foggy. tonight’s shift had been monstrous. a birthday party of ten-year-olds had shown up late, dragging a dad who looked half-asleep and a mom who immediately ordered four rounds of fries and then disappeared into the bathroom for forty-five minutes. the kids screamed for three straight hours. one of them tried to crawl into the ball return. another spilled sprite across two lanes and walked away like it wasn’t his problem. the whole ordeal loops in your head. the smell of fake cheese and wet socks. the sound of kids shrieking every time a pin fell. the soda fountain that made a choking noise every time you tried to fill a cup. 

kazuha had come by at some point, dropped off a bag of tteokbokki, and left just as quickly. you’re in hell, she said. i’m leaving. you didn’t argue. she, and sometimes sakura, usually stopped by while you were working for a quick game on their favorite lane. clearly, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that today wasn’t one of those typical days. 

now the place is finally winding down. the couple by the claw machine gives up and disappears out the front doors, holding hands like they weren’t just pretending not to. the two men finish their game, nod in your direction without a word, and head out into the rain, already soaked by the time they reach their car.

you press the button on the control panel and the lanes begin to power down, one by one. each screen goes black with a little beep, and the lights above the pins blink out like tired eyes finally closing. the hum of the machinery fades into a soft, uneven whine, then stops altogether. you flick the switch behind the counter to turn off half the overhead lights, and suddenly the whole alley feels colder. emptier.

you glance toward the parking lot. it’s nearly invisible through the rain, the windows streaked and blurry. the flickering streetlamp casts a warped circle around your car, but everything beyond it disappears into darkness. the cat that usually curls up on your manager’s hood isn’t there tonight. nothing is.

you can hear the vending machine in the lobby buzzing like it’s on its last breath. the ceiling fan squeaks as it turns, slower now, and your shoes make a sticky squelch with every step you take on the soda-stained floor. closing always felt a little eerie. like the building was waiting for something. like the night wasn’t finished with you yet.

you collect the leftover score sheets, ballpoint doodles of anime girls and curse words in the corners, and wipe down the ball racks. the paper towel roll rips wrong again and you use too much cleaner because it smells sharp and sterile, and for a second it reminds you of your mom’s clinic. the way the air there always smelled like lemon and latex and things you couldn’t say out loud.

in the back, the break room is still pathetic. the fridge hums unevenly. the corkboard hasn’t changed since you started. your cup, the one with a small crack by the rim and your name on it in fading marker, is still in the sink. you take a drink of water and stare at the wall for a moment too long.

the clock ticks over to 8:00.

you step back into the main room, palm still damp from the cleaner, dragging it down the thigh of your jeans as the keys in your apron pocket jingle against your leg. just one more walk around. that’s your ritual. make sure no one left their wallet in a rental shoe, check the bathrooms for stragglers, unplug the claw machine because it makes that awful mechanical wheeze if you leave it overnight.

you’ve barely made it past lane nine when a sound slams into the front of the building. a single, echoing bang. like someone throwing their weight against the glass.

you jump.

at first, you think it must be thunder, the kind that comes a few beats after lightning. or maybe the wind throwing something heavy into the door. an umbrella, a trash bin, one of the metal signs from the sidewalk. but then you see it.

a girl. thin and hunched, pressing against the glass like the storm itself spit her out. her hands fumble with the door, shaking, and when she manages to push it open, the wind howls in behind her, carrying sheets of rain and the cold bite of the outside.

your body reacts before your brain does. you freeze. every hair on your arm lifts. the air rushes in too fast, too cold, too wrong.

she steps (more like stumbles) inside dripping wet, completely soaked from head to toe, clothes plastered to her skin like she’d been underwater. her shoes make a squelching sound on the tile, and her breathing comes in short, sharp bursts. it sounded like she’d been running or crying, or perhaps even both. 

you don’t move. you don’t speak. your mouth opens slightly but no sound comes out. the part of your brain that’s supposed to be polite, customer-service friendly, can’t catch up to the part that’s screaming what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. then, finally, you move. 

“are you okay?”

her eyes sweep the alley like she doesn’t recognize it. like she doesn’t know where she is. her lips part, but she doesn’t answer right away. she’s shaking. not just from the cold, but something akin to shock. 

“i… i don’t know,” she says. her voice is soft, hoarse. “where am i?”

you take a step closer with your palms raised slightly, the red flags sounding around the girl as loudly as the rain pelting outside. for all you knew, she was some soaked runaway who’s about to collapse. 

“hey, it’s okay.” you say carefully, gesturing around to the bowling lanes behind you. you drift off slightly to fumble behind the counter for a towel, the one usually kept just under the desk for spills or melting ice or whatever disasters plaguing the snack bar. you hold out the clean cloth for her to take. “you’re gonna get hypothermia or something,” you continue, voice still thin. “here.”

she looks at it for a second like she doesn’t understand what it is. then, slowly, she takes it. her fingers brush yours. they’re freezing.

you don’t ask who she is. you want to. but something about the moment feels too delicate, like if you ask too much, she might shatter. she wraps the towel around her shoulders and just stands there, dripping onto the floor.

“do you want to… sit down?” you offer. “i can make tea. or there’s a heater in the back.”

she nods, but she doesn’t move. you watch her lamely a moment longer, heart pounding so hard it’s all you can hear.

you lead her back to the employee lounge and she sinks into one of the mismatched plastic chairs around the folding table your manager bought secondhand, the kind that wobbles if you lean on it wrong. the fridge hummed with a low, steady buzz that blended with the sound of rain tapping against the narrow window above the sink. the kind of quiet ambiance you usually found yourself sleeping to, oddly calming and all. you rinse out your old mug and set about making tea like it’s muscle memory. your hands move faster than your thoughts, opening cabinets, filling the kettle, clicking on the burner. while it heats, you crouch down by your bag and pull out the hoodie you stashed before leaving home, a faded windbreaker that used to be a shade of blue but now just looked sad and gray. it smells faintly of laundry detergent and whatever was in your bag last week.

you’ve done this before. not exactly this, but close enough that your body knows what to do. you think about the time sakura showed up at your door, mascara smudged as she cried over a failed date with her crush of the month, kang taehyun. you made tea then, too, and put on the latest indiana jones movie just to distract her. the color on the magnavox was so washed out and low definition you doubted tv would ever stick around long enough to become more than a fad, but it did the trick. she fell asleep before the credits rolled.

by the time the tea was ready and you turned around to set the mug down in front of her gently, careful not to startle her, it’s only then did you really see her. her hands were buried deep in her pockets, and the towel you’d given her had slid to her lap, damp and forgotten. she was still shivering, the kind of chill that doesn’t leave just because you dry off. you sank into the chair across from her and it hit you all at once just how far away she seemed, like even though she was sitting right there, some part of her hadn’t made it inside with the rest. she was lost faraway in her own thoughts. still, you ask the question burning the tip of your tongue.

