Nayeonlover

No stiff blazers.

No wrinkled ties.

No skirts measured by strict school rules.

Just dresses that glittered beneath warm lights and suits tailored enough to make boys suddenly think fixing their hair once or twice would mold their attitude into gentlemen.

I'm talking about prom of course!

Which explained why Minju currently looked like she wanted to try each and every excuse to not go.

"This is stupid."

Her friend groaned for what felt like the fiftieth time that evening.

"You've said that twelve times already," Yunah said from across the room.

"Because it remains true all twelve times."

Minju stood in front of the full-length mirror in her dress shop, aggressively adjusting the fabric of her dress like she could somehow bully it into becoming less embarrassing.

"This feels weird."

"Did you suddenly develop an allergy towards dresses?"

"I might have at this point."

Yunah snorted from her seat near the fitting room platform, one leg crossed over the other as she watched Minju spiral in real time.

The shop was far too bright for Minju's liking.

Every employee looked far too excited and every rack around her hung dresses that looked like they belonged to people significantly more confident than she was.

The dress she wore was simple compared to the others she had been bribed into trying on.

And by that, she meant Yunah had to bribe her with a week's worth of free lunches and the promise that she would use her position in the media club to hide the unflattering prom photos before they were posted online.

Minju had accepted far quicker than she cared to admit.

The dress she currently wore was teal.

It hugged her waist before falling softly down her legs, the fabric smooth and tiny silver details lined the straps.

"Do I really have to go?" Minju asked.

Yunah had already stood up from her seat, already pushing through hangers of dresses.

"Yes," she answered immediately.

Minju frowned at her reflection.

"It sounds boring anyways. You just stand around while the loud music blasts into your ears and eat food no better than what the cafeteria serves."

"Don't be like that," Yunah replied as she pushed another hanger back. "You already submitted your attendance sheet plus (YN) is going to be there."

Minju nearly tripped over absolutely nothing.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Her head snapped toward Yunah so fast it almost broke off her head.

Yunah slowly turned to look at her then smiled.

Minju immediately knew she had fallen into a trap she should've seen a mile away.

"I don't know, I just thought that it would motivate you just a tiny bit."

Minju stared at her.

"...No," she said flatly.

Yunah blinked. "No?"

"No, it doesn't motivate me knowing he will be there."

"Don't be so rash, don't you want to see what he looks like in a tux?"

Minju opened her mouth and raised to point a finger at her yet nothing came out.

And that alone told Yunah everything she needed to know.

A grin spread across her face with the speed of someone who had just caught her friend in denial.

"Oh my god," Yunah gasped dramatically. "You do want to know."

"I do not."

"You practically blue-screened in front of me."

Minju turned back toward the mirror quickly, crossing her arms across her chest tightly.

"I was simply caught off guard by how ridiculous your question was."

Yunah hummed. "Mhm."

"It's not like I care what he wears."

"Yeah, sure you don't."

"He could show up in a trash bag and I still wouldn't care."

"That sounds weirdly specific." Yunah's reflection struggled not to laugh.

Minju narrowed her eyes at the mirror.

Annoying as it was, Yunah's question had already planted itself in her brain like a virus, already creating more thoughts and images in her mind uninvited.

What would you look like?

Would your hair still be slightly messy because you always forget to fix it?

Would your outfit stay smooth all through the night or would you move enough to mess it up and create wrinkles.

Would you somehow still look annoyingly comfortable with everyone else while she shoved herself to a corner?

But most importantly,

Why was she thinking about this?

"This is your fault," Minju muttered.

Yunah looked offended. "For being a supportive friend?"

"For being so annoying like everybody else."

Minju groaned and dropped into the small platform seat beside the mirror.

"I genuinely don't understand why everyone acts like prom is some grand event."

"Because for some people it is."

"It's dancing in the school gym."

"It's about the memories you make throughout the night."

"You get tabbed for pictures that are way overwise."

"C'mon, it's romantic."

"Disgusting." Minju made a face like she had tasted expired milk.

"That's very bold coming from someone who literally accepted crocheted flowers from a boy and carried them home like they were the ark of the covenant." Yunah laughed.

Minju went completely still.

"H-he was just being generous." She replied.

Yunah's laughter only grew louder.

"Generous?" she repeated. "Minju, he bought you handmade flowers because you once said real ones die too fast. That's not generosity. That's him remembering something oddly specific that came out of your mouth on a random day."

"That does not mean anything." Minju's face heated immediately.

Yunah stared at her as the expression on her face turned into the blank one her friend always used.

"It's very surprising how long you've gotten when you are this dense."

"I am not dense." Minju gasped.

Yunah let out a laugh so loud that one of the employees glanced over in concern.

"You absolutely are," she said, wiping at the corner of her eye. "You're academically gifted yet socially...dense."

Minju stood from her seat again, glaring as Yunah approached her..

"Let me ask you something," Yunah said.

"No."

"You don't even know the question."

"And yet I still know I won't like it."

Yunah ignored her.

"When he gave you those flowers, did you throw them away?"

"No." Minju's lips pressed themselves together.

"Did you leave them somewhere in your room and forget about them?"

"...No."

Yunah's eyes widened theatrically. "Wait. Don't tell me."

Minju immediately looked away.

"Oh my god," Yunah whispered like she had uncovered government secrets. "You kept them somewhere special."

"I did not."

"Minju."

"They're on my desk." she groaned.

Yunah continued to stare at her.

"They're on my desk," she repeated through gritted teeth. "And before you say anything, it's only because throwing them away felt wasteful."

"You stare at them before bed, don't you?" Minju gasped at how easy she was to figure out. "I hate talking to you."

"You like him." Yunah said, looking far too pleased with herself.

"No." Minju immediately shook her head.

"You do."

"No."

"You are literally blushing."

"It's just hot in here."

"We're standing in a place with air conditioning."

She scoffed as turned back toward the mirror and stared at her reflection.

The teal dress really did look nice and it was unfortunate because now she actually looked like someone attending prom with the possibility of being looked at by everyone else.

Her fingers lightly touched the frills of her dress.

"What if I look ridiculous?" she asked quietly.

"You don't." Yunah's teasing softened almost instantly.

"That's easy for you to say."

"No, Minju," Yunah said gently. "You really don't."

Minju met her eyes through the mirror.

Yunah smiled, "You look beautiful."

Just like that, all of Minju's sharp yet sarcastic defenses seemed to fade away.

Her shoulders relaxed, only slightly.

"And when (YN) sees you during prom, I hope he forgets how to breathe." Yunah immediately continued.

"Yah! Noh Yunah!" Minju nearly slipped on the platform.

"What? That's supposed to be a good thing."

"It is not a good thing if he actually passes out and dies in front of me."

"Fair point. That would ruin the mood." Yunah shrugged.

Minju turned to look at herself in the mirror once again. The skirt of the dress pooled around her shoes as she held them.

For a moment, she simply stared.

"This still feels weird." She narrowed her eyes at her reflection.

Yunah laughed from behind her. "Looking pretty?"

"No, that's normal. I always look pretty." Minju flicked some strands of her hair behind her.

Yunah tried to hold in her laugh before it bursted right out of her.

"Oh my god," She wheezed through a breath.

"Why are you laughing like you're choking?" Minju raised a brow at her friend.

Yunah clutched her stomach dramatically as she tried and failed to recover.

"You said that with a completely straight face."

"Because it's true."

"That might be the most confidence you've shown all year."

She rolled her eyes and stepped off the platform carefully before one of her sneakers slipped on seemingly air and almost sent her crashing into a rack of expensive dresses.

"Yeah, shown a lot of confidence with that one." Yunah was practically folded in half now, laughing so hard she had tears gathering in her eyes.

The rack of expensive dresses trembled violently as Minju grabbed it on instinct, saving both herself and a hundred thousand won worth of fabric from falling to the floor.

The heat started to build up around the rest of her face as Yunah gathered herself somehow and helped her up.

"If you're gonna break the dress already, at least go to prom first."

"I meant to do that," she said immediately.

"Yeah, yeah, just go get changed again then we could head home."

Minju released the dress rack slowly, using the thought of home to hide her embarrassment.

Once she had her footing, she muttered under her breath the entire way back to the fitting room.

I hate this.

Why is this dress so stupidly long?

I should've stayed home and done literally anything else.

As Minju stepped out of the fitting room, finally dressed in her usual clothes again and no longer one misstep away from ruining the entire store, Yunah waited for her in front of the register with the dress already protected under a plastic sheet.

"What are you doing? I've already decided that I'm not going."

Yunah smiled politely at the woman across the counter. "Ignore her. She says that every fifteen minutes or so."

"I'm serious this time."

"Yeah but you were serious the other times too."

Yunah handed over her card before Minju could reach out and stop.

The machine beeped, and soon after payment was accepted for the both of them.

Just like that, Minju's fate was sealed with one very cheerful receipt.

The employee handed over the garment bag with a smile. "I hope both of you enjoy prom."

Minju forced out something of a smile as gratitude while she imagined herself leaving already internally.

The moment they stepped outside, the cool evening air hit her face.

She inhaled deeply.

The city streets glowed under streetlights while people walked past carrying an assortment of things, shopping bags, purses and backpacks as they traveled through the sidewalk.

Yunah bumped her shoulder lightly, their bags tapping each other in the process.

Minju looked between them before looking away.

"Thanks for the dress." She mumbled.

"No problem! That's what friends with rich parents are for."

Minju let out a quiet scoff.

"That sounds unbelievably spoiled when you say it out loud."

"What? It's true." Yunah gasped loudly. "My mom said if I was going to spoil myself, I might as well do the same for my friends."

Minju rolled her eyes before she started down the sidewalk. Yunah soon followed her footsteps that led them to the nearest bus stop.

Along their little stroll, Minju had fallen quiet though that wasn't that much different to what she normally did but her friend felt something was off in her silence.

She narrowed her eyes. "Why are you silent?"

"Were you expecting me to start freestyling to keep the conversation going? Minju answered sharply.

Yunah chuckled as she shook her head. "Anyways, I was just wondering..." she said, moving on to something new.

"What if he asks you to dance?"

Minju stopped walking so abruptly that someone behind her nearly walked into her.

"What?"

Yunah turned around slowly, entirely too pleased with herself.

"At prom."

"I heard you."

"Then why do you look like your soul just left your body?"

Minju swallowed a breath then she started walking again at a pace that looked suspiciously like fleeing her question.

"That won't happen."

"You sound very sure." Yunah matched her pace.

"Because he would never ask me."

"And why not?"

"Because..." she started before she softened. "Because why would he? He's this outgoing, social butterfly that anybody could just walk to and I'm just...Minju."

"Saying that as if you didn't just call yourself pretty earlier." Yunah replied quickly after.

Minju froze on the spot as her breath stopped midway down her throat.

After another chuckle, her teasing expression softened slightly.

"You know," Yunah said quietly, "sometimes I think you're the only person who doesn't realize how much he likes being around you."

Minju laughed once in disbelief.

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"He waits for you after class."

"That's because our classrooms are right next to each other."

"He bought your favorite snacks that one time."

"It isn't my fault he also likes the same flavor of chips and bought one too many."

"He remembers things you say that even you forget saying," Yunah continued.

Minju opened her mouth as she remembered the bouquet sitting on her desk.

"That proves nothing." she finally said after another moment.

"Minju." Yunah gave her a long look.

"What?"

"He bought you crocheted flowers."

"That is just a one time thing..."

"He bought them because you said people spend money on things that wilt after a week," Yunah said in one breath, "That's not something who just wants to be friends with you would do!"

Minju turned to face her, brows burrowed in slightly. "I remembered other things he says but I also remember things you say and all of our other friends said, it isn't unusual to do so."

Once Yunah was shut down, she turned to take more steps down the sidewalk.

"Then what about the way he looks at you?" She heard her say from behind.

Minju froze on the spot yet again.

She didn't turn around and she didn't breathe right away either.

"In what way?" she asked, but it came out softer than she intended as if it was from her own curiosity than to retort

Behind her, Yunah didn't answer immediately.

"The way he looks at you," she repeated, slower this time, "like—like he was always only looking at the moon in the sky and not the miniscule stars around it."

Minju let out another short and disbelieving scoff.

"That sounds like something straight out of a fairy tale."

Yunah gave a small, almost helpless laugh, like she knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded and still meant every word anyway.

"It is," she said simply. "That's kind of the problem."

Minju finally turned her head a little, just enough to glance back.

"You're saying things like that again," she muttered. "You're going to make me regret accepting that dress."

"No, you're going to regret not noticing things sooner," Yunah corrected.

Minju scoffed, but it came out weaker this time. "There's nothing to notice." she continued on, approaching the blue-roofed bus stop down the sidewalk.

Yunha quickly caught up with her, matching her pace before she asked another question.

"When he looks at you...do you really not notice it?"

Minju's steps slowed again.

Streetlights painted soft light across the sidewalk while cars passed in one by one beside them. Somewhere nearby, teenagers laughed too loudly outside a convenience store. The world kept moving as if Minju's heart hadn't suddenly decided to perform cartwheels against her ribs.

She tightened her grip around the bag she was holding.

Minju sighed through her nose.

"Of—of course I notice when people look at me," she said carefully.

Yunah tilted her head. "And?"

"And..." Minju hesitated as she realized the problem.

The problem was that she noticed everything.

The way your eyes always found her first in crowded classrooms.

The way your expression softened whenever she rambled about things she claimed not to care about or when she was proclaiming to the world how much she hated you.

The way you looked proud whenever she succeeded at something as if her achievements somehow belonged to you too.

The way your gaze lingered just a little too long sometimes before you awkwardly looked elsewhere.

And the worst part?

She noticed how her stomach flipped every single time.

Minju stared ahead at the bus stop.

“I think…” she said, softening her voice. “I think he looks at me like I’m worth more than what I am.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could grab them out of the air and shove them back where they came from.

“That’s not a good thing,” she added after a moment, more to herself than to Yunah.  

Yunah glanced at her. “Why not?”

“I just…” she started, then stopped before she tried again. “I don’t know what he’s seeing when he looks at me like that.” 

The girl next to her exhaled softly, like she’d been holding it in for a while. 

They walked under the bus stop.

Minju took a seat first before Yunah sat down next to her.

“Do you think he’s wrong for looking at you like that?” she asked, placing the bag over her lap.

Minju hesitated, “I don’t know,” she admitted. Then, almost stubbornly, she added, “Maybe he is.” 

Yunah hummed softly, her voice carried by the soft breeze that blew by. The light above them flickered then steadied. She leaned back slightly, letting the bench creak under her weight.

“I think I know what you're afraid of.” she finally said. 

Minju looked over with the sides of her eyes.

“You're afraid of someone actually seeing you and for them to actually care.” Yunah said in a single breath. 

She heard a scoff beside her.

“Since when were you this poetic?” Minju mumbled before she felt a soft shove against her elbow. She rubbed the spot slowly.

“Seriously though,” Yunah leaned forward, resting her elbows against her knees. “You’re scared that if you believe he likes you and you’re wrong, you’ll feel stupid.”

“That’s—” Minju tried to retort.

Keyword, tried.

Her shoulders eased either in defeat or they also grew tired of her hiding behind herself.

“I just think,” she said quietly, “that he'll just leave after he realises I'm not as interesting as he thought.”

Minju’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“My grades are good.”

“I know how to make myself useful.”

“I know how to be someone people can rely on.”

Minju looked up at the traffic in front of them.

“But when that’s gone…”

She swallowed hard.

“What’s left?”

Yunah looked at her like she couldn’t believe Minju could sound like this.

“What’s left?” she repeated softly.

“Mhm, yeah.”

Yunah reached over and flicked Minju’s forehead.

“Ouch!”

“What’s left,” Yunah said, ignoring her glare, “is the girl who argues with teachers when they grade unfairly.”

Minju blinked at her.

“The girl who pretends she hates helping the younger years but somehow always does when they ask, even if it's the simplest thing.”

“The girl who acts annoyed when her friends call her crying at two in the morning but still picks up every single time.”

Minju stared at her.

“And the girl who should come out of hiding and face her feelings head on.” Yunah smiled softly.

The bus stop fell quiet around them.

A bus roared past without stopping, wind following behind it hard enough to push loose strands of Minju’s hair across her face. She tucked them behind her ear absentmindedly.

Yunah smiled softly at her then her expression relaxed again.

“It shouldn't be that easy.” Her head dropped again. “When people like you,” Minju said softly, eyes fixed on the pavement below her shoes, “there’s always a version of you they like first.”

“The useful version.”

“The smart version.”

“The version that gets things done.”

Minju laughed bitterly under her breath.

“And when they find out you’re actually difficult or insecure or annoying or that sometimes you say the wrong things and push people away before they can leave first…”

Her throat tightened.

“They leave anyway.”

Yunah stared at her friend like she was seeing a side of Minju had been pushed away for years.

She reached over and grabbed Minju’s hand, warmly and sincerely.

“He already sees those parts.”

“What?” Minju blinked.

Yunah squeezed her hand.

“He’s seen you snap at people, seen you overthink, seen you act like you hate compliments and seen how cranky you are before tests.”

A reluctant laugh escaped Minju before she could stop it.

Yunah smiled softly at the sound like she had been waiting for it.

“And he still stayed.”

Minju’s smile slowly disappeared.

“He stayed after all of your bad moods, he stayed after your sharp words, he stayed after every opportunity he had to lose interest.”

Her voice softened again.

"And he still stayed, didn't he?"

Minju looked away first, her ears beginning to burn. She leaned back against the bench and looked up at the night sky.

There weren’t many visible stars tonight, just the moon still shining brightly high above the city.

Against all logic, her thoughts drifted back to you.

Your laugh.

Your stupidly kind face.

The way you looked at her like she was something soft enough to protect and strong enough to admire at the same time.

“So what if he asks me to dance?” she whispered.

Yunah turned so fast she nearly fell off the bench with a gasp.

“So you are imagining it!”

Minju groaned immediately. “Why are you yelling?”

“Because you want him to dance with you!”

“I said what if. That is not the same thing.”

“If he asks you to dance—” Yunah grabbed both of her shoulders dramatically. 

“He won’t.”

“and that’s a very weak if, because I just know he will—”

“Yunah.”

“YOU are going to say yes.”

“I don’t dance.” Minju stared at her as if she was speaking in another language.

“You just sway awkwardly for three minutes and it'll all be over. That’s literally all slow dancing is, you just do the dance!”

“That sounds horrifying.”

Yunah rolled her eyes.

“And despite that, I think a tiny part of you wants it to happen.”

Minju looked away first, not wanting to give her friend any more fuel for her teasing.

As if it were on cue, their bus pulled up with a loud screech.

The doors pushed themselves open.

Minju stood up from the seat first.

“Go on, be careful on your way home.” Yunah said, standing up right after her. “I’ll take a cab back to my parent’s place.” 

Minju hesitated before the first step.

Just a small pause, right there at the edge of the bus door, like her body had briefly forgotten which direction it was supposed to go. 

“…you too,” she muttered, not quite turning around.

Yunah smiled, raising a hand at her. “Text me when you get home.”

“I always do.”

“I know. I just like saying it.”

Minju rolled her eyes at her then finally stepped onto the bus.

-

"I'm home!"

Minju closed the door behind her with a heel and locked it soon after.

Her voice echoed faintly throughout the house with no response coming from any corner.

She wasn't expecting any different.

Her mother often worked late shifts at the hospital as one of the nurses going through the halls and going room to room while her father usually didn't come home until long after midnight if he was buried under paperwork at the firm.

The apartment was quiet in the familiar way that felt neither lonely nor comforting.

It was just the way it normally was.

Minju slipped off her shoes near the entrance and lined them up neatly against the wall out of habit before dragging herself further inside.

She walked through the dark living room and to the kitchen where she turned on the lights.

Moments after, her footsteps carried her up the stairs and towards her room where she pushed the door open and flicked open the light switch for her to see the lightly pink walls and her bed that had sheets and pillows of the same color scheme.

She placed the bag over her bed and walked to the long mirror that stood beside her closet. Leaning in, she took a closer look at herself, carefully pushing some strands of hair behind her ear.

Minju grabbed a plush headband that hung from the side as she slowly got started with her nightly routine that she had done plenty of times before.

She began with a warm bath then began applying all of the facial products she needed in front of the mirror.

When she was back in her room, she quickly got changed before heading downstairs for her dinner.

The soft whirring of the microwave echoed through the home as Minju leaned against the counter waiting for the small cup of instant noodles to finish cooking.

This was how her nights normally went when both of her parents were still out by nighttime.

Not that she minded though, of course.

That was what she always told herself.

She thrived in silence anyways, that was where she felt mostly like herself. She could make noise all she wanted, make whatever she wanted to eat, accidentally drop a pan or two, shout down the halls and watch the TV loudly with no repercussions.

But sometimes, she wouldn't have minded it.

She wouldn't have minded if she came home to a freshly cooked meal.

She wouldn't have minded if someone asked how her day was.

She wouldn't have minded if someone asked how the dress looked on her.

DING!

The microwave came to an abrupt stop as the light inside died.

Minju stared at its small window for a moment before pushing herself off the counter.

The cup was warm in her hands as she peeled back the lid.

Steam rose upward, fogging her vision for half a second before disappearing just as quickly.

She grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the drawer and made her way back to her room.

Placing it over her desk, she crouched down under the table and after a couple of plugs being pushed into sockets, the computer whirred to life.

The screen blinked awake as it transitioned to her home screen.

Minju pulled herself back into her chair, crossing one leg over the other as she stirred her noodles absentmindedly. Her desk was cluttered in the very specific way only her desk could be, stacks of neatly highlighted notes, pens sorted by color., sticky notes with deadlines scribbled across them, a half-finished worksheet she had promised herself she would complete tonight.

She looked right beside her lamp, her eyes narrowed.

The crocheted flowers still sat where she last placed them, inside a glass cup she had stolen from the kitchen because she refused to admit she needed somewhere "proper" to put them.

The soft yarn petals were still perfectly intact.

Minju let out a dramatic sigh before taking a bite of noodles, reaching over to her mouse and clicked some apps open allowing her to spend time on another hobby of hers.

Video games.

She continued eating as a queue continued to count upwards on her screen.

She was almost finished with the cup of noodles when the words popped up on her screen.

'Match Found!'

"Finally." Minju straightened in her chair immediately, nearly dropping her chopsticks onto her keyboard.

She clicked accept without hesitation, adjusting her headset over her ears as the loading screen appeared. The game music swelled dramatically through her headphones while usernames slowly populated the lobby.

Sometimes, this was better than what real life had to offer because games are wonderfully simple.

You either won, lost or drew.

You either carry your team or watch them make decisions so catastrophically stupid that it makes you wonder how they managed to survive crossing a road in real life.

Her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard as the match officially began after bans and picking which champion to use.

-

The game went on as usual, taking most of Minju's focus.

Beside her keyboard was where her phone was, laying with a dark screen before it suddenly buzzed to life.

The vibration cut through the low hum of her computer.

Minju didn't notice it at first.

She was mid-fight, her fingers were prepared on her skills, eyes sharp, posture leaning forward like she could physically intimidate the enemies to feed their gold into her.

But then it buzzed again, then again and one more to fully gain her attention.

"That better not be Yunah."

She dodged another attack before quickly glancing down.

Her phone screen lit up and her entire body froze.

Your name with three unread messages.

Her character stopped moving entirely.

Which proved to be a catastrophic decision.

You have been slain.

Minju looked at the grayed screen in front of her with the timer ticking down.

With a disgruntled sigh, she picked up her phone to finally read what you had sent her way.

Her respawn timer continued ticking down in the corner of her monitor.

"What kind of question is that?"

She stared at the screen.

Was this normal?

Did people text each other about prom so casually?

Was there a hidden meaning?

Was he asking if she had a dress?

If she had plans?

Worse, what if he was going to ask if she had a date?

Her champion respawned but she didn't move.

She picked up her phone for a moment.

Three little dots appeared on her screen immediately.

Her eyes narrowed themselves.

The phone buzzed again.

Just like that, her stomach dropped.

For a second, Minju genuinely considered throwing her phone across the room. Instead, she stared at the message so hard it nearly burned into her retinas.

Hesitantly, she typed right back.

Minju stared at your reply in complete disbelief.

"What." her eyebrows slowly furrowed.

Was that really it?

Was that all you were going to say after causing her entire body to freeze in place?

Her phone remained still in her hand before her attention was pulled back by the familiar pinging sound. Her eyes drifted back to her screen where multiple question marks started appearing around her character.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here." Minju mumbled, placing the phone down and already reaching back for her mouse.

Then her phone buzzed again.

Minju didn't look at it.

Actually, she refused to look at it.

Her eyes stayed glued to her monitor, fingers snapping back into motion as if nothing had happened.

A picture passed through her imagination right after, one that was you staring up at your phone and waiting for her reply.

Maybe you were looking at your phone with stupid puppy dog eyes that would have totally worked on her.

Her jaw tightened.

No, she would have to reply to you right after the game.

She wasn't going to reward you for appearing out of nowhere, make her mind race just from one message then cower back to whatever hole you crawled out of.

Minju clicked furiously around her screen.

And after multiple team fights around the map, across the three lanes and inside towers, the victory carefully materialized itself on her screen.

Her phone buzzed a couple more times through all of it and she was proud enough of herself to not check it even once.

She reached for her cup of noodles instead only to discover the broth had gone cold.

Finally, she picked up her phone again and opened them to see the messages you've left.

And just like that, all of her irritation dissolved and so did most of her curiosity.

"...idiot." she mumbled.

Minju stood up from her seat, contemplating whether to still type up a reply.

Then she heard a sound from downstairs.

A rhythmic tapping against metal that echoed softly through the gap she'd left open on her door.

She was sure that she locked the front door when she got back and she was even more sure that neither of her parents left anything else open downstairs.

But still considering that she was home alone, she couldn't help but feel hesitant.

"What's that?" she dropped her arms back to her side, fingers grazing the screen lightly enough to tap the phone icon over your profile.

Then she walked out of her room.

-

Across the city, you stood inside of your room. Your hand rubbed a towel over your damp hair from the warm shower you just got out of.

Your phone vibrated suddenly against the pillow you left it on.

For half a second, you just stared at the screen.

You pressed it against your ear, towel still hanging around your neck while water dripped from the ends of your hair onto the floor unnoticed.

"Hello?"

From the other side of the call, you could faintly hear the faint sound of her footsteps.

"Hello?" you said again, a bit louder this time.

Silence followed until you heard a loud creak of metal come from her end.

"It was just the tap." Minju spoke, voice full of relief.

The girl stood in the kitchen, hand having just pushed up the faucet and oblivious to what was going on with her phone.

"Park Minju!"

The girl turned around the empty home, startled by the voice of someone calling her name. Looking across the dim living room to each dark corner, she could've swore she didn't imagine it.

"What the hell?" her grip on the phone tightened instantly.

"MINJU." On the other end of the call, you nearly choked.

She looked down to her hand as the realization slowly and painfully set in.

"Did you call me?" she asked, pressing the phone to her ear.

"What—No, you were the one who called me!"

"That must've been some kind of mistake," Minju scoffed. "I didn't call you."

"Well that's weird, I specifically remember seeing your contact calling my phone."

"Then it was an accident, that's all." She looked at her screen, "I'll hang up now, bye."

"Minju—wait!"

"...What." Her thumb hovered over the screen.

"What were you doing just now?" you asked quickly, words almost tumbling out of you.

Minju caught up half a second too late.

"Why are you asking?"

"I don't know, you seemed a little spooked when I picked up the call so I was wondering."

"It's nothing, I've already dealt with it. Is that all? Goodnight."

"Wait—wait! Maybe we could...talk for a bit." your voice trailed off on the line.

Minju's entire body went still.

The kitchen suddenly felt far too quiet.

The refrigerator hummed softly somewhere behind her. The clock seemingly ticked on louder than it was before. And through the phone pressed against her ear, your voice waited carefully on the other side with one foot tapping against your floor.

Talk?

For a bit?

Her first instinct immediately set in and almost acted on its own.

No.

Absolutely not.

Because talking to you for "a bit" somehow always became twenty minutes of bickering, accidentally saying something she shouldn't have, laughing at things she pretended weren't funny, and hanging up feeling strangely lighter afterward.

Yet.

"What do you wanna talk about then?" Minju leaned one shoulder against the kitchen counter, narrowing her eyes at absolutely nothing.

"Prom's soon, maybe that."

Minju immediately regretted asking.

Because now the topic somehow materialized itself in front of her again.

Prom.

She was once again reminded of that stupid dance occupying half the school's collective brain cells. The same event everyone kept talking about like it was some life-changing cinematic experience instead of awkward teenagers renting fancy clothes to stand around under dim lighting and pretend they knew how to dance.

"That sounds terrible already," she muttered.

You laughed quietly through the phone. "You haven't even heard what I was gonna say."

"I heard enough."

She wandered slowly out of the kitchen and into the living room, phone tucked against her ear while her feet dragged lazily across the floor.

On your side of the call, you dropped onto the edge of your bed with the towel still hanging around your shoulders.

"So," you started carefully, "are you excited for it?"

"No."

"That answer came out way too fast."

She sank onto the couch eventually, curling one leg underneath herself.

"I just don't really get the hype," she continued. "Everyone's acting like it's some grand and magical ball. And everybody's going in their own carriages with big dresses and flashy suits."

"Were you just describing Cinderella?"

"Shut it."

You laughed again.

That stupid laugh.

Minju stared blankly at the ceiling while listening to it fade through the speaker.

A short silence settled between you afterward. It wasn't awkward, it was simply silence shared across the line.

It wasn't long before you broke it though.

"Do you already have someone you're going with?"

She heard the question a second too late and didn't know how to act.

"Why?" she asked carefully.

"I was just wondering. Because if you were—"

"No," she answered quickly, too fast to sound casual. "I'm not going with anyone."

From your side, your shoulders loosened from the tension forming in them before you even noticed.

"Really?"

Minju frowned immediately. "Why do you sound relieved?"

"I don't sound relieved."

"You absolutely do sound relieved."

"I do not."

"You do."

You let out an exasperated breath through the speaker. "Fine. Maybe a little."

Her stomach flipped so suddenly she nearly hated herself for it.

Minju pressed her lips together hard.

"But why were you asking?"