“what’s your name?”

she lifts her head slowly, as if the question takes a moment to settle. when her eyes finally meet yours, something stills in your chest. there’s a softness to her gaze, something uncertain and unsteady, but even in her confusion she seems to be studying you as much as you’re studying her.

her face is beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel ordinary. every feature looks impossibly deliberate. her lips are small and full, her cheekbones smooth and high, and her skin carries a kind of soft, luminous quality that no lighting could fake. the cold has left a faint flush on her cheeks, but it only adds to the contrast against the pale line of her jaw. her hair is still wet from the rain, strands clinging to her neck and falling in loose pieces across her forehead, but it doesn’t make her look messy. it makes her look cinematic. like someone you’re not supposed to meet in real life. she looks like someone you would see in a commercial or a music video, paused mid-frame. someone who belongs in front of a camera or beneath stage lights. her beauty is immediate, the kind that makes you pay attention without meaning to. if you had seen her in a magazine, you would have remembered the page. if you passed her in the street, you know you would have turned to look again.

she watches you without flinching, quiet but steady, her expression unreadable. and for a second, as your heart stumbles in your chest and your breath catches somewhere behind your ribs, you wonder how a girl like this ended up here, dripping water onto the floor of a run-down bowling alley like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

then she speaks, her voice as frail as her quiet beauty. 

“…kim chaewon.” 

the first thing chaewon remembered when she came to was a blinding, bright light shining straight into her retinas. it was harsh and hot, the kind of light that pulsed in her vision long after it was gone. her mind raced between the last memories she had, the blinding flash morphing into mementos of standing on the red carpet while paparazzi yelled her name. it was everywhere, strobing in bursts, coming from the cameras that surrounded her like gnats, popping off one after the other while she stood and smiled, her lips curved into that polished shape she had practiced until it no longer felt like a lie. she remembered the flashbulbs catching in the corner of her eyes, the way they reflected off the sequins of her dress, the way her stylists beamed from ear to ear as they watched her. 

then her mind jumped, the image shifting towards something warmer. she remembered hugging her mother between shoots, her arms too thin but still strong, her perfume light and familiar in a way that made everything else bearable. her mother had stroked her hair gently, murmured something about how proud she was, how beautiful she looked, how tired. she remembered the hum of the studio around them, the low shuffle of crew members, the makeup artist softly reminding her not to cry because it would ruin the liner.

after that, it starts to fall apart.

the memories shift and smear like water on ink, like someone shuffled them out of order or smudged the edges until all that was left were glimpses. she tries to recall the last thing, the actual last thing, but it’s like reaching into murky water. she knows there was a night. she knows she had been alone. there had been music, maybe, or a television left on low, the blue light flickering across the walls of a room she doesn’t think she’d ever seen before. and then nothing. not even pain. just absence.

when she opened her eyes again, it wasn’t gradual. it was instant. like someone slammed her into the present and forgot to explain how she got there.

she felt hollow. like her bones were made of fog. like she was wearing her own skin wrong. and when she opened her mouth to speak, the words came out slow and unfamiliar, as if someone else had used them first. now, sitting there in that plastic chair before you, she can’t remember what she’s supposed to do. she doesn’t know why she’s here. she doesn’t know how she’s here.

but then her eyes flick past you and land on the refrigerator behind your shoulder, locking onto the calendar hanging there, still sealed to september. it’s barely been used, just a generic pharmacy one stuck in place with a chipped smiley-face magnet, the kind your manager picked up for free and forgot about. you watch her pupils shift, her focus harden, and suddenly her whole body goes still.

her face tightens. not the way someone tenses in discomfort, but the way someone braces for impact. her mouth moves before the words form, like she’s not even sure she wants to say them out loud.

“what year is it?”

the question hits you sideways. you blink, caught off guard, your thoughts scrambling for context that doesn’t exist. your mouth opens, but all you manage is a confused, uncertain, “what?”

“the year,” she says again, this time faster, the words tumbling out too quickly, like she’s trying to outrun something. “what’s the date?”

you answer before you have time to think, the response instinctive, flat, a reflex you didn’t know you had. “september fourteenth. nineteen eighty-seven.”

she doesn’t speak. she doesn’t breathe. she just sits there, soaked through, staring at the fridge like it’s something that just betrayed her. her hands are shaking again, worse than before, fingers twitching slightly like her body’s not sure what to do with itself. she’s blinking hard now, trying to ground herself in something, anything, but her eyes are glassy and wide, and it’s clear that whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t this.

you freeze. not because you’re afraid, but because none of this makes sense. hell, you don’t even know the girl. you want to ask what’s wrong, want to do something, but all you can do is sit there, stomach turning, because suddenly the quiet hum of the fridge and the rain outside felt too loud. suffocating. something was wrong and for the first time since she arrived, you’re starting to realize just how wrong.

but before you can ask anything, she speaks quickly. her words tumble from her lips so quickly it’s like she’s ripped off a bandage. 

“i think i died.”

you wanted to laugh. you almost did, truth be told. the last thing you expected to come out of the small girl's mouth was a sentence reserved for inpatients at the local hospital. you’ve watched enough bad movies and heard enough classmates fake illnesses to get out of tests to know when someone’s full of it. this, unfortunately, felt like a textbook example of something someone says after hitting their head a little too hard. you open your mouth, then close it again, because what the hell are you even supposed to say to that?

“right,” you say eventually, dragging the word out. “you’re dead.”

chaewon nods quickly, eager. 

“like… actually?”

her expression falters just slightly, the absurdity of the situation clear on her own conscience. still, she nods vigorously. “unless you’re fucking with me and it’s still eighty-four, yes!” 

you stare at her, wide eyed and all, not bothering to hide the pure doubt cementing its way across your face. you continue after a long beat, leaning back in your chair a little. “i’m not saying i don’t believe you. i’m just saying this all feels very… well, dramatic. that’s a pretty big statement to throw at someone who just finished wiping coke off a shoe rack.” then you tilt your head, skeptical. “are you, like… on something?”

“what? no. no, i don’t do drugs,” she says, her voice cracking slightly as she tries to collect herself. “why would you even think that?”

you blink and gesture around the room lamely as if her question didn’t even dignify an answer. she opens her mouth, then closes it again, clearly at a loss. her hands flutter uselessly at her sides, like she’s not sure whether to argue or run.

you lift your hands in an attempt to soothe the blow, grimacing tightly. “i was just asking. you look kind of… not okay.”

“i am ‘not okay’,” she snaps, voice high and thin now. “i’m very, very not okay!”

“okay,” you say again, softer this time. you shift in your chair, unsure whether you should stand or stay where you are. “do you want me to call someone for you? a friend, or a relative, or i don’t know. someone who can come get you?”

chaewon scoffs, short and sharp, like she can’t believe she’s hearing this. if she was being honest, she wasn’t sure why your questions bothered her so much. maybe it was the way you looked at her as if she was crazy. maybe it was the fact that perhaps, she very much was. 

when chaewon doesn’t reply, you sigh. 

“look, i don’t want to assume anything,” you say carefully. “but you walked in here soaking wet, shaking, asked me what year it was like you’d forgotten it, and now you’re acting like i’m the crazy one for asking if you’re okay.”

“because you’re not listening,” she snaps, loud enough to startle you. her eyes are sharp now, locked on yours. “i’m not drunk. i’m not high. i’m not confused or lost or having some kind of breakdown.”

“fine,” you say again, because it’s the only word your brain’s willing to offer. “you know what, sure. maybe you think you died. maybe you just got lost. maybe you were, like, in a hospital for a long time and your brain got scrambled.”

chaewon hums softly, like she’s thinking that over. “maybe.”

you start to say something, maybe suggest calling the police or an ambulance, anything, but the words catch in your throat when she reaches for the cup of tea. you feel your eyes widen in disbelief as you see what unfolds as clear as day. no strings, no tricks of the light. just as she brushes the warm ceramic, the cup doesn’t even move as her hand drifts right through. 

you stare at the table, your eyes zeroed in on her hand as you blink once and then twice. you lean forward slightly, squinting like that’ll change what you just saw. she freezes, hand hovering inches above the cup now like she’s afraid to try again.

you raise your own hand, point slowly. “did you… did you just… ”

you watch her try again. the same thing happens. her hand flickers, transparent for half a second, and slips through the cup like a bad magic trick. you shove back from the table so fast your chair screeches across the floor.

“nope,” you say, voice higher than usual. “nope. absolutely not.”

chaewon blinks up at you, a little startled. “i didn’t mean to—”

“no no no,” you wave your arms, pacing away like the air might be safer. “you cannot come into my workplace, soaked from the rain, say you died,  then phase through matter. that is not the kind of shit i signed up for!”

“it’s not like i did it on purpose!” she says quickly, holding her hands up, her own panic clear in her own voice. you look at her again, and for a second she really does look sorry. confused, too. maybe even scared. she’s staring at her own hands now like she doesn’t trust them either.

“okay,” you say slowly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “okay, let’s go back. rewind. you’re—what? dead? a ghost?”

maybe it was around the third time chaewon tried and failed to touch the cup. maybe it was when you held your head in your hands, slapping your own forehead to wake yourself from the mess you found yourself in. but the panic you felt morphed into something much heavier the moment your eyes caught the time on your wrist watch. everything inside you dropped straight to the floor.

8:52.

you bolted upright. your heart picked up speed in that sickening, cold way that had nothing to do with ‘ghosts’ and everything to do with your parents. you couldn’t even find it within yourself to care about how batshit insane the current ordeal was when your mother’s annoyed face crossed your mind. 

“shit. shitshitshitshitshit.”

chaewon flinched at your sudden movement. “what’s wrong?”

“you mean besides whatever bullshit this is? i’m late!” you stammer, patting your pockets for your keys. “i was supposed to be home fifteen minutes ago.”

chaewon blinked, still seated. “okay?”

“not okay. very not okay. there’s a dinner. a big dinner. if i’m not there, my parents will actually kill me.”

you grabbed your bag and haphazardly did a mental checklist of everything you were supposed to do before closing, the irony of your words not lost on you. you weren’t even dressed right. you were in your bowling alley shirt and faded jeans and smelled like fryer oil. your parents were going to love that.

only, when you walked out of the staff lounge quickly and without looking back, putting as much space as possible between you and whatever kind of crazy you’d just left behind, you didn’t get far. something stopped you. it was like hitting an invisible wall, some barrier that caught you mid-step and shoved you back toward chaewon. the girl stood in the doorway with a look of shock etched across her pretty face. it was like the universe had decided you weren’t allowed to leave her. the air shimmered as you hit the ground, landing hard on your back. a groan slipped out as you stared up at the ceiling, winded and stunned.

you lay there for a second, trying to make sense of what just happened. the floor felt cold beneath you. your ribs ached. everything about this moment felt stupid and impossible, and still, somehow, it happened.

“what the hell was that?!”

chaewon reaches out and helps you to your feet. her touch is careful, steady, but you flinch anyway. not because of her, not really, but because everything around you feels too fragile to trust. your heart is still racing, your thoughts scattered like broken glass on the floor. you can’t wrap your head around any of it, not the rain, not the ghost, not the girl who appeared out of nowhere with a name you never expected to hear again. your brain is begging for answers and your body is just trying to keep up.

you want to scream. or curl up in the supply closet and pretend this night never happened. you want to believe it was a dream, that you’re just tired or hallucinating from too many shifts and not enough sleep. instead, you push the panic down. you swallow it whole and take a step forward.

this time, nothing stops you.

no invisible force, no electric jolt, no strange resistance pressing back against your body. just the echo of your shoes on the polished floor and the quiet hum of the vending machine behind you. you pause, eyes scanning the alley. the same familiar layout greets you like nothing ever happened. the lanes sit in still silence. the servers desk is cluttered with paper cups and spare pencils. the arcade glows faintly at the back of the room, still powered but empty. bowser grins from his cabinet screen, oblivious to the chaos you’re barely holding inside.

you glance over your shoulder, your face stricken with shock mirrored on the other girls face. the girl retracted into herself after you shook off her help, standing still like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. her eyes follow you with quiet caution, but she doesn’t speak.

you look back at the alley, then down at your hands. you still feel the echo of that barrier you slammed into earlier, the sharp reminder that something about this girl had changed the rules. but now, with her behind you, the path is clear.

you take another step. nothing. it clicks then. whatever this is, whatever she is, you’re not going anywhere without her.

chaewon looks at you, eyes wide. “i think… i think you’re stuck with me.”

“so what,” you say, a little dazed. “we’re tethered now? like… magically leashed to each other?”

chaewon blinks. “i guess so.”

you let out a humorless laugh and drag a hand down your face. “this just keeps getting better.”

“i didn’t do it on purpose!” she snaps, defensive now, like she’s already bracing for the worst part of your reaction.

you don’t answer right away. instead, you march toward the front doors and grab her wrist on instinct, not bothering to ask. there’s no time. you start moving, locking up the alley as you go. she stumbles behind you, startled, and lets out a quick “hey!” before yanking her hand free. the look she shoots you is sharp, but she still falls into step beside you.

you sigh. “...come on,” you mutter before you can talk yourself out of it.