For once, you didn't dodge the question because across the city, sitting at the edge of your bed with damp hair and your heartbeat trying to punch through your ribs, you figured you had already come this far.

"Because I wanted to ask if maybe you'd go with me and maybe save me a dance?"

Everything inside Minju stopped.

Inside her chest was nothing for a moment, absolute silence for one terrifying second then it all came at once.

Heat rushed straight to her face so fast she physically covered her mouth with her hand despite the fact you couldn't even see her.

You continued before she could respond. Probably because you were panicking too now.

"Not like a huge thing or anything," you rambled quickly. "And I know you said you hate prom and dancing and basically joy itself but I just thought maybe since we'd probably end up talking to each other there anyway and we already know each other and you wouldn't have to deal with random people asking you and I just thought maybe it'd be easier if we went together and I'm talking too much now, aren't I?"

The silence that followed almost killed you before you faintly heard something from her.

A short breath, one where you weren't sure if she laughed, sighed or scoffed.

"Idiot..."

"W—what?" you replied.

Minju slowly lowered her hand from her mouth though the heat in her face refused to disappear.

Her heart was beating so loudly now that she didn't know what to do with it.

How was she supposed to respond to that?

She pressed her lips together harder.

"Okay." she finally said.

"What was that? What did you just say?" you replied quickly, fumbling over your words.

"I said okay, I'll go with you. It's not like I have anybody else. Dancing on the other hand, I'll have to think about it."

"...Wait seriously?"

The sheer disbelief in your voice made Minju's eyes roll over themselves.

"No, I just said yes for fun," she replied, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. "Obviously seriously."

"I thought you were gonna reject me."

"I almost did."

"Thankfully you didn't change your mind."

A laugh escaped you then, like you were finally able to laugh without weights over your shoulders.

And annoyingly enough, hearing it did something strange to her heartbeat again.

Minju reached up and pressed the back of her hand against her cheek.

It was still warm.

"So this means you're my prom date now?" you asked carefully as if you still didn't fully believe it.

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like..." she faltered immediately. "Like that."

You grinned despite her not being able to see it. "You're blushing, aren't you?"

"I hate you."

"That means yes."

"It means shut up."

Your laughter crackled through the speaker again, turning the quiet apartment into something softer around the edges. The living room no longer felt so hollow now. The ticking clock faded behind the sound of your voice.

Minju stared at the dark ceiling above her.

"So," you started again after calming down, "does this mean I get to know what dress you picked?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll see it at prom."

"Right, guess I'll just have to wait and see."

Minju hummed through the line.

You snorted quietly, changing the topic. "You know, I was actually trying to ask you earlier through text."

"Then you cowered away?"

"No, it's just that." you started, "I just thought that if you heard it come from me directly, you wouldn't think of it as me joking around."

Minju's expression softened before she could stop it

The teasing reply she already had prepared dissipated.

Because somehow, underneath all your awkward rambling and stumbling over words, she understood exactly what you meant.

If it came through text, she probably would have overanalyzed it.

If it came through text, she might have convinced herself you were joking.

Hearing your voice now in its slightly breathless and embarrassingly sincere way through the speaker, made it impossible to misunderstand.

"Well, are you?" she asked more as a rhetorical question than anything else.

"What? No—of course not."

Minju let out a soft chuckle.

"I'm glad you called and asked though."

"Well, technically you called first."

"It was an accident."

"There are no such things as accidents only—"

"I'm hanging up now."

"Okay, okay, fine." you replied with a groan. "So um...I guess I'll see you then?"

Minju tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she stared across the darkened living room.

"Yeah," she answered quietly. "I guess you will."

On your side, you leaned your head back against the wall behind your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling with the kind of stupid grin that would've absolutely gotten you ridiculed if Minju could see it right now.

"Cool," you replied, and somehow even that one word sounded too happy as you said it.

Minju rolled her eyes instinctively yet the corners of her mouth betrayed her again anyway.

"You sound ridiculous."

"You agreed to go to prom with me. I think I've earned sounding ridiculous."

"I could always back out."

"Yeah right."

A quiet scoff escaped her.

Her home felt less lonely with your voice lingering through the speaker, with the warmth still sitting stubbornly in her cheeks and with the realization that somewhere across the city, you were probably smiling like an idiot because of her.

Minju shifted on the couch, pulling her knees closer to herself.

"You better not step on my shoes during the dance," she mumbled.

Your laugh burst through the phone instantly. "So you are considering the dance."

"I said maybe."

"I'm counting that as a yes."

She hated how easily you answered that.

For a moment, neither of you spoke again.

Minju then glanced toward the clock and sighed through her nose.

"It's late."

"Yeah," you murmured. "It is. We should get some sleep"

Neither of you hung up immediately.

"Goodnight, Minju."

Her heartbeat stumbled again at the softness in your voice.

"Goodnight..." she pulled the phone away first.

The call ended and suddenly the house became quiet again.

Minju stared down at the dark screen in her hand for a long moment before slowly pushing herself off the couch and making her way back upstairs.

The hallway lights cast soft shadows across the walls as she walked, her phone still loosely held in her hand while her heartbeat stubbornly refused to settle down completely.

Back inside her room, the light escaped through the small gap she had left behind. On her table, the crocheted flowers remained beside her lamp beside the rest of her cluttered things exactly where she left them.

Minju glanced at them briefly before dropping onto the edge of her bed.

Prom still sounded exhausting.

The loud music.

The crowded gym.

The dancing.

She still thought most of it was overrated.

Yet for the first time since everyone couldn't stop talking about it, the thought of going didn't seem completely unbearable anymore.

Maybe there was finally a reason to look forward to it after all.

───✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰.:｡✧.｡:｡.｡✱───

Because somehow, somewhere between shared school lunches and conversations that stretched a little longer than they needed to, you became the one person who always pulled her out of that quiet safe space of hers.

If she had to describe what you were like, she’d say that you were a storm that dragged her outside by force, well not literally but she still found herself standing in front of a crossing or anywhere else that wasn’t her room.

“Follow me,” you said one afternoon, already stepping toward the edge of the sidewalk as the pedestrian light blinked its impatient countdown.

Minju stood a few steps back, arms crossed, watching the intersection.

“Why are we even here?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

“You always say that.”

“And you always come anyway.”

She clicked her tongue, but she didn’t deny it.

Cars slowed as the light turned red and the crossing light turned green. People began to cross in that synchronized shuffle of strangers who would never look at each other twice.

You glanced back at her.

She hadn’t moved.

Minju looked back at you with the same uninterested look on her face whenever you asked her to come with you. She exhaled, tightening her arms across her chest before looking away.

“Stop sulking.”

“I’m just standing here.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound nearly mixing into the traffic around you.

Minju only looked more irritated by it.

She hated that laugh because it always sounded like you found something quietly amusing about the world, like everything was lighter or more colorful when viewed through your eyes. It made it annoyingly difficult to stay annoyed at you for long.

Which was inconvenient, considering you seemed determined to test her patience at least three times a week.

The countdown at the crossing began flashing.

Without wanting to waste another second, you walked back to her.

Minju still looked elsewhere, one arm still crossed against her chest as the other swiped strands of her hair. She was distracted enough to not notice you reach out for her hand and pull it with you.

“Wha—”

The protest barely left her lips before you were already pulling her forward.

Minju stumbled once, caught completely off guard as her feet scrambled to match your pace.

“Are you insane?” she hissed.

“We have six seconds.”

“That’s not reassuring!”

“It’s plenty of time.”

“That sounds like something people say right before disasters happen!”

You laughed, weaving through the last few people while keeping a firm hold on her hand.

Minju stared at the back of your head in complete disbelief.

This was exactly what she meant.

This ridiculous impulsiveness that always bulldozed through her carefully planned quiet days.

One moment she’d be peacefully existing in her room.

The next she was being dragged across a busy intersection by someone who treated life like it was an empty carnival with attractions and rides that they had to try out without skipping a single one.

You walked further down the sidewalk, still pulling Minju along behind you. She hadn't said anything since then, only looking at the back of your head and then lowering down to your hands that still held each other, fingers loosely connected.

Soon, the park came into view.

Minju slowed first, not enough to stop you but enough to pull your arm.

You looked back.

She was staring at the park gates with squinted eyes, suspicion already growing within them.

“No.”

“No, what?” you replied.

“Anywhere but the park.”

You frowned. “What did the park ever do to you?”

Minju stared at the gates like they were her worst memory.

“It’s loud.”

“It’s a park.”

“There are children.”

“Yeah, anybody could go there.”

“There are also couples.”

You blinked once.

“…And?”

“They’re disgusting.”

You let out a laugh so sudden you nearly had to stop walking.

“Then ignore them, we aren't here to look at people anyway.” 

Minju groaned behind you as the both of you walked through the gates. She looked forward and spotted the colorful drapes of tents in the distance.

Rows of tents stretched across the open field, each draped in bright fabrics that fluttered lazily in the wind. It looked like someone had spilled a box of paint across the park and decided to leave it there. People wandered between booths carrying paper bags and drinks as music played faintly from somewhere deeper in the crowd.

“What is this?” Minju narrowed her eyes.

You turned around and began walking backward again, hands still linked.

“A market.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“It’s a handmade market.”

“That still tells me almost nothing.”

“Local artists, food stalls, collectible shops, random things people make when they have too much free time and want to show it to everybody else.”

Minju rolled her eyes.

Great.

If she didn't make it clear enough that she didn't like going outside very much, she hated it more if she had to be in the middle of a crowd.

And now you had the brightest idea of dragging her to the market.

Minju stopped walking altogether.

Your arm jerked back with hers.

You turned, nearly stumbling from the sudden resistance.

She stood there with a flat expression.

“No.”

You blinked. “We’re doing this again?”

“Yes.”

“We’re already inside.”

“That sounds like your problem.”

You stared at her.

Around you, the market continued on without concern. Someone nearby was loudly advertising handmade keychains. A child ran past holding cotton candy the size of their head. The wind carried the smell of different food across the park

And Minju looked like she’d rather stay in bed.

“There are too many people,” she muttered.

You glanced around.

It was crowded but not overwhelmingly so, yet enough to make her shoulders tense and her brows pinch together in that familiar way you’d started recognizing.

The playful grin on your face softened.

“You okay?”

Minju hated how quickly that deflated her irritation.

“I'm fine,” she replied but you didn't buy it.

“We don't have to go inside, the stalls out here are fine too.”

Minju narrowed her eyes.

“That was your grand plan?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You dragged me across the city like you were helping someone on the run…just to stand outside a market?”

You gestured vaguely toward the nearest row of stalls. “Not really, but I still wanted to check the stalls out here.” 

“That’s somehow even dumber.”

You laughed again, it slipped through the noise of the crowd and found her anyway, annoyingly soft and familiar.

Minju hated how her shoulders loosened at the sound before she could stop them.

The stalls near the edge of the park were quieter.

Far fewer people wandered through this section, most of them drifting deeper into the louder center where the larger stalls and live music were.

Here, the booths were smaller, one sold handmade soaps shaped like fruit, a quiet elderly man painted watercolor paintings at another stall, barely looking up as customers passed, and all kinds of snacks and drinks one could need on a hot summer afternoon like today.

Minju glanced around.

“See anything you like?” you asked from her side.

“No, absolutely nothing.” she replied quickly.

“How about those?” you pointed to a stall.

Minju looked over and spotted a stall selling fluffy hats that were like the ears of animals. 

She stared at the display then slowly turned to you.

“No.”

You looked offended. “You haven’t even tried one on.”

“I don’t need to try one on to know the answer is no.”

“That pink bunny one is practically begging for a chance.”

“It can beg elsewhere.”

You chuckled as you walked over and picked up one that had the design of floppy dog ears. Placing it over your head, you reached for the bunny ears afterwards.

Minju took one immediate step back.

“Don’t.”

You looked at her like you were being deeply misunderstood.

“You don’t even know what I was going to do.”

“Yeah, but I know what you want to do.”

“C’mon, just try it! If you do, I won't have to force you to do anything else. We can even find a place to sit down.” 

Minju looked at you then to the plush hat then back at you as the expression written across your face didn't change.

A soft sigh left her lips before she took it from your hand, fingers brushing over hers with the lightest contact.

She looked to the ground as she put it on. Her head began to heat up from the material, though that didn't really explain how it spread across the rest of her face.

“See, no harm done.” 

Minju didn’t answer immediately.

That was usually your first warning sign.

Instead, she adjusted the bunny hat slightly, as if it might somehow become less humiliating if positioned at the correct angle of denial.

“I look ridiculous,” she muttered.

“That’s right.” You leaned in then nodded with far too much enthusiasm.

Her eyes narrowed instantly.

“I’m taking it off.”

“Wait—wait—no,” you said quickly, hands up in surrender. “I meant it in a good way.”

“There is no good way to look ridiculous.” 

“That’s not true. There are charming forms of ridiculous. And right now, you are one of them. You look cute.” 

Minju froze for a second. Her brain, for once, failed to provide its usual sharp rebuttal and left her with silence.

“Don’t say that,” she muttered finally, a little too softly. “Especially when I look like an idiot.”

“Yeah? Then what does that make me?” you asked, swinging one of the ears to the back of your head.

“An even bigger one.”

You tried holding back a laugh until it broke through your smile. It didn’t sound like a tease but more like you just accepted the fact that you were being a harmless nuisance.

“I’ll take that,” you said easily, adjusting the floppy dog ears on your head like it was a crown you fully deserved.

Minju clicked her tongue again, but it didn’t have its usual snarky tone. She turned slightly away, as if distance could fix the fact that her face still felt warm.

“We should sit,” she muttered.

You brightened immediately.

“Sure thing, I saw a couple of benches by the pond.”

Minju didn’t reply with her words, she simply tugged at the hem of her sleeve again, then started walking without looking at you. 

“Hey, we haven’t paid for those yet—” you raised your hand to get her attention but she simply kept walking.

You looked back at the stall and now noticed the person inside who seemed to have watched the whole thing play out.

The both of you shared an awkward laugh before you pulled out your wallet.

Minju found herself sitting on a bench under the shade of a tree that loomed over her.

The park continued to live on around her and so did the pond that rippled in small, patient waves that folded into each other. Sunlight scattered across the surface in broken pieces, drifting whenever the wind decided to blow.

She sat with her legs crossed as the bunny still sat stiffly on her head. She adjusted them once more, pushing one of the ears back into place.

Beside her, you dropped onto the bench like it belonged to you. The dog ears you had claimed earlier tilted slightly when you leaned back, catching the light in a way that made them look far too natural on you.

Mi noticed and she immediately regretted it.

“You look ridiculous,” she said again, but quieter now.

“Hey, I’m not the only one who’s wearing an animal hat.” 

Minju scoffed and she almost took the bunny ears off her but her arm went back to her side.

“You’re worse,” she muttered instead.

You placed a hand dramatically over your chest like she had deeply wounded your pride.

“Worse?” you repeated. “I let you insult me for free and this is what I get?”

“You’re lucky I’m still sitting here.”

“Want me to say thanks for that?”

“No, it’s a threat that if you say anything more, I will leave.”

You stared at her for a moment before slowly raising both hands in surrender.

“Understood. I value my life.”

“You should.”

A laugh escaped you anyway, quieter this time, careful enough not to push her too far.