“what?”

“you can’t stay here,” you say, voice flat. “and in case you haven’t noticed, i really need to get home. i can’t deal with my mother and the ghost of a dead girl in one night, so please, don’t argue with me. come with me.”

she pauses, then nods once, slow and quiet. she doesn’t argue. she knows just as well as you do that this isn’t really a choice anymore.

your whole body throbbed with the kind of dull, lingering ache that made every movement feel heavier than it should have. your ribs still remembered the floor, your skin still felt the chill of that invisible barrier, and your brain (already stretched thin from the chaos of your shift) was now desperately trying to organize a night that refused to make any sense. you were the kind of person who needed explanations, who clung to logic like a lifeline. you didn’t believe in ghosts, in spirits, in anything you couldn’t hold in your hands or trace back to science or stress or sleep deprivation. but tonight had unraveled everything you thought you knew, and the thread was still pulling. you knew now wasn’t the time to question it, though. not when you could already picture your mother pacing near the dining table, wine glasses out, voice clipped with impatience. not when you knew the dinner you were supposed to be at was soon to start, and the version of yourself that your parents wanted was probably being mourned in your absence.

you didn’t say a word as you locked up the bowling alley, hands moving out of habit as you shut down machines, flipped switches, and double checked the door with haste. chaewon hovered close behind, silent except for the occasional squish of her shoes against the wet floor. the sleeves of the windbreaker were too long and the hem nearly brushed her knees. the hood hung low over her eyes, casting her face in shadow, but she didn’t complain. not once. she didn’t ask questions or look back at the alley, didn’t hesitate when you finally pushed open the front door and led her into the storm. outside, the rain hit like a wall.

it was relentless. thick, heavy drops slapped against your skin, soaked through your clothes in seconds, turned the air itself into something that resisted every step you took. chaewon followed without a word, but you didn’t miss the pampered look of displeasure etching clear across her face. she didn’t ask where you were going, didn’t flinch when you unlocked the passenger side and shoved the door open. she just got in, quiet and damp, her mind clearly running at a million miles per minute.

you climbed in after her, slammed the door shut, and sat there for a moment, hands gripping the wheel. the rain pounded against the windshield, loud and steady, and the wipers struggled to keep up. 

you didn’t look at her. you didn’t need to. she was there, sitting beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you both knew though, clear as day, that it was anything but.  

__

you sped the entire way home, tires slicing through wet asphalt, the windshield wipers dragging across the glass in a frantic rhythm that only seemed to add to the mess unraveling in your mind. your hands stayed tight on the wheel, knuckles pale, shoulders drawn up like tension alone might keep everything from falling apart. every turn felt too sharp, every red light felt like a warning. your brain raced to keep up, cycling through excuses, half-truths, whatever might sound close enough to believable. by the time you pulled into your driveway, your stomach was twisted into something tight and electric. the house looked warm, peaceful even. light poured from the windows in a soft, steady glow. inside, shadows moved calmly behind the curtains. everything looked composed. perfect. like the kind of life you were supposed to want.

you parked too fast, tires bumping against the curb, and before you could think you reached over and grabbed chaewon’s wrist a second time. she didn’t pull away this time, but you could tell she wanted to by the firm press of her lips. she scowled but followed you out of the car anyway.

“just let me talk, okay?” you whispered, voice flat, as you cracked the front door open.

you both stepped inside quietly like you were sneaking in. the heat of the house hit you first, followed by the smell of food. then, as your luck would have it, a blur of brown fur shot into the hall.

hotdog tore across the floor, nails clicking frantically against the tile as he launched himself toward you. his tail was stiff, his body tense, barking sharp and quick like he was defending the house from an intruder. he skidded to a stop between you and chaewon, planted his feet, and barked again, louder this time. the fur on his back stood up in a line. his whole body shook with the effort of it.

“hotdog, stop,” you muttered, dropping into a crouch. you scooped him into your arms before he could lose his mind completely. he squirmed, legs kicking, chest heaving with each bark. even as he started to settle, his eyes stayed locked on the space next to you.

chaewon stood just behind, hood still up, her eyes wide. she blinked at the dog, expression unreadable. “you named your dog hotdog?” she deadpanned, voice dry.

you didn’t look at her. “don’t start with me.”

hotdog gave a low grumble in your arms, ears still pinned, his gaze glued to her like he could sense something you hadn’t named yet. you stroked his fur gently, trying to calm him. he stayed tense. didn’t take his eyes off her for a second.

sure enough, whatever caution you had clung to on the drive home dissolved the moment your mother turned the corner, her heels sharp against the hardwood, her expression already halfway to furious at the sound of hotdog’s barking.

“you’re late,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the air before you even had the chance to close the door behind you.

you flinched instinctively. behind you, chaewon stilled, shrinking back a half-step like the force of your mother’s tone alone had pushed her there.

“sorry!” you blurted, too fast. “we—we ran into traffic. and rain. a lot of rain.”

your mother came into view fully then, standing at the end of the hallway with her arms crossed and a look that could peel paint. her makeup was untouched, her pearls resting perfectly at her collarbone. everything about her screamed control. perfection. presentation. she looked at you, head tilting ever so slightly, and her face shifted into something unreadable.

“we?” she repeated, the word cold and careful.

your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. you stand there, caught between the warmth of the hallway light and the cold dripping off her stare. you feel chaewon behind you then, so close you swear you hear the soft hush of her breath, but when you glance back at her, your mother’s eyes follow and the confusion settles deeper into the lines of her face.

you swallow, letting the truth slip down like something bitter, realizing now that maybe chaewon stands here only for you. was it possible that no one else could see her…? besides for hotdog, it seems, though you could recall reading somewhere that animals were always more sensitive to these things.

after a beat of awkward silence, your mother sighed. she didn’t buy your excuse anyhow. you could tell from the way she pressed her lips together.  “change your clothes,” she said crisply, like she was doing you a favor by letting you live another few hours. “quickly.”

you nudged chaewon toward the stairs with a wordless tilt of your head, the weight of the dinner still pressing against your spine like a too-tight collar. she moved without protest, her presence trailing just a step behind you as you climbed each step with the hush of your mother’s voice echoing faintly from the dining room. when you reached your room, you slipped inside first and pushed the door shut until the latch caught soft and final. the sound almost felt like relief. you stayed there for a second, your back pressed to the wood, chest rising and falling like you were trying to slow your pulse down by force alone.

gently, you set hotdog on the floor and watched him shake out the tension like it belonged to him too. his tiny paws clicked across the old hardwood as he made a slow, deliberate circle around chaewon. he sniffed the cuff of her jeans where the rain still clung in faint, damp patches. he stayed close, tail stiff, the soft huff of his breath the only sound besides the quiet hum of your ceiling fan overhead.

chaewon didn’t flinch away from him. she let him trail her steps as she turned her head to take in the four walls you called your own. her eyes drifted over the cracked dresser with its peeling varnish and the stickers pressed stubborn along the edges. she lingered on the vinyl player by your desk, the stack of tapes half-tucked under a notebook with your scrawled half-thoughts and old pencil marks. she catalogued all of it in the soft, searching way someone might study a museum display of an ordinary life they could never quite touch.

when she turned back to you, there was no judgment in her expression. no faint curl of distaste at the way your laundry basket overflowed with half-folded sweaters, no poorly hidden pity for the single wilting plant on your windowsill that never got quite enough sun. if anything, there was a flicker of something else behind her eyes. a kind of quiet surprise, maybe even envy, though she did not say it out loud. like she had never stood in a room where things were loved so imperfectly and left exactly as they were.

hotdog settled by her ankle, nose pressed to her shoe as if confirming some truth only he could smell. he let out a soft, low whine before rolling onto his side, belly exposed, eyes half-shut but still trained on her.

you pushed off the door and crossed your arms loosely over your chest, the wordless question you’d been turning over finally slipping free. “so. it’s just me, huh?”

chaewon blinked, slow, as if you’d pulled her from whatever thought had been holding her still. “what do you mean?”

you gestured loosely at hotdog, now busy pawing at a stray thread on her cuff, then at the closed door behind you where the world beyond still bustled. “my dog sees you. i see you. but my mother just looked right through you like you weren’t standing three feet away.”

chaewon’s lips parted like she might say something simple to smooth it over, but nothing came. instead she just shrugged, the jacket slipping off one shoulder where it dwarfed her frame. “i guess you’re the only one who can.”

the words dropped between you with a weight that felt heavier than the room itself. your breath caught in your throat, caught on the fact that whatever this was had found you of all people to hold onto. you watched her fingers brush the corner of your scratched-up desk as if she was testing whether she could feel it at all. her touch hovered, inches above the wood, her eyes flicking to yours with a question you weren’t sure either of you could answer.

you let out a breath, your laugh small and a little helpless as you glanced at the old posters peeling at the corners. “figures. out of everyone in this city, you get stuck with the kid who names her dog hotdog and still has stickers from elementary school on her dresser.”

chaewon looked at you then, really looked, and something in her face softened at the edges. she didn’t smile exactly, but she tilted her head like she was seeing you clearer than you’d seen yourself in weeks. her eyes drifted back to your cracked mirror, the one that split your reflection but never bothered you enough to replace. “it’s… nice,” she said, voice quiet but certain. “your room. it’s different from what i’m used to.”

you let out a small breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. for a moment you just stood there, the soft hum of the ceiling fan filling the spaces where your thoughts couldn’t reach. then it hit you all at once, that tight knot in your chest that said you didn’t know anything about her. not really. not this girl who’d appeared at your work dripping rainwater and impossibility, who now stood in your room like she belonged in it somehow.

“what are you used to?” you asked before you could stop yourself, voice soft so it didn’t break whatever fragile calm had settled between you.

chaewon’s eyes flicked back to yours, her lashes still damp from the storm that hadn’t quite left her. she let out a slow breath, brushing her fingers along her sleeve like she was grounding herself in its borrowed warmth.

“i’m a model,” she said after a moment, almost too casual, like she was stating the weather. “i mean, i was a model. for a few years. mostly print. some commercials.”

your brows knitted together, the tiny piece of trivia slotting somewhere just out of reach. “like… for magazines?”

chaewon gave a small nod, turning her head away to look at your cluttered desk as if it might hide her from the weight of the admission. “yeah. magazines. catalogs. ads for things no one needed.” her voice thinned with the shape of the memory. “hotels. designer clothes. sometimes cars.”

you blinked at her, your fingers frozen halfway through unbuttoning your work shirt. you’d almost forgotten you were supposed to be changing for dinner until the faint echo of your mother’s voice carried up the stairs, a clipped call for you to hurry. you cleared your throat and turned your back to her, tugging your shirt over your head and reaching for the neat blouse your mother had pressed that morning. behind you, you heard chaewon shift her weight, her footsteps soft as she angled herself politely toward your window, giving you what little privacy she could.

you fumbled with the buttons, your mind racing to match her soft, half-murmured facts with the faint echoes of a name you hadn’t thought about in years. you’d been young then, three years ago, but not too young to remember. kim chaewon. the name folded open inside you like a page you thought you’d torn out long ago. you remembered the grainy black-and-white headlines on newsstands near the bus stop, the way your parents whispered about it at the breakfast table. tragedy, the word used like a period in every hushed conversation. too young. so sudden. you remembered kids at school passing around clippings torn from tabloids that your teacher snatched away when she saw them.

you pulled your sweater over your head and turned to face her, your breath catching sharp in your throat. “chaewon,” you said carefully, testing the shape of her name now that it meant something more than just a soft syllable in the air. “the chaewon? you’re– you were everywhere. you— god, you were on billboards. people wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

chaewon turned her head to glance at you, her eyes wide but unreadable. for a second she just stood there, caught in the middle of your too-small room with your dog curled up on her foot like he trusted her with every secret you’d ever whispered to him. she looked smaller suddenly, like the name you’d just spoken pinned her back into something she couldn’t step out of.

“at one point in time.” she said quietly, voice barely above the hum of the fan. 

you swallowed, the shock of it catching on your tongue. “the news said you died. it was everywhere. nobody really knew how. they just said it was… ‘natural’. but everyone, my mom, the neighbors, the press– they all said it didn’t make sense. that someone like you couldn’t just–” you trail off, the final word hanging between you tensely.

chaewon’s eyes flicked down to her hands, her fingers curling around the edge of your desk like she needed to hold onto something real. “i don’t remember dying,” she murmured, and the words seemed to hang in the soft dusk of your room, trembling in the stale air like something fragile you shouldn’t breathe too hard on.

you opened your mouth to ask more, to pull the edges apart and peer into the dark places where answers might be hiding, but your mother’s voice sliced up the stairs again, sharper this time. company’s waiting. you felt it like a tug at the back of your neck, the reminder that there were expectations waiting for you just outside your bedroom door.

you let the questions settle back down in your chest, unfinished and heavy. chaewon didn’t look at you. she traced her finger absently over the corner of your cracked mirror, her reflection fractured in three places, none of them quite her.