Minju leaned back against the bench and looked toward the pond again, pretending the conversation was over.

Quack! Quack!

The both of you looked down to the edge of the pond in front of you where a duck sat still on the water beyond the railing.

The duck stared at both of you.

“You hungry, little guy?” you asked.

The duck didn't answer, it simply stared back.

“Maybe we should give it something,” she muttered.

“That’s fair,” you said easily, leaning forward slightly, elbows on your knees before standing up. “I’ve been eyeing all of the snack stalls back there, I'll go get something it could eat, hopefully.”

Minju turned her head so fast the bunny ear flopped dramatically to the back of her head.

“And you're not getting me anything?” She didn't expect for her words to sound the way they did, like she assumed that you were thinking of her too.

You blinked.

Then your mouth slowly curved upward in a grin so unbearably smug that Minju immediately regretted being alive.

“Fine, you want anything?” you asked.

Anywhere but directly at the fact that she had just exposed herself in the most humiliating way possible.

Minju stared at your stupid grin then looked anywhere else but directly at the fact that she had just exposed herself in the most humiliating way possible.

“I changed my mind. Go back to the market and hope you never return.” Her voice came out much flatter than she felt.

You laughed immediately.

“Tempting, but I think you’d miss me.”

“I absolutely would not.”

“Yeah, yeah, I doubt it.” you answered back, already waving her off as you began walking away.

Her eyes narrowed as you disappeared further into the crowd, one hand lazily raised above your head in a wave like you had won something.

Which, annoyingly enough, you probably thought you did.

“You’re so annoying,” she muttered under her breath.

Quack!

She looked down.

The duck had drifted closer to the edge of the pond again, staring up at her with the same blank expression it had maintained this entire interaction.

Minju crossed her arms.

“Don’t start.”

Quack!

“I was not going to miss him.”

The duck blinked.

“Fine, maybe I do…a little. So what?” 

The duck remained completely still, as if absorbing her words with far too much brain power for an animal floating in pond water.

Minju narrowed her eyes on it.

“You look way too smug for something I can just pick up and throw.”

The duck swatted its wings. 

She let out a quiet sigh and leaned back against the bench, her gaze drifting toward the market where you had disappeared. She could still spot flashes of colorful tents through passing groups of people, along with the occasional glimpse of someone carrying overpriced drinks or bags full of things they absolutely did not need. 

You had only been gone for a few minutes and yet the space beside her felt noticeably emptier.

It irritated her enough that she pulled one of the bunny ears down over her face for a moment before letting it snap back into place.

“This is exactly why I don’t like getting used to people,” she muttered quietly.

The duck offered no sympathy, only another quack.

“It’s bad enough to like someone but it’s far worse if you have to push yourself every time just to see them.” Minju placed her head in her hands in quiet defeat.

Another quack came from her feathery friend as it swam around in the water.

“Glad to see the both of you became friends while I was away.”

Minju’s head snapped up so fast the bunny hat nearly flew off her head.

You were standing a few steps away with a paper bag in one hand and drinks in the other, looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

The duck immediately ditched being Minju’s moral listener and swam toward your side from beyond the railing.

You set the bag of food and drinks down on the bench, the paper crinkling softly as it settled between you. From it, you took out a blue lemonade and a sandwich for yourself, then carefully pulled out the other set meant for her. While your drink swirled around the straw in its cool color, the drink you placed on her side was pink, its color a quiet contrast to yours.

“How much do I owe you?” Minju asked, picking up the drink slowly.

You didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, you paused before you fully sat down, like you had to think over her question a couple times over.

“You don’t owe me anything.” you said.

Minju blinked once.

“What?” she replied.

“I bought it for both of us, don’t worry.”

Minju wanted to argue about paying for herself but wisely chose not to once she saw the blank look on your face.

You sat down beside her again, unwrapping your sandwich like the conversation had already moved on.

She stared at the drink in her hand for a moment longer before poking the straw through the lid with far more force than necessary.

“You still could’ve asked if I wanted to pay,” she muttered.

You glanced at her. “Is buying my friend food a crime now?”

Minju paused at the word and had to shake her head out of it.

“No, but I’m more than capable of paying for myself. I don’t need someone else doing things for me. Aish, now I feel like I owe you something.” she answered, eyes focusing back at the pond right in front of her.

“Relax, I did it because I wanted to. There’s no harm in that, plus, you don’t owe me anything and that’s final.”

Minju scoffed and rolled her eyes where you couldn’t see.

For a while, the moment played out with no words in between, only the sounds of foil unwrapping and the sounds of life throughout the rest of the park.

You stole a glance over to look at Minju. 

She wasn’t doing much besides eating and staring off into the distance. The hat stayed perfectly still on her head and so did the ears. Her hair blew with the short gust of wind that flew by also carrying the smell of something sweet and flowery.

Warmth flushed across your face as you realized you were staring for far longer to be considered just a glance.

Your eyes drifted back down to the paper bag as something else crinkled inside as you shifted on your seat.

“I think I understand why you hate couples,” you said in between bites, looking at the people walking in pairs with smiles that seemed way too wide to be genuine.

Minju nearly choked on her drink. She pulled the cup away from her lips and turned toward you with narrowed eyes.

“What do you mean?”

You looked entirely too calm for someone who had just said something so absurd.

“You called them disgusting, If I can remember correctly.”

“Yeah, that’s because they are.” 

“Is it because they hold hands and stay too close or they just seem way too happy to exist?” you asked.

“Both. I hate it when they lean into each other or talk too loud in places they shouldn’t. Don’t even get me started if they have the nerve to kiss each other in public.” Minju answered, a hard scoff following her words.

“But doesn’t it seem a little nice?”

Minju paused for a breath and looked at you with some suspicion that led her to think you had something hidden in between your words.

“What, you suddenly want to show the rest of the world who you share saliva with?”

You laughed and shook your head at her words and the disgust in her voice. 

“No, I meant the part where they hold hands, lean in and stay close, share umbrellas or one pair of earphones.”

Minju stared at you like you had just voluntarily admitted to enjoying public humiliation.

“You make it sound like it’s just straight from a romcom.”

You shrugged, peeling back another corner of your sandwich wrapper. “I’m just saying it doesn’t look that bad.”

“It looks unbearable,” she replied immediately. “Half of them act like no one else exists.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

Her brows pulled together. “What does that even mean?”

You leaned back against the bench and looked toward the pond, your voice quieter now, lacking its usual teasing edge.

“I think it’s nice when someone becomes your first thought.”

Minju went still.

You continued before she could interrupt, your eyes following a pair walking along the path ahead of you. The girl had fallen slightly behind while fixing her shoe, and without even turning around, the guy slowed his pace to match hers like it was natural.

“Like when something funny happens and they’re the first person you want to tell. Or when you see something good and immediately think they’d like it too. Or when you’re in a crowd and your hand reaches for theirs before you even realize you’re doing it or when you somehow see them through it.” 

Minju didn’t answer right away.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup, the small beads of condensation dampening her palm.

“You like someone, don’t you?” Minju asked, more as a tease than a question she wanted answers too, though she wouldn’t mind it.

(She absolutely would mind it.)

“Is that all you got from that?” you glanced at her.

“Yeah, I mean I wouldn’t make love sound all that dreamy if I didn’t have someone in mind.”

“It’s nothing much, I just like the idea of love.” you huffed out a chuckle.

Minju stared at you for a moment longer than necessary.

For some reason, that answer annoyed her far more than if you had simply admitted there was someone else.

“Of course you do,” she muttered before taking a long sip of her drink.

You blinked at her reaction. “Why do you sound offended?”

“I’m not offended.”

“You sound offended.”

“This is how I normally sound.”

Another laugh escaped you before you shook your head. “What’s wrong with liking the idea of love?”

“Everything.” Minju let out a dry laugh of her own and leaned back against the bench.

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No, it’s simply realistic.”

You turned slightly toward her, curiosity replacing amusement. “Go on, explain it then.”

Minju stared at the pond for a while, watching the duck drift in lazy circles like it had nowhere important to be.

“People over-romanticize it too much,” she said after a moment. “They make it sound life-changing and beautiful and worth every terrible decision they make.”

“And maybe it is.”

“And most of the time people become stupid.” she continued.

You nodded along as if you agreed.

“It’s already tiring enough to talk to people, I wouldn’t imagine myself having to talk to one all my life.” she said in genuine disdain despite some parts of her contradicting her words.

“But you gotta admit, love might not be half bad. Or some parts of it, at least.” you nudged her shoulder a fist softly.

Minju looked at you, grazing over the smile she had slowly come to memorize.

“Maybe.” she answered, biting down on her straw as she took another sip.

You let out a breath then as if you caught her red-handed.

“That means you have someone in mind too.”

Minju nearly inhaled her drink. She coughed once, glaring at you like you had personally orchestrated her own actions.

“What?” she said a little too quickly.

You pointed at her with your sandwich like a detective who thought they surely had the truth with little evidence.

“You didn’t say no or brush it off so that means you actually thought about it and said maybe. Not no, not never in a million years, or even shut up. You said maybe.” 

Minju watched you fully turn towards her fast enough to send the dog ears to one side of your head.

She scoffed, “Fine, maybe I did. You’re the one who started all of this lovey-dovey talk so of course I thought about it!”

“Really now? Tell me, who’s the lucky guy?”

Minju’s eye twitched.

The absolute audacity you had.

You sat there looking far too entertained with yourself, sandwich still in hand.

She wanted to throw your drink into the pond and maybe she wanted to throw you into the pond after it.

Instead, she chose not to, which may or may not be regretted later on.

“Why would I tell you?”

“Because I’m interested now.” 

“You should put your interest in other things.” 

“Like what?”

“Just shut up already.” Minju let out a sharp breath through her nose and looked away from you. 

The pond suddenly became the most fascinating thing she had ever seen in her life.

The duck floated nearby, circling lazily like it knew what kind of show it watched beyond the railing.

You leaned closer, resting your elbow against the back of the bench as if you had all day to wait her out.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

“You already admitted someone exists, you can’t deny it now.”

“I admitted no such thing.” Minju’s grip tightened around her drink.

“You quite literally just did.”

“I said maybe.”

“Which just means there could be no one but that also means there’s someone.”

Minju slowly turned toward you with a blank, emotionless look in her eyes before standing up from the bench.

“I’m going home.”

“Hey—hey—wait!” you nearly dropped the rest of your sandwich as you scrambled up after her. “Minju, come on, I’m kidding.”

“No, you’re being nosy.”

“I can be both.”

She began walking down the path with quick steps, bunny ears bouncing with each irritated stride.

You stared for half a second before hurrying after her.

“Is it at least someone I know?” you asked with a heavy breath, after you caught up with her.

“Hmph!” Minju let out a sound that could only be described as pure, concentrated frustration before continuing forward. 

You matched her pace easily despite the dramatic huff she threw your way.

“That’s not a no,” you said far too brightly.

Minju stopped so abruptly that a couple walking behind her had to awkwardly sidestep around the two of you.

“You are unbelievably irritating.”

“And yet you keep hanging out with me.”

“I should’ve declined the first time you asked me to go with you.”

“Ouch.” you placed a hand over your heart again like she had delivered a fatal blow.

She resumed walking and you continued on following.

The afternoon crowd had thickened since earlier. Children ran past with balloons nearly larger than their heads, vendors shouted over one another, and somewhere nearby someone was aggressively losing at a carnival game.

Minju kept her eyes forward while you kept yours on her.

You tried to ask her about this mystery person, even in the tiniest details and each time you asked, you were only met with nothing but the sounds of the park.

“Fine, if you’re not going to answer, you could at least take this.” you said as you looked down in the paper bag in your hands.

Minju finally looked back at you, arms still crossed against her chest and watched as you pulled something out.

She slowed to a stop, simply staring at the bouquet now in your hands.

Three small crocheted daisies sat wrapped in pale paper, their stitched petals slightly uneven in a way that made them feel more real and genuine than perfect flowers ever could. A yellow ribbon was tied around the stems to top it off.

“What is that?” Her brows furrowed together.

“Oh. Right.” You looked down at it like you had somehow forgotten you were holding it.

You scratched the back of your neck. 

“I saw it while I was buying food.”

“And?” Minju narrowed her eyes.

“And I thought that they really worked hard on it so I got one,” you awkwardly lifted the bouquet toward her. “And maybe because I thought you would like them.”

Her brain forgot to process her thoughts right then and there.

“You bought me flowers?”

“They’re not flowers.”

Minju stared at you in disbelief.

“Okay, they are technically flowers. But not actually the real thing.” you looked at the bouquet.

“That does not make it better.”

“I thought it did.”

“It absolutely does not, (YN).”

You lowered the bouquet slightly, suddenly looking less confident than you had been all day.

The change in your expression made something in her chest pinch unpleasantly.

You laughed once, “I just remembered you said real flowers die.” your gaze dropped to the bouquet. “So I thought these would last longer.”

Who knew that a simple sentence could make her want to hide her face for all of eternity to cover the blush spreading across her face.

The worst part is that Minju remembered saying that.

It was weeks ago as they passed by a flower shop.

She had made an offhand comment about how spending money on something destined to wilt felt stupid.

You had remembered because of course you had remembered and somehow that felt far more genuine than grand confessions or dramatic speeches under fireworks.

It was just as is.

A stupid handmade bouquet.

A stupid boy in dog ears.

A stupidly thoughtful gesture she had absolutely had no snarky answer against.

“You…” she started before immediately losing her words.

“I mean, if you hate them, I can keep them.” you shifted awkwardly.

“Don’t you dare.” Minju’s head snapped up.

“So you do want them.” Your eyebrows lifted.

“That’s not what I—”

You smiled at her before releasing out all of the awkwardness you felt in a hearty laugh.

Minju groaned and covered her face with one hand before swinging the other, taking the bouquet out of your hands.

She didn’t say much afterwards, she just spun on her heel and continued on as if nothing happened in the middle of a park’s trail.

You were left stunned like an idiot for a quick moment before realizing and catching up to her again.

Walking out of the park’s gate you kept your silence while she did the same but when you stole glances at her, you could’ve sworn the tips of her ears were red as she tried picking at one of the crocheted petals.

You eventually walked with her to where the day ended whenever you had dragged her along, the bus stop.

The sky had begun changing its bright blues for warmer shades of orange and pink, clouds were still hanging around, ready to blend into the night sky.

Minju had sat down with the bouquet of crocheted daisies clutched in one hand while you leaned against one of the walls, waiting for the bus with her.

She kept glaring at you with the side of her eyes then back to the bouquet as if staring hard enough would make the entire situation feel any less embarrassing.

“So,” you started carefully.

“Shut it.” Minju immediately raised a finger at you without looking.

You blinked. “I didn’t even say anything yet.”

“I know your tone.”

“My tone?”

“It’s the same tone you use before you twist my words and start teasing me.”

A laugh escaped you before you looked down at the bouquet in her hand.

“For the record…” you rubbed the back of your neck. “You don’t have to keep those if you really don’t want them.”

“Who said I didn’t want them?” Minju’s head snapped toward you so fast it nearly gave her whiplash.

You looked at her as her eyes widened a fraction as realization punched her directly in the soul.

“No—I meant—”

A grin spread across your face with the speed of a man who had just found free entertainment.

“You like them.”

“I hate your face.”

“That’s still not denying it.”

Minju looked ready to launch both herself and the bouquet into incoming traffic.

Instead, she hugged the flowers closer to her chest.

Your smile softened before you could stop it.

Before another tease slipped through your lips, you looked away and shrugged, looking at the traffic that came and went. You somehow started subconsciously counting the taxis that passed by when you turned to her voice again.

“You really want to know about him?”

Your eyes followed her figure as she stood up from the plastic seat just as the bus pulled up to the stop.

The bus gave a soft hiss as its doors folded open, pushing out cool air into the warm evening.

Minju stepped forward first, bouquet of crocheted daisies held carefully against her chest like she was suddenly worried the wind might take them away. She paused at the first step, half-turned back toward you.

“All you have to know,” she said, lifting the flowers just slightly, “is that he’s way out of my league.”

She didn’t say it to bite back or to tease you, she sounded real and careful of her words as if they were meant to be taken more into thought.

Then she walked in.

The doors slid shut with a quiet thud. The bus soon moved forward, tires rolling into motion as the evening lights smeared across its windows.

Inside, Minju didn’t look back again.

Outside, you stood there for a moment too long, sandwich and half-finished drink forgotten in your paper bag, watching the bus disappear into traffic until it was swallowed by the rest of the city while you were still standing there, staring at the street, as if it might explain what she had just told you.

───✱.｡:｡✱.:｡✧.｡✰.:｡✧.｡:｡.｡✱───

I'm not a dere, a tsun tsundere

“Let’s just finish this final paragraph, okay?”

“Fine. I’ll read it.”

“Then we’ll have this shit over with.”

“No cursing in my classroom!”

Snickers from the girls to your right, quick, mindless reading to your left, someone drops a pen. Didn't this happen yesterday?

“Very well done. Class is over, have a nice weekend.”

“But Ma’am, it’s only Thursday.”

“Oh. My bad. Then we’ll see each other tomorrow.”

Two dozens of bags get lifted from the ground, books and paper crammed into tight spaces, someone drops their smartphone. Yes, definitely deja vu.

“Shit!”

“Well done, Yena. I bet it’s cracked now.”

The slow turn of a delicate hand. Hundreds of scratches make the glass look like a spider’s uncarefully spread web. Someone cracks a laugh. Am I dreaming?

“I told you. Now, now, don’t cry. I’ll get you some ice cream, hm~?

Yena’s sobs and Chaewon’s coos can still be heard down the hallway. You shake your head in disbelief. Of course, this exact scenario didn't happen yesterday. It is as close to impossible as winning the yearly lottery daily, but your feeling of deja vu remains. The days blend into one another, nothing significantly changes.

The setting? The same. No one is going to paint over the old, dirty walls of this school to give them a new color, new life. They remain as a seemingly immovable constant, just like the yellow lights at the ceiling or the barely cleaned windows separating the outside from the classroom and the classroom from the floor. Maybe the weather changes, but at this point you’re even uncertain of that. Gray clouds lay on the world, an impenetrable layer that reeks of rain.

The time? The same. Your school's schedule is its most stable factor. The principal enforcing it is as certain as taxes and death. If too many teachers are missing to fill in the gaps, he himself will step in to ensure the absolute maximum of education, even if it’s 5pm. Part of this tyrannical precision is the teacher’s right to extend a lesson past the bell’s ring. It is utterly ineffective, as no one actually listens anymore, but it will never change.

The characters? The same. Not a day goes by where mostly bubbly Yena isn’t whining about something, be it the grandest of issues or a lost hair. Her best friend Chaewon is always on her side. With her calm, kind words and envious patience she is the perfect Yin to Yena’s Yang. Then there is Eunbi, the class representative, with amazing grades, amazing visuals and eyes colder than the arctis. Sakura is everyone’s crush, a girl who adores video games, looks absolutely beautiful and is a social magnet. Sadly for all the boys, she only has eyes for girls.

You could go on and on about all the other colorful characters in your class, friends, enemies, classmates, but it all leads to the same hole. The hole of repetitiveness. Not only the lives around you seem to be in an endless loop— you play along perfectly. Your thought processes all wander off into similar directions, your banter with Jimin and Chan is always about the same topics, hell, even your yawns during Mrs. Bae’s classes are perfectly timed. Day in day out, you always stay to your routine.

Isn’t it time to break out? To stand up and instead of going home, go to a friend's house? Walk through the park for another hour? Run downtown to eat some fresh churros? Your desire to break out grows, but it cannot overcome your rationale telling you:

Why am I concerned about this? Everyday life looks similar at times. So what.

A shuffle. The sound of a chair scratching over the floor brings the battle ensuing in your mind to a screeching halt and you jump. Someone is still in the classroom with you. This is unusual. Usually, you are the last one to leave. You don’t need to take a train or bus to get home, it’s just a fifteen minute walk, so unlike your classmates, you don’t need to hurry to the awfully timed public transportation. Today, however, someone decided to break with the loop.

You turn your head to search for the culprit. In the last row, someone sleeps, their head on their crossed arms, chair pushed lightly back to make the position more comfortable. In your many years of school, you have seen a couple of students sleep like this, even during class. Mingi was one of them, but he transferred last year. Yoongi as well, but he got his act together and is almost on par with Eunbi in terms of grades. 

You are sure it’s her when you see chestnut-colored hair dripping down on all sides of her head. Kim Minju, the quietest person in the class. It’s been years since you heard her speak a word louder than a whisper. She is always reserved, unapproachable and frankly, you sometimes forget she is still in the same class as you. She is a fitting last remaining option for someone sleeping at their desk.

“Hey,” you speak into the room, waiting for Minju to react. She does, by lifting her head up from the scratched surface of her table. Her eyes, slightly hidden by hair all over her face, dart around the room until they find you.

“Hey,” she says in a sleepy voice. You can’t help but smile. Minju looks somewhat adorable and helpless like this. Although most of her expression is behind curtains of brown locks, she looks like a lost child searching for her parents in a crowded theme park. 

“Are you okay? Don’t you want to go home?” 

“Later.”

“Later? But class is already over.”

“You’re still here too.”

You chuckle a little. Her voice sounds like she is still in dreamland and her head is unable to be upright. She lays on her arms once more. She is odd and you can’t help but be intrigued by it. Carefully, you stand up and take the seat next to her. Minju looks at you with surprise in her damp eyes. You wish you could read them better as she hasn’t shown signs of being talkative. 

“This must not be comfortable. I’d choose a bed over this any day.”

“It’s fine.”

You sigh as Minju turns her face away from you. This has been fun while it lasted, but she is frustrating to talk to. If she’d resent you, she would have already told you to piss off, but with this not being the case you feel like you’re just annoying her. 

“Your choice. I’ll go now though.”

“Okay.”

“See you tomorrow!”

No further words from her. Minju is clearly not mentally in this place. Is this the fate of those who only dream and don’t listen in class, you ask yourself while stepping out of the room. If so, she needs to be pulled out of it quickly. Somehow.

#

Today is not going to be the same. This sentiment has been stuck in your mind ever since you woke up. However, you haven’t really acted like it. Your alarm went off the same minute it always does, you listen to the same three songs while chewing on your favorite cereal and watching the same show. Teeth brushing and time to sprint to school have remained at their bare minimum, hell, the list could go on and on. Your sentiment has just been a faint thought. Until you step into the classroom.

“And then, and then he didn’t respond.”

“Aw, I think it will be fine. You wrote him so late, he probably just fell asleep.”

“Everyone, please stay calm! The teacher is coming.”

Yena is whining about something, some boy from the grade above or below. Again. Chaewon is comforting her with the patience of all the angels in all the heavens. Again. Eunbi is urging everyone to sit down with pronounced gestures and a loud voice. Again. It’s like you’ve heard these exact sentences before. This is beyond absurd and you have to do something. You will do something. 

Before Mrs. Kang starts the lesson, you take a longer route to your desk. With full intention, you pass by Minju’s desk and knock on it twice. Like yesterday, her messy head lifts from her arms and you try to find her eyes through the veil of her greasy hair. 

Doing something absurd like this has left you without a plan, without any words to speak, so you just put on a dumb smile. Minju doesn’t return it. She simply flops back onto her arms. It’s like reality is forcing everyone into their positions and if you don’t fight back, it might just get you as well. You sit down on your chair and look at the unamused girl as the first couple of lines are drawn onto the board. 

The lesson comes and goes like a soft wind. As soon as Mrs. Kang wraps it up, you have already forgotten everything she said. Your mind is solely stuck on how to get this terrible loop of everyday life out of your system. For some reason, you feel that the answer is with Minju, this one girl you never had anything to do with. She looks like the epitome, the greatest victim of the problem. It's time you do something for real, with a proper plan.

“Hey,” you approach her again, as the rest of your classmates fall into their usual, loud chaos.

“Hey,” Minju responds. It scares you how she has the same tone as yesterday. Maybe she hasn’t had enough sleep and rushes to school just for attendance. Her hair has also not been washed, it’s even dirtier and messier now. She kind of reminds you of a lone wolf, abandoned by everyone. 

“Uhm, I don’t know how to say this and maybe I’ll sound stupid, but—”

You grab yourself a chair and sit down in front of Minju’s table. Finally, she is bestowing you with a look over her folded arms.

“—I noticed, like, how do I put it, everything is so repetitive and bland, it’s really bugging me.”

“You think so?” she whispers dryly. 

“Of course! Everyone is saying the same stuff, does the same stuff, like—just look at Yena! She is always whining. And Jimin is always teasing Jun. And you’re always sleeping. I’m sorry, it’s just bothering me.”

You end your small tantrum with a sigh and hope that none of the mentioned took notice of it. It felt good letting off this steam, you were really pent up until now. However, you doubt that it was the right way to start a conversation with someone who is basically a stranger. 

To your surprise, Minju starts to sit upright and plug some of her long strands behind her cute ear. Her eyes scrutinize you while her face remains blank, unamused. Then she bluntly speaks, almost at a normal volume:

“Uh-huh, and why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want to do something I have surely never done. Something that will end this vicious circle at least for a day, maybe two.”

“You can do that on your own. Why do you need me for that?”

“W-well, I think maybe it could be something interesting for you too.”

Minju still doesn’t look convinced. Who could blame her? The way you come out of nowhere and act like a slightly crazy person wouldn't convince most people to take action. In panic you stare at the ground to your left, to your right, trying to find some words to explain yourself, before—

“Hmph, you are weird. Would it be enough if we met on the weekend?”

You look at Minju in surprise. Did she just suggest that? The whisper, the calm, dry voice with not too much enthusiasm couldn’t be anyone else.

“I think we never saw each other on a non-school day, so why don’t we just meet at the gate?”

“I knew you would understand me!” you shout triumphantly and almost jump from your chair, “We can meet at the gate and see where the day leads us. You okay with that, Minju-ah?”

Minju nods slowly and a faint smile appears on her adorable cheeks. You find it amazing how she still looks so pretty, even with her lack of make-up and wild hair. She could look superbly stunning with just a bit more care put towards her face, hair and body. But you won’t judge her on that. Maybe she just had a bad day. Maybe she never cared about stuff like this in general.

“Great, then we’ll see each other the day after tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

#

Tap. Tap. Tap. The tip of your blue and gray shoes hit the paved ground in front of the closed gate. After all these years, it’s the first time you notice how smooth the black rocks beneath you are. All the footwear scratching over them for all those years polished them to the point where faint sunlight gets reflected. 

It’s been quite a while since you woke up this excited. Your alarm went off at nine and with an unbridled excitement and unwarranted, but great expectation, you filled your backpack. Water, snacks, spare clothes, small games, more snacks—it’s like you prepared for a children's birthday party, sleepover included. 

And like a child you stormed out of the house, early enough to not annoy your parents and take a very different route. You wandered through small alleyes, the smell of rain still oozing from the gray asphalt and beige walls. Although you enjoyed it, you wished for the sun to come out—rain, rain, go away—you are literally a child and for today, that is okay.

Your wish came true. The light gray of the clouds was no match for the sun and small patches of sky blue pop up with every minute you wait. Now, it’s only Minju who is missing. The catalyst for why you finally got over the hump and out of the lulling everyday life. She’ll be here any minute. She’s never been late for school, something she obviously isn’t very fond of, so she won’t be late for this either. 

But why her? Why did it take her for you to do something like this? There is a weekend for your taking every five school days. You could’ve just ran out or called a friend and do anything but mold in your room for endless hours. It might be the thrill of something absurd, new, unnecessary but necessary. Your questions come to a halt when you hear footsteps.

You look up to see all the perfect variations of brown. Minju wears a wool dress with a stylish checkered pattern in various dirty colors, orange, green but mainly brown. Underneath the dress, a tight, cozy looking turtle neck wraps around her torso and arms in the color of chocolate chip cookies. Across her chest is the leather sling of her almost black handbag. Above all however, is the brown of her hair. Not greasy and unwashed as the days before, but smooth and combed, tugged behind her ear it hides her shoulders. Brunette excellence that delights your heart.

She stops before you. With an awkward sway, she avoids looking at you. The way her lips press together looks adorable, you can’t help but smile and disrupt the silence.

“Hello, Minju! So awesome that you could make it.”

“He-hey,” she waves at you instead of keeping eye contact for long. This seems to not be her cup of tea, but you won’t let your mood get dampened. She will hopefully get into it.

“I had a lot of ideas of what we could do,” you begin and straighten your back. Even like this, you aren’t that much taller than the girl wearing her, of course, brown shoes, “But first, I wanted to know what you think. What are you feeling today?”

“What I feel?”

Her eyes force your attention on them. Now that you can look into them mostly undisrupted with better lighting than in the classroom, you see a certain dullness, listlessness, even lifelessness in them. It takes you out of your childish dreams, the naivete that builds up. You take a step closer towards her. She tenses up.

“I-I just mean, what you felt like doing today. If you’re not feeling well or anything, that’s fine. A-are you—”

“No, no, it’s okay.”

She laughs it off with a wave of her soft hands and takes a step back. You can feel that something is off. Maybe you got her on a bad day. Or maybe even in a bad time, judging from how she looked throughout the week. It’s not the perfect day to make her jump over some mental barriers. Or maybe, this is the perfect day after all. The day to wake up, to get life back into your veins, to feel it again. 

You smile at her and scratch the back of your head.

“Okay then. Do you have anything in mind? Your dress looks unfit for a round of rugby, so I guess…”

“Wait, what?” Minju furrows her eyebrows, but then falls into laughter when she sees your playful smirk, “Oh, for a second I thought!”

You see her laughing face for just a split second before she hides it behind her hand. It’s cute, heartwarming even and you instinctively join her. In this moment, where all tension is lost in a simple joke, you forget that this is the first time you heard Minju laugh. In your presence, she’s never been this loud and bright before. 

It’s like the clouds open just a tad bit more—the same way your relationship might open up a bit more on this simple day.

“I can’t believe you thought that, Minju-ah. How should I fit a rugby ball and a dozen other players in this backpack?” you playfully mock her and she gets shy, while still giggling.

“I dunno, I’m sorry. That was just dumb.”

“Nuh-uh, you’re fun. I might not have a ball inside here, but I have this.”