“we’ll talk later,” you said, softer now, almost a promise as you grabbed your brush from the nightstand. you caught her watching you in the glass as you smoothed your hair down, her eyes still wide with something you couldn’t name.

hotdog whined softly, like he understood too. like he was reminding you that no matter how many answers you didn’t have yet, she wasn’t leaving your side anytime soon.

you square your shoulders, forcing your feet toward the door, and pretend you couldn’t feel the weight of her quiet steps behind you as you headed back down to the part of your life that still feigned to make sense.

you hear the doorbell before you fully leave your bedroom. hear the way your parents argue over who was going to open the door, the way your dad cleared his throat before finally being the one to do it. you walked down stairs just in time to see the family of the hour. soobin is there, dressed like a model student, holding a bottle of fruit wine in both hands. his parents stand behind him, smiling the way parents smile when they’re here for something more than dinner.

“good evening,” soobin says, bowing. “thank you for having us.”

your mother is already there, moving like clockwork. “of course. come in. we hope you’re hungry.”

behind you, chaewon murmurs.  “what is this, a dinner or a business proposal?”

your legs carry you to the table like they’ve rehearsed it. you sit between your father and soobin, who smiles like nothing’s awkward. like he doesn’t know what he’s walked into.

the table is covered in unnecessary cutlery and dishes that haven’t seen daylight since new year. your mother ladles soup with all the care of a surgeon. you say thank you. you nod when soobin’s father brings up grades. you try to meet soobin’s eyes, but the sickly feeling rooting in the pit of your stomach overpowers any instinct of forcing niceness. 

chaewon lingers just beyond the archway, eyes sweeping the room. she lets out a quiet laugh when hotdog growls low, the small dog eyeing soobin down when he edges too close to you at the table. almost instantly, he reins it in when your father whistles a warning and instead pads over to chaewon’s side. the two move slowly through the dining room, taking in everything with careful, measured steps. it almost surprised you how quickly the dog took to the dead girl.

“it smells lovely,” soobin’s mother says with a soft smile after a beat, her kind old face glancing between everyone seated around her, none the wiser to the ghost prodding at her faux diamond necklace.

“bulgogi and japchae,” your mother replies, her tone stiff with pride. “i wasn’t sure what your son liked, so i wanted to keep it traditional.”

“everything looks wonderful,” soobin says, his voice soft with sincerity. he means it, of course he does, which somehow makes it worse. you resist the impulse to roll your eyes, settling instead for a tight, polite nod. “thank you again.”

you weren’t sure just how the topic broached what your plans were after highschool, but lower and behold, it was inevitable. after several more beats of muted conversation, your dad clears his throat, the deliberate kind that always signals he’s about to launch into something. 

“we’ve always believed in building a strong academic foundation,” he begins, folding his napkin with unnecessary precision. “especially now, with college on the horizon. we’ve been looking into programs at seoul national. their pre-med track is exceptional.”

you keep your eyes on your plate, chewing slowly, as if that’ll somehow delay the rest.

“she’s always been very disciplined,” he adds. “science has always come naturally to her. she thinks analytically. she’s focused. driven.”

chaewon moves while he talks. slow and curious, like she’s floating through a museum of someone else’s life. she passes the bookshelf in the corner, brushing her fingertips across the dusty spine of a photo album no one’s opened in years. her eyes catch on the family portrait from your first birthday. your mother in shoulder pads, your father smiling like a man who never lets go of the steering wheel. then she stops in front of the fish tank. the one your dad insists makes the room feel “balanced.” a single goldfish circles the plastic castle inside, its path tight and repetitive. chaewon leans in, watching it loop again. and again. and again.

by the time she circles back to you, your dad’s still going. something about internships. something about “laying the groundwork for future success.”

chaewon crouches just enough to speak near your ear. her voice is low and dry, her words softened by the clink of silverware and the low murmur of soobin’s mother pretending to care.

“your dad just said ‘strong academic foundation,’” she whispers. “does he know he sounds like a fucking brochure?”

you don’t answer. instead, your fork hits the plate harder than you mean to. the metal clinks sharply against ceramic, and a few grains of rice scatter across your placemat. the sound cuts through the conversation just enough to turn a few heads. you mumble an apology you don’t mean. your mother’s smile doesn’t falter, but it tightens at the corners, thinning like a thread pulled taut. without missing a beat, she slides the conversation right back on track.

“tell them what you’re planning to study,” she says, like it’s already been decided.

you swallow, suddenly hyper aware of the way soobin’s knee almost grazes yours beneath the table. “i’m not sure yet.”

“nonsense,” your mother chirps, her tone too light to be casual. “she’d make a wonderful doctor. like me. like her father.”

soobin’s parents nod as if on cue. polite, approving. 

“structure is important,” your mother continues. “especially now. at this age, you need a path.”

“structure,” chaewon repeats softly, still lingering just behind your chair. “they say that like it’s freedom. like they don’t know it can be a cage.”

you glance sideways. she’s not looking at you. she’s watching your parents, eyes narrowed, unreadable. your fork is still in your hand, untouched. you haven’t taken a bite in minutes. the japchae’s going cold. you drop your gaze, try to focus on your rice like it might anchor you, like it might give your hands something to do other than tremble.

you stop listening and the table blurs. someone’s saying something about university rankings. someone else mentions mock interviews. your mother laughs, that high, measured laugh she saves for people she’s trying to impress. your appetite vanished somewhere between “discipline” and “structure,” and it’s not coming back. you stare down at your plate, the clink of silverware and careful small talk swirling around you like static. it’s loud, but none of it means anything.

chaewon shifts, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. her presence felt like a weight pressed into the air beside you. quiet, uncertain. maybe she’s thinking. maybe she’s afraid to speak.  maybe she’s wondering how a house this full can feel so empty. she stays beside you, folded in on herself like she’s trying not to take up too much space. her hands rest gently in her lap, unmoving, her posture stiff with restraint. but then, when you turn to glance at her, your breath catches in your throat because she’s already looking at you. her gaze was steady and searching as if she’s trying to decode something written in the fine lines of your face, in the way your fingers tense and curl against the edge of your chair.

her expression is unreadable but soft, and for a moment, it is all you can see. everything else– the table, the noise, your mother’s relentless script of discipline and direction, soobin’s too-polite smile, the clink of glass and the scrape of silverware against porcelain– it all falls away. the room dulls at the edges, the world pulls back, and it’s just her, sitting in your windbreaker like it was made for her, the fabric loose across her frame but somehow still perfect, the sleeves falling just past her wrists, the collar slouched against the slope of her neck, making her look at once impossibly casual and devastatingly beautiful. her hair has started to dry, no longer clinging to her skin like it did when she first walked in from the rain, and now it falls in soft waves around her face, framing her cheekbones and catching the warm light of the chandelier overhead in a way that makes her look untouchable, unreal, like something conjured from the space between memory and longing.

even with the weight of whatever she’s carrying, even with the exhaustion that shadows her eyes and the quiet grief tucked into the corners of her mouth, there is a kind of stillness to her that steadies something in you, a strange and startling calm that wraps around your ribs and presses into the noise like a hand over your heart. and in that moment, nothing else matters. not the dinner, not your parents, not the future laid out for you like a paved road you never asked to walk. because all you can see is her. you almost facepalmed yourself for failing to see just how breathtakingly gorgeous she was when she stepped into the bowling alley.

your mother started asking soobin’s mom about his younger sister, but you don’t pay it any mind. you can’t find it within yourself to follow along with the conversation, not when beauty incarnate stood right there in front of you for (quite literally) only your eyes to see. they fill the air with words. nice ones, smooth ones. the kind that coat everything in a layer of gloss. but you knew better. 

chaewon purses her lips, weighing her words carefully, before finally she sighs.

“you know,” she starts, quiet. “i don’t think i ever had a dinner like this. even at the height of it. even when i was doing seven commercials a month. we always ate in pieces. my mom would cook, then rush out to a shift. or she’d reheat something while i was going over scripts. everything was fast. always between something else. i used to wonder if maybe we were doing it wrong. if we were supposed to be like this.”

she looks at the table, at the steam curling from the japchae, at the careful way your mother placed each side dish like it mattered. there’s something in her face. not longing. not envy. just the soft ache of distance.

“now i’m not so sure,” she adds. “this doesn’t feel like love either.”

you glance up, and her eyes are already on you. she’s not smiling. but there’s something open in her expression. something unguarded.

you nod, just a little, as faint as you could make it without seeming crazy. but then you hear your name. your mother, noticing the stillness, leans in slightly. her smile is smooth, practiced, all porcelain polish and no warmth. it doesn't reach her eyes. she folds her napkin neatly and sets it beside her plate.

“you’re being very quiet tonight,” she says, low and clipped. “is something wrong?”

you lift your eyes from your plate and force a smile, but it doesn’t sit right. it stretches wrong across your face, too stiff, too thin, the muscles in your cheeks pulling with effort. “just tired,” you say after a beat, careful not to sound defensive. “long shift.”

soobin, ever the polite guest, jumps in before the silence can settle too long between the clink of chopsticks and the gentle murmur of background conversation. “she’s been working a lot lately,” he says, offering a nod and a soft smile that makes your stomach twist. “saving up on her own.”

your father lets out a short, approving hum, the kind that says he’s only half-listening, already preparing his next line in this carefully orchestrated performance. “that’s a good habit,” he says, reaching for the side dish closest to him. “discipline is everything, especially at her age.”

your mother sets her chopsticks down with practiced elegance and folds her hands neatly in her lap. she doesn’t look at you, not exactly, but rather toward the center of the table as if she’s addressing the collective presence of soobin’s family, as if this is the part of the script she’s been waiting for. “we’ve always taught our daughter to prioritize the things that matter,” she says, her voice taking on the softened cadence she reserves for guests. “work, school, family. she knows how important it is to be reliable. to show up. no matter how she feels. especially when she doesn’t feel like it.”

and that’s when it happens.

a breath, sharp and sudden, cuts through the space beside you. the faintest rustle of fabric, like someone moving too quickly or trying not to at all. you glance to your right and find chaewon completely still, frozen in place like a photograph caught mid-fall. her posture, which had been relaxed in a tense sort of way all evening, is now rigid. her spine pulled tight. her shoulders drawn in. her hands tremble faintly in her lap, knuckles pale where she’s gripping the edge of her seat, fingers twitching as though they don’t know whether to hold on or let go.

her face is a mask of nothing, which is somehow worse than anything else. it’s not calm. not composed. it’s the kind of emptiness that comes right before something shatters, the moment where a crack forms just beneath the surface and no one sees it until it splits wide open.

“chaewon?” you mouth.

she doesn’t answer. doesn’t look at you. her eyes are wide but distant, fixed on something far past the dining room walls, something you can’t see. she tries to leave, her steps slow and uneven, like she’s walking underwater. but just as she crosses the threshold of the dining room, her body halts abruptly, jerking as if she’s walked straight into glass. it’s the same barrier. the same invisible line that stopped you cold at the bowling alley, the one that pressed into your chest like gravity gone wrong. you can almost feel it resonate again, faint and low, like the air itself is rejecting her. she flinches. it’s small, but enough. enough to see that she’s not okay. not even close.

your heart lurches, the rest of the room fading into background noise. you cough, quick and sharp, a weak excuse for your sudden movement as you push back your chair. the legs drag against the polished floor with a screech that silences at least half the table.

“bathroom,” you mutter, barely audible, already moving.

you feel your mother’s eyes on your back immediately, her stare like a blade. narrowed, questioning, already preparing a quiet reprimand for later. you don’t look at her. you keep walking.

chaewon is already disappearing down the hallway by the time you’ve fully risen from your chair, her frame drawn tight, shoulders hunched with a stiffness that looks like she’s trying to outrun the room she just left. her steps are uneven, unsteady. not frantic, not dramatic, but the kind of movement that betrays just how close she is to falling apart. without hesitation, without stopping to care what your mother might whisper later or how soobin’s parents might interpret your sudden absence, you follow her. you trail the ghost down the hallway and into the narrow bathroom at the end, the door still cracked slightly from her entrance. the moment you step inside, the air changes, cooler somehow. quieter, as though the walls have pulled in to hold your secrets. the muffled drone of dinner conversation fades the instant you push the door closed behind you, cutting off the soft clatter of dishes and the cadence of your mother’s voice talking about something else that doesn’t matter. you turn the lock, the quiet click sounding far too loud in the stillness.

chaewon is standing in front of the mirror, motionless, her eyes locked on her own reflection like she’s not sure whether to recognize it or be afraid of it. the harsh fluorescent light washes over her skin, casting pale shadows beneath her eyes and along the sharp line of her jaw. you take a step closer and only then do you notice her breathing. shallow. ragged. her chest rises and falls too quickly, and one of her hands is braced against the sink as though it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. all at once, you feel the weight of it settle into your chest again: the impossibility of her. the rules that seem to shift every time you think you’ve figured them out. she can touch some things– your jacket, a doorknob, the floor beneath her feet– but not others. her body is there, and yet not. she can open a door but not hold a cup. she casts no shadow, but her presence fills the room like she’s the only real thing inside it. she shows up in mirrors, but only to you. and you wonder, briefly, what that says about you.

but there’s no time to unravel that now. not when she’s standing there, trembling. not when her fingers curl tightly around the edge of the sink like she might shatter it. not when the reflection looking back at her isn’t one of composure or clarity, but of a girl caught between memory and something much harder to name.

“what happened?” you finally found your voice, tentative. you watch as she lifts her hand to her chest like it hurts. her fingers twitch against her collarbone. she doesn’t speak right away. when she finally does, her voice is distant. hollow.