You open up one of the many zippers and pull out two candy bars. The see-through plastic holds sweet caramel and toffee wrapped in chocolate. Sweetness wrapped in brown goodness—just like Minju, but you won’t make that joke. This is not a date with flirts but a rebellion against dullness. You hand one of the bars to Minju. Her eyes light up.

“What? I love those! How did you know?”

“I guess I’m good at guessing, I guess.”

“Ts, you sound like a child,” Minju mockingly replies, but opens the plastic wrap with child-like anticipation and urgency. You chuckle and observe how this sleepy head became lifely with just some candy. 

“I’m okay with being a child. We can go to the playground if you want.”

You take the first steps downtown and Minju follows you, her full mouth protesting your decision. 

“No, stop. I, yum, made up my mind.”

“You always speak with your mouth full?”

“N-no. Shush, let’s go grab something. I want, hm, a smoothie. Or ice cream.”

You smile that she finally found something, but you can’t stop teasing the cutie that finally caught up to you.

“And then we go to the playground?”

A hit on your shoulder.

“Yah! I’ll make up my mind, pabo.”

#

“Oh man, that was something,” you sigh, taking off the 3D-glasses. From smoothies and ice cream, you somehow got out of her that she wanted to go watch a 3D-movie at the other part of town. It still took more convincing from you until she told you which movie it was. Although it’s certainly not your type of film, you still went with her. 

“It was so good! When I thought I got all the clues, they still tricked me.” 

Minju has her fingers cutely formed into a fist as you too walk out of the theater and onto the street. Although it’s not yet completely dark, you feel the evening coming and this fun day ending. As Minju still goes on about how intriguing the case was and how she thought the gardener was the murderer, you tap her shoulder.

“I still don’t get why this is a 3D-movie. Like, why? Why have these effects for a detective movie?”

“You’re a pabo. It’s to pick up on the clues better! Ts, I told you that.”

“Well, maybe I’m just too dumb for these movies,” you rub the back of your neck and watch the annoyed, but finally fully alive Minju become flustered. She pouts and pulls at your arm.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that. I hope you still liked it, I’m sorry.”

“Minju-ah, I’m playing around! Looks like you’re the pabo.”

It baffles you. How can this girl look even cuter, with this shocked, angry, playfully fun expression on her fairy-like features? You feel your heart filled with warmth. Your mind is freed at the sight of Minju and at the thought of how the two of you got out of this loop. Nothing is the same as before. 

“It’s getting late,” you say and take a quick look at your phone to confirm the time, “Should I accompany you home? It might be dark before you get there.”

They fall. Minju’s bright eyes sink. The glow in them gets tainted by the dullness from before; but also pain. Pain that’s also in her weak smile that she can’t keep upright for long. Minju frowns and looks to the side, away from you. Suddenly, it’s all reset. Back to the beginning. You can’t let that happen.

“It’s of course fine if you want to go alone. O-or I could call your mum and…”

Minju fidgets, her delicate hand tightly wrapped around the leather of her handbag’s sling. She stares onto the tip of her feet. She looks cold, lost, like a forgotten child in the midst of an endless crowd of people. Things turn dark, not only because the clouds once again hide the sun, but also because Minju’s voice isn’t filled with excitement, but downright mourning.

“Mum, no. No, it’s okay. Thank you, but I’ll go home on my own.”

“Are you sure? Is there, is there some way I can help?”

“I think—”

Minju hesitates. Her fingers fiddle with her dress, then with each other, before she stuffs them into her pocket. She gives you an apologetic look, one that tries to convince you that there is nothing to hide and that things are just the way they are. Your heart tells you to not play along. There is something that’s really hurting her. So bad that it turns her back to the Minju, sleeping through life and all it has to offer. You have to lift the veil, you—

“—I should go on my own. It’s not that far, nothing will happen, hm.”

“Okay, uhm, was nice though.”

Your tongue betrays you. This is not what you want. It might be a smooth way to get out of the awkwardness, but it doesn’t get you closer to the problem. Something hurts her and you want to know it. 

“Yeah, it was. Guess I’ll see you in school.”

The last chance, but you won’t take it. No reason to stir up conflict. The day was good, it got you two closer and things inevitably changed. Why risk it?

“Yeah. Have a great Sunday, Minju.”

“You too. Bye.”

She gets a hand out and gives a small wave. A small wave, a small smile, but it’s all rushed and it's painful to look at. The beauty wrapped in all the chocolate colors turns around and quickly steps out of your reach. The reach of your hands, of your eyes, of your voice. 

“Bye.”

#

Sunday went by quickly as it always does and Monday greets you with the usual. Not the kind of usual you can always return to. The restaurant with your favorite vibe, the table in the hidden corner, the always comforting food. This 'usual' is what you're looking for, not the same old gray in the sky, same old cracks in the walls, same old chatter in the classroom. It's jarring. 

It makes you appreciate your new friend more. Minju is not quite usual today. She doesn’t look gloomy, her silky, clean hair is crested with a cute, pink barrette and she greets you with a smile and a wave. The usually dark bags below her eyes are partially hidden by a simple, yet effective touch of make-up. Minju’s beauty shines through her imperfections and you find yourself slightly blushing at the sight.

“Hey,” you say with a small smile and carefully place your elbows on her desk.

“Hey,” Minju responds, backing off a tiny bit. She reaches for her notebook. It’s blue, mostly tattered and the pages are empty. ‘Oh no,’ she mouths, eyes still drawn to her bag below.

“Are you alright? Need something?”

“I… I think I forgot my pencil case,” she whispers shyly and tries to hide her face. 

“Oh, I can give you one of mine.”

Hand her the pen and she bows thankfully. You both smile at each other a final time, before the teacher enters the room. You get ready to shuffle your chair back to your desk, but Minju’s soft voice makes you freeze in place. It’s like she opens the gate to new possibilities with just a couple of words.

“I hope, uhm, that you had a nice Sunday.”

“Th-thanks, Minju, I hope you did… too.”

#

Tuesday rolls around, and you couldn’t care less about the mundane things. You are excited to go to school, to meet Minju. You are excited about the brewing suspicions of your friends, which takes them out of their usual character a bit and makes the bickering interesting. With all this excitement, you swing open the door to the classroom. Everything, everyone is in order. Their eyes are on you as the door crashes against the wall with a loud boom. Your eyes are on Minju’s seat. It’s empty.

“Ey! Watch out!” Chaewon yells at you, as she tightly holds Yena’s hands. The duck-like girl quivers in fear. You must have scared her quite a lot. Tears pool in her eyes and you give her an apologetic bow.

“I’m sorry you two, I should have been more careful. Do you by any chance know where Minju is?”

Both girls shake their heads and Chaewon continues to glare at you, like she wants to stab you with a poison-filled syringe. Not that you would care. Minju not being here is a far greater concern to your mood. You fear that the day might immediately fall into the same rhythm, so you hold onto the hope that she is just late and will walk through the door at any moment. Maybe she will have the same enthusiasm as you did.

But it doesn’t happen. Not on Tuesday, not on Wednesday. The clouds do not part for two days. To say that it dampens your mood would be an understatement. Worry and annoyance have a hold on your thoughts, what teachers, parents, friends say is a nuisance and mostly forgotten. In some moments, it feels like a foul stench lingers around the campus. It gets even worse when, out of spite, you walk the same route you and Minju took a couple of days ago. 

You get angry at every stop, but this anger is short-lived and when you stand in front of the cinema, it turns to sadness. The kind of sadness that twists your stomach and leaves you speechless at its intensity. If only you knew where Minju lives or what her phone number was. Those irrational worries that brew in your mind could just be gone. They range from her just being ill with a cold to something terrible has happened with her mother. You clearly remember how quickly all her joy and hype faded when you just mentioned the word ‘mum’. 

Shake your head and head home. Tomorrow, Minju might just be back and if not, you’ll do everything in your power to confirm that she is alright. On Friday, you will ask her to meet again, and visit the park. You want to ask her a lot of questions and then, everything will solve itself. 

#

You breathe a sigh of relief when Minju is in her seat early Thursday morning. Most of your classmates are probably still riding the bus or just waking up, depending on how they usually go about their day, so it’s just you two and Eunbi in the far corner. She studies geometry with her black headphones on. It basically feels like you're alone with Minju. 

You cheerfully walk up to her, hand raised for a greeting. When you take a closer look at the girl however, you see her hair in a worse mess than ever before. It’s like someone took a pair of scissors and cut strands off at random spots. The hazelnut chaos spreads over her cheeks and what might look like bad bangs partially covers her eyes. Dark, tiny, motionless, except there is something flickering in them with unbridled ferocity. Minju’s pale skin is exceptionally pale against the large, black bags below her eyes. Her lips are dry and purple.

“Minju, are you alright?” you carefully ask and lower your hand. Your delighted mood is gone, dead, like the look on Minju’s face and her sorry posture. She looks frozen to the chair, only her knees shake as if she were in the arctic desert. 

“I’m cold,” she answers, her voice tiny, dry. She coffs and you almost leap to help her. But you are not there yet. There is still no proper friendship where you can just cross the boundary and touch her. 

“Can I help you with that? I can turn up the heater… or give you my jacket.”

You take off your jacket and Minju remains motionless. Her hands are in her lap, one resting on the other, the nails painted awfully messy. Her gaze mostly stays on them. 

“No need, I’m just cold.”

Minju looks like she is falling, continuously, into an endless void. It’s darker than her eyes as they close and she starts to cry. However, there is no sob to hear or tears to catch. Minju just cries, in her own way and you feel powerless to step in. You can’t catch her, something is physically pulling you back. Your heart may mourn at the sight, but what is there to do, to say, to make things better?

“C-can I ask what happened? You looked so lively a couple of days ago, and now—”

Your heart spoke those words. They are like a scream to evoke some reaction out of her, but Minju doesn’t stop the sorrow overtaking her more and more. You groan in sad frustration. This sight hurts you, you can’t deal with it. You gently place your jacket on her desk and see her looking at it for a second. 

“I’m sorry, I have no right to just—” You pause and ponder on a better choice of words, “I’ll be at my seat. If you need anything, I’m right there.”

Soon, all your other classmates stream into the room and take their usual positions. None of them seem to acknowledge Minju. For them, she is a figure in the background, one that might have changed a bit and even missed a couple of days, but they remain the same. Illness with two days absence plus a new ‘haircut’? Surely you wouldn’t notice it on a random classmate. 

At the start of the first lesson, your very picky and meticulous math teacher immediately notices your jacket on Minju’s table. You know his eyes are locked in on it and he will call Minju out any second now. But then he hesitates, takes a closer look at the disheveled girl, and looks through the class register. His face contorts like he is in pain. This is very unlike him, and it would’ve intrigued you more if it weren’t for the gloomy feeling in your heart.

“Okay everyone, let’s start… start with, uhm. Chaewon, please tell the class what we did last lesson.”

The teacher continues to be out of sync with how he would normally act. At the end of the lesson, he calls Minju upfront. Now you’re the one frozen on the seat and watch helplessly as he calmly and concerningly speaks to her. You can’t hear him this far back, and the question is, if Minju is able to pick up any of it. She looks down at the tip of her shoes and does not react at all. 

This goes on for the entire day. You can’t bear it anymore. With a final look over your shoulder, you dart out of the classroom quickly. The image in your brain is still the same: a helpless, frozen Minju, a withering girl with an unhearable cry. You notice the only difference a little bit too late, as it is barely noticeable.

Minju’s tender cheeks have the wet trails of tears.

#

Once again, Minju is not at school. This occurrence is so unusual, everyone is acting out of character. Different rumors shoot through the classroom, and they all negate each other. No one has a clue of what is happening, but they all do have an opinion. Chaeyoung in the last row says that she is probably just late, while Chan strongly believes that she is still sick and that the math teacher told her to stay home for longer. Julia has the harshest opinion though.

“I bet she is fully embracing her lazy life. She will either fail or drop out soon. That’s how it goes.”

You cover your ears. Everyone spouts nonsense, although they didn’t even talk to her yesterday. How can they be so sure? What do they know about her? Nothing. It frustrates you. The only people not involved in this except for you are Jimin, who stands by your side against these unnecessary allegations, and Chaewon and Yena. The two girls are entangled in a tight embrace and their heads are probably in a very different place right now.

Suddenly, the door bursts open. Your home room teacher and the principal walk in, both wearing a very serious expression on their faces. The rowdy class shuts up instantaneously. As if connected by one strand of nerves, everyone’s backs straighten. A gut wrenching tension fills the room, as the home room teacher sighs deeply and leans onto the front desk.

“I—this, this is hard. Excuse me, I need a second,” he says and stumbles a step forward. He is clearly not drunk, but his mind is dizzy with some heavy burden. The principal walks next to him and guides him towards a chair. Then he takes his glasses off, all fingers in a light tremble. You notice cold sweat all over his features. It’s contagious and creeps up your back.

“Class, I need you to stay strong, okay?” he begins and rubs the inside of his eyes, “I hate that I have to say this, but I hate even more that it happened. This morning, your classmate Kim Minju was—”

The principal pauses. It’s not long enough to make a large difference in his sentence, but it’s so big, you can hear the rapid pace of your heartbeat. It’s in your chest, your ear, your thumb. The burning red liquid rushes through your body. It meets the cold feeling of the goosebump and cold sweat on your skin, and this fusion almost makes you throw up. Your body gets torn to shreds, your mind is clouded. All in one pause that doesn’t really exist.

“—found dead in her home. She, she took her own life.”

In one moment, reality couldn’t be more surreal yet realistic. The stark contrast between a fragile dream and concrete reality resonates with everyone. It cannot be true, but it is. This is where they start with denial and move all the steps up to acceptance. But how can you accept the unacceptable? The voices of your classmates are background noise, but they are also all that is left. Air, matter, gravity, light, life, they all do not exist. Only the sound of gasps, cries and everything in between.

Then there is you, in pale freefall, just like the snowflakes outside. No one said it was going to snow today, yet it does. No one said Minju would kill herself today, yet she did. No one said deal with it, yet you do. You deal with it. Life goes on.

You throw your head forward and vomit over your desk. A lie knocks on your brain, on your stomach, and you vomit again. Sadly, you don’t have a reflex that will expel the disgusting shield of cold indifference out of your head. You know you will stop caring but you want to suffer. You want to hold on to Minju, the beautiful, quiet girl in class that was never supposed to walk down this dark aisle. 

She never wanted to die. No one does. 

But why?

Why?

Isn’t life beautiful?

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

“You’re such an asshole at times, I swear to God.”

Yena giggles as her head rests on your shoulder. Her bare hand rubs over your sweaty, equally bare pecs. These muscles were forged in the nearby gym and Yena has them all to herself. It’s basically an equivalent exchange, because Yena is no slouch when it comes to taking care of her own body. Abs and a thin waist, they look the best when she’s fully nude. And nude she surely is. You’re each other's trophies.

“Am I?” you ask and blow out the smoke of your cigarette. You told her a story about something, something you don’t care to remember. What or whoever it might have been about probably lost and you won. Such is life. You carefully put an arm around Yena and look at the orange-gray glow of your cigarette. Your girlfriend pouts.

“Babe, be real with me for a second.”

“I’m real every second, Yena, I don’t ever lie.”

“Babe, I’m serious here!”

Yena turns to you. Her stern eyes pin you to the backboard of the bed. This is no time to joke. You hastily put the glowing stick in the ashtray and the two used condoms out of harm's way. Yena then puts her arm on your nape and you have a hard time not staring at her heaving bosom but instead at the duck-like lips that pout cutely.

“Do you really love me?” she asks quietly.

“Oh, I see how it is,” you respond with a relieved sigh. Poke both her cheeks as you usually do in these types of situations. Yena’s tension comes out through her nose like the air of a balloon. 

“You are the hottest, prettiest, most desirable and most likable girl in the class—no, in the entire school.”

“Babe,” Yena blushes,”those were too many. You’re supposed to only list three things.”

“Huh? But what if I wanted to list more? Cuz it’s true.”

“Forget it,” she waves off, still blushing. ”Am I though? What about Yuri or Eunbi?”

“Okay, if you want me to list all of them,” you say, slightly annoyed, but you clear your throat regardless. ”Yuri is too crazy and not even close to your body, Eunbi is probably already married, also aloof, Sakura is gay, Hyewon is gay—”

“Wait, Hyewon likes girls?” 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Seriously, the way she stares at Yuri all the time. Anyways, she is gay. Hitomi is not my type cause she’s too small, Chaewon is your best friend and not as pretty as you—”

“But she is so pretty!”

“Jeez, Yena, we’ll never finish it like this. Who did I forget?”

Both you and Yena ponder for a second, but if you’re quite honest, you do not want this argument to continue. You surely forgot a couple of girls in your class, but none of them can match Yena. She should know that, even if you don’t throw the L-word around a lot. When you do it, it’s only towards her.

“There is Minju,” Yena says in a moment of enlightenment.

“Who?” you respond. Don’t bother with the jarring task to remember who this might be.

“The quiet girl that sits in the middle of the classroom. With long, brown hair, it’s literally super long, I bet she never cuts and rarely washes it.”

“Oh I see. Yeah, no. Who the fuck cares about Minju?”

You turn to the side to cough. Yena’s face still doesn’t look amused so you do the one thing that will surely shut her up. Cup her cheeks in your strong hand and kiss her on the ducky lips. Add a simple “I love you”, and she relaxes. Her slender, naked body topples atop of yours. Finally, it’s time to go to sleep.

#

You wake up to the sound of a bell ringing. History class is over, and as per usual, you took a nice long nap at the end of it. Or throughout it. History has always been boring to you. Old guys did some things sometime in the past, wow, so impressive. It would only be a slight nuisance, but Yoongi and Eunbi always have to act smart about it. As if it actually mattered. 

Can they touch the past, like you can touch Yena’s midriff right now? Surely not. The young woman squeals at your touch and you quickly pull her onto your lap. Thank God she cares as little about any dress codes as you. Even on these mild spring days she already wears clothes exposing, no, downright flexing her abs to your classmates. They see and they drool, but the only one allowed to touch them is you.

“You look sleepy, babe,” Yena says as she cups your face to inspect it. 

“History, Yena, history,” you respond and force your tiny eyes wide open. Five more minutes until the next teacher arrives. Might as well enjoy the time by showing off your best trophy. Yena is better than the push-up and benchpress records, not only because she is great in bed, but also because she actually makes other people jealous. 

Lift her onto your lap and give her a loud, proud and obvious hickey on her exposed neck. Yena holds onto your shoulders and holds her breath as if she would burst into moans and groans at any moment. After your deed is done, you triumphantly turn your head around. Scan the class, because someone is always looking. They can’t help themselves. Poor bastards.

“Look at her,” Yena whispers. She must be doing the same thing.

“Who?” you respond, unable to find the girl Yena alluded to.

“Minju, the one with the long, messy hair, right in the middle.”

There she is, barely three meters away from you, yet in a different realm of existence. Brown eyes lock onto yours, though you can’t make out what emotion they convey. Envy? Disgust? Pity? Well, the last two can easily be attributed to her. Minju’s entire look is appalling. Greasy hair that sticks together in clumps, dirty clothes that probably smell rancid, and an expression that lacks any kind of care or passion. Truly pitiful.

“What are you looking at, huh?” you bark at Minju. The entire class goes silent. They don’t have to hide their gazes anymore. They are only bystanders, witnesses to a tension that you know all too well. This is power, this is the way to victory. You will get your way.

Minju simply shakes her head. She rests her head on her crossed arms and goes back to her routine of dozing, as if nothing has happened. Her attitude of indifference is something you did not expect. You cannot allow such disrespectfulness. 

“Get off,” you whisper to Yena, the anger in your voice not directed at her, but she still follows your command immediately. Slow strides bring you next to Minju’s desk, who senses your presence. She turns her sleepy head towards you and looks up, the same look in her dark orbs, darker than even the greasiest parts of her hair. You clear your throat in annoyance.

“I asked you a question, didn’t I?

“Care to answer it?”

Minju does not budge. She remains frozen below you, but it’s not in the way you want her to be frozen. She should be in fear, trembling, yet not moving at all, but your words, your rough tone does not seem to affect her.

“Lemme ask you again: Why were you lookin’ at us?

“I don’t care which way you swing, okay? Just letting you know there is nothing to get from us. Yena is mine, okay?

“Okay?”

You’re basically shouting at this point. Minju finally moves to put her hands up as a shield. You did not intend to punch her, not even a fist of yours is ready to strike. It’s a relief that your words can still evoke something from her. In a tiny voice that mirrors mice more than humans, Minju answers.

“O-okay. I didn’t me-mean to. Sorry.”

“You didn’t mean to what?” you growl back, voice dripping dissatisfaction from her vague response.

“Ma-make you envious.”

Pin the palm of her hand to the table below. Minju clearly lacks a quick reaction time. She only starts to gasp when the nail of your thumb drills into her sweaty hand, the pale skin growing paler, then white, and finally red. Minju hisses, but only you can hear the words.

“Stop, please.”

“Get lost.”

You leave her be, but not before giving her an angry stare. Behind the helter-skelter of her curtain-like hair, her eyes receive your wrath like a well-deserved punch. Minju drops back into the back of her chair and holds her palm with her other palm. She is reeling like a beaten down boxer. 

“I’d congratulate you,” Yena snarks when you return to her. “But she is just a girl, so no respect.”

“I can never let my guard down. Not in front of anyone. Not when it’s about you,” you hum as the usual noise of chatter and laughs returns to the class. A surge of fire fills your chest, your lungs, like you’re a dragon breathing flames of destruction. The feeling of power, of being the strongest, the one who is not reckless enough to let his guard down around the seemingly weak.

If Minju really likes Yena—

“I cannot allow her to take your heart.”

“Shut it babe, you know I only like guys,” Yena giggles and playfully pushes your shoulder. “What am I saying? I only like you.”

Then you kiss her. A bit too passionate for a setting like this, but not passionate enough to still your hunger for more. More of Yena, but also more of this control. No one else can have her, not even a piece of her. 

#

Damp concrete, a preferable alternative to the deep mud and grass of the nearby forest. You jog with intensity and focus, conquering the streets of your neighborhood. Usually you'd be the king of the trees, sucking in the fresh forest air around you while on the way to the gym, but today you need to take a detour. 

It's a welcome change if you're honest, especially because the lousy weather keeps prying eyes away. No one to interfere with you and your in-ears, the loud music blasting through the cords as you turn corner after corner until your heels come to a screeching halt on the fine gravel in Rainbow Street. 

A girl sits on the sidewalk of this street with its very unfitting name. Worn down buildings in a tiny, ugly array of gray and brown shades sit right next to each other. They are a stain in this otherwise genuinely pretty part of town, Rainbow Street my ass, such a tiny street with all the human filth in one spot—and for some reason, this girl decided to sit here, her butt probably sore from the gravel poking it.

"Looks uncomfortable," you say down to the stranger and pull out one of your in-ears. She doesn’t move her head out from in between her knees. Hell, in this posture she is certainly developing back problems. With wind blowing into the sleeves of her loose t-shirt, she’ll catch a cold first though. 

“It’s fine,” she whispers in a low voice, still firmly staring at the ground as if your comment came with the wind and just passed by. Give her a weak, confused smile in pity. Usually, you’d not bat an eye at something like this. This girl probably has a house, where she doesn’t have to freeze and she probably also has water and soap to clean her dirty hair, so why bother with pity?

“Is it though?” you say with raised eyebrows. “You sit on the ground like a pile of misery and wait for the next wave of clouds for what? To let the rain wash your hair?”

You start to laugh at your own joke, which got the girl to finally move a muscle. Slowly she turns towards you and lifts her head even slower, like it hasn’t been lifted in a hundred centuries. Your laughter fades as you stare into grim, miserable eyes which stare back in hurt, agony even. 

“Oh, it’s you,” you say and move to put your in-ears back in. “No business with you.”

“You’re so mean,” Minju states, her real emotions held behind the blunt statement. “Why?”

“Get lost, Minju. That’s why.”

You jog off, further down the street to quickly reach the gym. Never in your life have you felt the rising feeling of compassion switch to coldheartedness so quickly. For a second you felt like a hero that could save this cute puppy, but in the next, you realized that it actually was the disgusting, wretched Minju who had to flaunt the fact that she clearly lost control over her life.

She doesn’t even bother to take a shower or pretend to have any character. No wonder she’ll continue to be nothing but a loser in school.

#

During your workout, you thought more about the wrong classmate than about the right one. Minju, being the wrong one, has no reason occupying the free spaces in your head. You’d much rather think about Yena, the right classmate, the one with incredible charm and wit. Yena is respected, Yena is envied, Yena is your girlfriend and absolutely amazing. Minju is none of that.

Enraged about Minju’s sulking expression popping up in front of your inner eye again, you throw down the dumbbells. Someone’s shouting in anger, others stare. Enough workout for today, you need a distraction. A distraction served by the right classmate.

“Yena,” you blurt into your phone’s speaker the second your girlfriend picks up. “I’ll be at your place in 30 minutes, you down?”

“Oh my~” she responds and you can already feel her turn in her bed in excitement. “I don’t know, don’t really like sweaty boys coming into my room~”

“Since when did I come into your room sweaty?” 

“I’ll make sure you’re gonna be sweaty, babe~” Yena whispers, voice sultry, dripping of lust like the sweat from your forehead and drool from your lips. 

#

“Babe, promise me something.”

Yena fondles your hair and looks at you with anticipation. It’s something serious again.

“Anything for you, Yena.”

Wrap your arm around her hip and look at her, relaxed, sweaty, just like she predicted.

“Don’t, like, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t terrible, but please, babe, don’t go too hard on her. She’s a girl, you know?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Minju and what happened in class.”

You sigh and look away in annoyance. Pull out a cigarette from the back on the nightstand. Your hand recklessly pushes off packets of pills and condoms. Why am I shaking?

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say and search for a lighter. “She was annoying, right? And disrespectful. And I know that there are girls that like girls and that there are girls that might go crazy, especially over you. I know you’re smart Yena, so you get me, right? It’s not like I beat her up or something.”

You stop yourself from falling deeper into an incoherent mess of bad explanations, but Yena is already side-eyeing you. At least she has a flame for the stick between your lips.

“Yeah, you did not beat her, but you went too far. Raising your hand and pressing down hers? Babe, that was not necessary.”

“I did it for you, baby.”

These words roll from your tongue so easily. Whatever counterpoints Yena brings up, you can easily melt her with them, reducing any valid criticism to nothing but dust.

“But, but she’s a girl—”

“And you’re the only girl for me,” you hum and blow out the smoke before turning towards her. Yena clings onto you like a koala, pouty lips, trembling eyes, and best of all: still fully naked. Press a kiss onto her lips and she gasps.

“Babe, I—”

“I love you, Yena.”

“Me, me too.”

“Let’s forget other, stupid girls and classes. You’re the hottest thing since the sun and I want you now, baby.”

Take another drag and Yena basically jumps onto you. At this point, the two of you won’t have enough sleep for the classes tomorrow. Doesn’t really get better than an extended weekend, you’ll take it with glee. Throw away the cigarette, Yena throws away the blanket. I love truancy on a Friday.

#

“You should really take your girl now!”

Chaewon’s shout is tiny compared to the ear-drum shattering bass of the large speakers right above your head. You look at her, confused, and point at your ears. Chaewon rolls her eyes and points at Yena, who is stumbling through the crowd, a large stain on her pink tube top and a half-empty bottle of vodka in her hand. 

“Better. Get. Her. Out!”

Her message is clear, and it should shame you that she is more worried about your girlfriend than you are, but you’re too used to it. Yena is magnetic to parties and the parties are magnetic to her. They need each other, and usually, you enjoy yourself alongside her, but for some reason, she went over the top today. Shot after shot after shot, down her throat until her dance moves became laughable. 

“Fuck, fine!”

Growl in annoyance to make Chaewon back off to her clique and drinks while you grab the wrist of your completely dazed girlfriend and drag her through the crowd. Your eyes are always at her back, her hips, her bottom. If any filthy bastard tries to touch her, you will tear off his hand and shove it down his trachea to make him regret not respecting you enough.

Outside the old barn at some outskirt of the city, Yena suddenly starts to run, bottle still in her hand, her feet faster than usual. She is an excellent sprinter, but for some reason, the alcohol pushes her to a sudden sprint. You can barely keep pace but soon catch up to her when Yena leans to a wall and—

“Yena, what are you doi—hey, are you ok—”

—violently vomits out the hard liquor and her last meal, some noodles and meatballs. You bunch up her hair and turn your head away in disgust. Yena pushes out more, the unbearable sound not seeming to end in forever, until finally, she gasps for air.

“Sorry, sorry, babe, are you—”

“Jeez, Yena,” you groan and scrunch your nose, unable to look at the pile of half-digested food without feeling your stomach tighten painfully. “Just sit down over there, and try not to—you know?”

Unsure if she understood any of your words, you guide her to a nearby bench in front of the highest point of the wall. Except for the occasional breeze rustling the trees and Yena’s heavy breaths, it’s eerily quiet. You scan the area attentively, no possible attacker will go unnoticed, not even the figure on the far end of the wall. Why would someone sit there and stare skywards? There are barely any stars tonight.

The person has spotted you and jumps off the wall. You’d prepare to fight for your honor and Yena’s safety, but then realize that the person is pretty small and frail. You pull out your phone and point the flashlight at the approaching figure. Dressed in a thin black jacket, it’s none other than Minju. Again.

“Did not expect you here,” you snark at her and point your flashlight closer to her face. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“Hey! Is-isn’t that Min-Min-ju?” Yena bursts out in laughter and rises from her bench. “Best friends, best friendos!”

She steps towards her classmate in deep drunken delirium and tries to hug her. Instead she loses her footing way earlier and is about to crash face first onto the ground. You’re unable to react on time, but Minju is. She catches Yena’s fall, knees painfully digging into the gravel as both her arms catch your girlfriends’ fall. Slowly, the two of them descend onto the ground.

You stand there frozen, as Minju reaches into the pocket of her dirty jeans and pulls out a surprisingly fresh tissue. She carefully wipes Yena's dirty mouth, not shying away from the abhorrent smell and delusional smile. Minju holds her still like a baby, and Yena giggles stupidly. 

“Get off of her!” you shout at the top of your lungs and push Minju off at her shoulders. She jumps and lets go of Yena, who almost meets the ground below if it weren’t for your arms on her back. In your rage you pick your girlfriend up so she stands and sways again. Her good mood fades as she struggles to stand upright, even with your arm around her.