“i remember.”

you stay quiet, but your eyes betray you. you lean forward again, enraptured by the words yet to leave her lips. she looks past you, eyes unfocused as she continues.

“just before everything went dark. there was this shoot. a long one. we were supposed to wrap up late, but they asked me to stay after. just me. no crew.” she swallows. “i told my mom i was tired, that something felt off. but she didn’t listen. she said i was being dramatic. that i should be proud they wanted more of me. she told me to be polite, to do what they asked, to show them i was serious about my career. anything beyond that didn’t matter.” she blinks, her voice cracking as she gripped her chest tighter. the memory came back to her in a sudden sharp, fragmented burst. your mothers words echoed through her mind, a trigger of the events which happened before her death. chaewon shakes her head. “i remember walking into a room with the lights already on. i remember the couch. it was this ugly green. i remember someone closing the door behind me. and then—” her whole body flinches.

“then i remember nothing.”

you step forward, slowly, not entirely certain what compels you to move except for the quiet understanding that staying still feels more unbearable than reaching out. your hand rises almost instinctively, hesitating in the space between you, fingers just barely hovering near her arm as though touch alone might anchor her back into her body. you don’t know if she’ll recoil or disappear or pass through you like steam. you don’t even know if she’ll feel it. but still, you reach.

there is something in her eyes that unsettles you. it’s not only fear, though fear is present. it’s not only grief either, though that lingers too, threaded through the silence between her breaths. it’s something else entirely, something heavier and quieter, the kind of emotion that doesn’t have a name but sits beneath the skin like a bruise that never faded. her voice cracks slightly as she speaks, so soft that you almost lean in without realizing it. 

“i didn’t fall asleep. i didn’t get sick. they took something from me,” she says, her eyes fixed on the mirror, as though looking at her own reflection might help her believe it. “and no one ever found out because i was gone before they could ask.”

you don’t say anything in response. you don’t move. because what could you possibly say to that, when every word you might offer feels small in the face of what was being uncovered? all you can do is stay with her in that space, your hand still hovering near, your presence the only thing you have left to give.

she leans back against the wall, sliding down until she’s sitting on the tile floor, knees drawn up like she’s trying to make herself disappear. she stares at her hands.

“i think that’s why i’m still here,” she says quietly. “not because i died. but because no one ever knew what really happened to me. not even my mom.”

you know what she’s suggesting without her needing to speak the words aloud. the possibility that maybe, she didn’t just die of ‘natural causes’. that perhaps it was murder. that perhaps the very reason she was here, was because you were the one to help her unearth the truth.

the bathroom hums with a low, steady quiet, the kind that fills in the spaces where words might have gone. your hands are cold when you finally lower yourself to the floor beside her, the tile firm beneath you, the silence thick enough to press against your skin. when chaewon leans into your shoulder, slow and careful, like she’s unsure if she’s allowed to, you don’t flinch. you don’t move away. you let her. and somehow, that feels like the only right thing in a night that has unraveled every definition of what right is supposed to mean.

you stay like that. minutes pass, or maybe more. the shaking in her hands gradually eases. you feel the weight of her head against your arm and realize she’s still here, still tethered to this moment, and somehow, so are you. you stare down at your own hands, resting limply in your lap, and notice they are trembling even though the cold has long since stopped biting at your skin. the bathroom feels too still now. too quiet in a way that makes your thoughts fold inward and ricochet back against the inside of your skull. it’s the kind of stillness that amplifies everything, the kind that leaves no room to hide.

you feel like you’re about to break open. not from fear exactly, and not even from confusion, but from the sheer pressure of trying to make sense of what is unfolding around you. your parents are just a room away, probably setting out dessert on the table you helped polish last weekend. you can picture it clearly, persimmon cookies arranged in neat rows on the white ceramic tray. they’re entertaining a boy you barely know, a boy they want to see beside you in photographs and future plans. and yet here you are, on the floor of your own bathroom, next to a girl who shouldn’t exist.

you cover your face with your hands and groan. “i’m going insane.”

chaewon shifts. you can feel her eyes on you. “you’re not.

“then what is this?” you drop your hands and look at her, eyes wide. “because none of this is normal. you’re not normal. i can’t even explain this to myself, let alone anyone else. and now you’re, what, unlocking repressed memories in my parents’ guest bathroom like this is some horror movie side plot?”

chaewon flinches, just a little. you exhale, long and shaky, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes. “sorry. i didn’t mean it like that. just…” your voice wavers. “i don’t know what to do with any of this. i don’t know why you’re here. i don’t know why i’m the one who can see you.”

chaewon’s voice is quieter now, as if the weight of the evening has pressed the words out of her gently, almost like an apology. “you don’t have to help me.”

you look up at her. really look. there’s a stillness in her face that doesn’t ask for anything, but you can feel it all the same. the waiting, the guarded edge of hope she’s already prepared to let go of. maybe it’s the exhaustion dulling your thoughts, the hours of pretending everything is fine when it never has been. maybe it’s the pressure of a dinner table you fled from, still humming with conversation about a life you never chose. or maybe it’s just the expression on her face. the one that screamed her desire for answers, her want for closure. because almost immediately, you shake your head with a resigned sigh.

“no,” you say, slower now, more grounded. “i’ll help.”

chaewon blinks, startled by how easily you said it. like she wasn’t expecting you to mean it.

“if someone hurt you,” you continue, your voice gaining shape as you speak, “if someone killed you, then you deserve to know why. even if none of this makes sense. even if i feel completely fucking insane trying to make sense of it.”

her lips part like she wants to respond, but all she manages is a whisper, so faint it nearly disappears between you. “why?”

you run a hand over your face, pressing your fingers into your temple like it might ease the slow pounding behind your eyes. “because you’re in my house,” you say, eyes still closed. “you’re in my life now. and whether i asked for it or not, it’s happening. from the looks of it, that’s just something i need to deal with. if helping you gets you out of my head sooner, then… fine. i’ll do it.”

chaewon nods, once. solemn and still, like she’s trying to commit your words to memory in case you change your mind. “okay,” she says, and it’s barely a breath.

you lean back against the bathtub, the cool porcelain grounding you for the first time all night. you let your eyes slip shut and exhale a shaky breath.

“what the fuck is my life,” you mutter, more to the ceiling than to her.

chaewon doesn’t answer, but when you glance at her from the corner of your eye, she’s watching you with something quieter than hope but warmer than fear. her shoulders have dropped a little, her posture no longer folded entirely inward. for the first time since the moment she stepped out of the storm and into your world, she looks like she’s beginning to believe that maybe, just maybe, she’ll get the answers she’s looking for after all.

you just had no idea what your first step would be.