“What is your game, huh? Stop trying to get her, she’s mine,” you snarl down at Minju, who sits on the ground, her legs shivering in this mild spring night. She should have worn more than a skirt if this is still too cold for her, but for some reason, she still has this unusual determination in her eyes. 

“Can I have this?” Minju asks, oblivious to your rant, pointing at the vodka bottle still firmly in Yena’s grip. Your girlfriend doesn’t react to the question and instead rests her head on your chest. She sniffles and weeps, tears soaking into the fabric of your polo shirt. Enraged, you kick a bunch of gravel onto Minju—she should get fucking buried beneath it.

“Fuck off, really. Are you really that desperate? Pathetic.”

“I-I’m not, I just want to drink.

“Would you let her drink it? Yena is already looking bad.”

Furiously reach for the bottle. This fucking bitch. Throw it as hard as you can against the wall. It bursts into a million shards, the vodka running down the gray surface. Someone opens a window.

“Hey! You fucking rouges! Stop this shit or I’ll call the police!”

You’d love to curse back at them, but Yena pulls at the hem of your shirt. You look at her teary eyes and sigh. This has been a big enough mess, no need to push the limits. Stare down at Minju, who still looks at the spot the bottle hit, her eyes big yet blurry. She looks absolutely miserable.

“Back off,” you say to her. “Don’t come close to her again or you’ll regret it.”

#

Monday comes and goes, the same goes for Tuesday. You might sit in class, attend each of the lessons, but you’re not listening to a word the teachers say. Nothing special, if you’re being honest. You’d usually guide your hand on Yena’s thigh and watch her smirk knowingly as she tries to pay attention. This would go on until she pinches you. She tries to keep up with school a lot more than you do, it shows in her grades.

Today however, she is not in the mood at all. She swats you away from the start, her gaze focused, yet angry, as she tries to copy the teachers’ scrabble from the blackboard. You roll your eyes, this is not uncommon either, especially during that time of the month. 

You roll tiny pellets of paper, your ammo for today. Simple, childish entertainment, sure, but you can’t wait to see the reaction of today’s target. Minju had it coming for a while now. Usually you’d send the paper flying over her head at one of the stupid classmates behind her; now she is in full focus.

At least she would be if it weren’t for her absence. You only notice it when you turn around to ready your first throw. She is not there. You drop the pellets to the ground, the only form of disarmament that actually feels like it. How can she not be there? The teacher didn’t even notice, no one noticed—and no one cares, except you.

But why do you care? Students are absent all the time and a loser like Minju has all the reasons not to go. For some reason, it still grinds your gears, brings them to a screeching halt and makes you form a fist. Feel your own fingernails dig into the palm of your hands; this is getting a bit out of control.

Suddenly, Yena’s hand is on your thigh, a surprising twist to your usual shenanigans, however, she is a lot less gentle. You spin around, meet her gaze for a second before the angry hum of your teacher finally gets your attention. She must have been standing there for quite a while, trying so hard to do her job by teaching you something, something, something.

“Oh, so you are still among us,” she notes, looking up and down at you above the rim of her large, blue glasses. “I bet you now know all the details of the French Revolution.”

“Of course,” you respond, voice and posture as nonchalant as ever.

“Do you mind explaining the root causes that led to the Battle of Verdun?”

“Actually, I do mind.” Let your smirk fade for something more sympathetic. “Excuse me, Miss Kang, I just have a terrible headache right now. I think I should leave for today.”

#

“You should pay more attention in class. You can’t always skip the lessons you don’t like.”

You put your phone on speaker and throw it on the desk. On the other side is Yena, thoroughly annoyed from the moment you started this call. If you’re honest, her annoyance is getting on your nerves as well.

“But I don’t care,” you groan into your room, loud enough for your girlfriend to hear. “It’s really hard to pay attention when it’s just boring shit, day in, day out.”

“I know it’s boring to you, but you know how grades work and that they don’t give a fuck about you not giving a fuck. At least try?” Yena tries to bargain, but you shatter her away.

“Why the fuck are we still talking about school? I should be by your side right now. Should I come over?”

You smirk in lust, one hand opening a drawer with countless condoms in it. Let a pack of it glide through your fingers before you hear a loud sigh coming from Yena.

“Not today, no. I-it’s better we not.”

“Huh? Why is that?”

“Look, it’s…”

A long pause. You almost slam the drawer shut, instead catching yourself at the last moment and only closing it carefully in deep regret. There is a deeply rooted hate in you for evasive behavior like this; it’s terrible in movies or TV shows, but when it is happening in real life, it makes you snap quickly.

“Yena—”

“I-it’s because… you wouldn’t… look, we can’t do it, okay?”

“Oh. It is that time of the month, huh?

“Ew.”

Another pause, this time a lot more tense.

“What did you just say?” Yena growls furiously. “Oh my God, you’re such an asshole!”

“Yena, I—” Your words face an impenetrable wall, not even reaching your girlfriend’s ear.

“No! Shut up! You insensitive idiot, I don’t want to deal with you too right now. Fuck. Off!”

Yena hangs up. You smash the pack of condoms to the ground, a nerve struck by her entitlement. Oh well, that’s how they are during this time. She’ll calm down by Thursday, maybe Friday. You get to sleep, not willing to even see the school building tomorrow.

#

The tide doesn’t turn on Thursday, but for some goddamn reason, you still went up to that school. For the first time since you two became a couple, she completely ignored you. You’ve been waiting at the gate for an extra twenty minutes, which meant less sleep for you, which means more annoyance, which leads to—

“Watch your fucking step, bro!” you growl at a random student, who was unlucky enough to be in your walking lane. This has quickly turned to a day where everyone is better off either treating you like the irritable King Saul or disappearing all together. A day like a threat; it all hangs by a thread that could tear at any moment. 

Your patience is thin and so is Minju’s arm when she tries to pick something up. Too bad for her, she is right there when you try to pass her. With the grace of an elephant you pass by her, painfully squeeze her arm against the table and hear a whimper of pain. 

“Watch it, Minju,” you bark at her and aggressively take your seat, eyes locked on her. Everything about her looks has gotten worse, her posture looks like it’s about to break, she could fold in half at any minute. Any hobo would have more dignity. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”

“I—it hurts.”

You can hear from the tone of her voice, stiff and pained, that her arm really hurts. Minju wraps her fingers around it gently and looks at you, but all you see are her shimmering eyes with nothing left inside, dull and dead—and so absolutely infuriating. 

“Like I said: not in the mood.”

Minju hisses. Blood spills from her elbow. The class has taken notice of the situation and looks on in awe as you stand up and in front of Minju. Someone is brave enough to sneak out, probably to get a teacher to check on Minju and the open wound, from which beads of blood slowly drip to the floor.

“What have you done?” Yena suddenly whispers from behind you, makes herself beside Minju and looks at that twig-like arm. You can’t channel your focus on her for long, Minju’s sniffles drive you to the edge of insanity. 

“She was in the way, okay?” you respond, not bothering to give Yena another second of your time. For this lone, fleeting moment of your life, you can get it all out on this loser—that no one would miss, that no one sees—in all honesty, you might do her a favor with this. Now, she has everyone’s attention. They can also see how dreadful she looks and smells and dresses.

Minju is undeserving of life in your eyes—and your eyes are on her cheek.

“Maybe you should apologize?!”

A smack heard around the world. You could’ve done it so many ways: grab your wrist and use both fists to hit her or maybe angle your elbow to hit her eye socket. Instead, you went straight for her cheek with your left, swung like a boxer and Minju flew off the chair. No way she could’ve dodged this.

Knocked down after one punch, but there is absolutely nothing satisfying about it. It’s all just a mess. The puddle of Minju on the floor, swollen face, bloody mouth, lifeless limbs. The crowd of classmates that surround her, take photos, groan in shock, turn around to not vomit. The hands of Yena all over your face, push you back towards your seat, into the arms of a teacher, then an officer. 

Her face tells you everything. You’ll never see her again, not as your girlfriend, not as your trophy. Those times have ended with this punch heard around the world. In the end, it wasn’t worth it. The ambulance arrives and you hear the principal yelling, not the words, just that he is yelling. To your surprise, Minju never looked better than now—with that maniacal smile on her face as they carry her towards the ambulance.

#

To your surprise, you’re not in a jail cell on Friday, but in the principal's office again. The sound of that smack you gave Minju, it finally left your ears. You’re not deaf anymore and ready to take a chance at redemption. Of course your fist could not have slipped, not with all the witnesses and the power behind it, but maybe a couple hours of anger management will save you from a trial or whatever punishment may await you.

The principal looks angry, you expected as much, but the anger is mixed with shock, speechlessness and disbelief. He must have seen a ghost last night, or God himself. You’ve never seen this serious man look so at a loss for words. 

The door opens, a young woman and a police officer walk in. She is crying, he is stern. They both wait for the principal to say something, but he just points at you, unable to come up with words that could describe you. At this point, you’ve had it with their hesitation, their overreaction. 

“What am I doing here?” you ask, calmly, quietly, as not to show your slight annoyance. 

“T-tell him, Miss Kwon, please.” The principal’s voice is about to crack, so he turns around, hands in his hair, while Miss Kwon sits down next to you. You slowly remember why she is here. She is the confidant teacher, the kind soul, the one who cares for everyone. Even the likes of Minju.

“Min-Minju came to the hospital yesterday,” she begins, her sniffles stopped temporarily when the officer hands her a handkerchief. “She, she looked good. Yes, she did, sur-sur-surprisingly.”

For the first time, you look at Miss Kwon, but she averts you. Her posture is frozen. She continues to talk as if you aren’t there.

“I remember, she smiled, said something about you. We shouldn’t be angry, you showed it to her. I asked her, but she just smiled. The doctors said she was free to leave tonight, to-to-tonight—”

Miss Kwon bursts out in tears again, her ruined face hidden behind two fragile hands that try to keep up her composure. Behind her is still the officer, the only one to look at you in the entire room, and his dark orbs are full of disgust, like he hates your guts to the core. 

“We found her.” Miss Kwon tries everything in her power to get out another sentence, you feel your breath halt for a bit. “She was, she was hanging from the ce-ceiling—”

Miss Kwon wails, but all you hear is a clock ticking in the background. 

“What?”

“She killed herself!” the principal screams and slams his fists into the desk.

“She is dead, she is dead!

He slams down again and again, the floor starts to shake.

“Do you understand me!? Do you regret it!?

He hits it and you realize—

“Do you regret it!?

—he’d love to hit you like this, over and over and over again. 

“Do you regret it!?”

Do you regret the single tear rolling down your cold face?

I can‘t take this anymore!

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

An interest in photography. A camera in your hand since you’ve been four years old. A nice motive. Click.

Other hobbies don’t come to mind. Friends are none of your concern. Just a camera and the desire to one day make money with it. The grades have to match that desire though. Click. Back to study.

You have pictures of all of your classmates. Most of them taken in secret. All of them show how they grew the last couple of years. Yena and Chawon have matured, fit and attractive. The main bully has gotten bigger, meaner. He’d kill you if he ever found your pictures of Yena. They might not be inappropriate or unflattering, but he is scarily obsessive.

One motive catches your eye. While most of your classmates have bloomed to varying degrees, one gorgeous girl has withered. Your pictures of Minju portray her as increasingly less well-dressed, less combed, less happy. You can barely catch a glimpse of her full, uncovered face. It bothers you how she hides it.

No, it’s intriguing. You can’t keep your eyes off of her. Starting someday in the middle of the school year, you can’t stop looking over to her, sitting in the midst of the classroom while being outside everything and everyone.

Snapshots here and there with your phone and a small digital camera during class. They form a collection of this disheveled girl. You’d much rather have something truly worth framing, taking with your best camera model. This will have to do for the time being, you tell yourself.

Suddenly, one day, you swear that she seems to light up more and more. It is not noticeable for anyone else, no classmates, no teachers — only you know that Kim Minju shines like a star today. Dozens of pictures fill the folder of your phone. Your heart starts to race a little bit. Maybe you could approach her, get more of this glow, hell, even a full portrait—

Don’t be ridiculous! A picture like this is impossible to ask for. You never asked anyone for such a favor, let alone someone whose connection to you only exists in your mind, in your fantasy.

Minju is not in class. A day ago she was glowing; now she is hiding. Call her a solar eclipse and you a solar flare the way you burst. The thrill is burning in your veins, blood rushing to your head as you head out, towards Rainbow Street, your most expensive camera hanging around your neck. You stop next to one of the many older, Japanese style houses. There is a police car. You quickly hide behind a tree across the small street, much more akin to a trafficless avenue.

Two officers walk out, with them a few more people, dressed in black with sorrowful and disturbed faces. Minju is not amongst them, even though this is certainly her address. They murmur and whisper and cry about something, someone — they will miss him, why did he do it, oh this poor girl. The officers drive off, the crowd disassembles.

Right before you decide to leave, the sliding door to the small building opens. A fence and a wall obstruct your view, so you decide to climb up a few branches, just a few feet off the ground to maybe catch a glimpse off—

Minju lays in the doorframe, the sliding door not fully opened. Her head rests against the side, tears endlessly streaming down her face. Small sobs, contortions of her beautiful features, her hair everywhere yet at the same time, you’ve never seen so much of her face.

Her features are flawless. This moment feels like a personal show for you. Instinctively, you reach for the camera and take a photo. Then climb higher, take another photo, then again. Minju does not notice you, but her crying intensifies once more. Her hands try to grab something. She wants to hold on so bad. Click. She gasps, cries out. Click. Words stuck in her throat, lips dry and torn. Click.

A hundred more clicks as you try not to overdose on this perfect moment. You have never felt such a rush. Minju is all yours, these pictures are your proof. Nobody gets to see her like this. Your heart races at the thought that this might be the only moment, your only chance to see this spectacle. A spectacle for you and to you only.

With a hint of disgust about yourself you walk home an hour later. Jerk off to her once because what is one more sin for today? The next day, she isn’t at school, but you don’t visit her either. The day after that she is back, but you can barely stand looking at her. In the one picture you take Minju looks her absolute worst, worse than her endless sobbing and crying and screeching and hair pulling. 

You decide to go back to Rainbow Street the very next day, early in the morning. One hour from the start of school and you stand before the house again. You carefully glance at the sliding door. There is a gap, it’s open.

Your heart skips a beat. The thrill of just having a peak is enough to push you forward. Nobody is out here this early, nothing will disrupt your trespassing. Increasingly rapid breaths leave your nostrils as you put an eye to the gap. It‘s completely dark inside, just a faint white reflection hovering in the hallway catches your attention.

Your heart now races. Fingers push open fully the door that was ajar. The dim morning twilight floods the dark house and the faint white turns to a clearer picture. A simple gown, worn out, hangs from the ceiling.

A scream gets stuck in your throat as your knees give out and you collapse on the floor. Minju‘s eyes are wide open, dead and with yet to dry tears in them. Bruises on her neck, bruises on her hands, lips in a hideous purple. The noose barely holds her at the jaw, blood drips from the corners of her mouth.

You have never seen nor imagined something as utterly horrifying. It‘s like every negative emotion is flooding you for your sins. Sins you have committed, sins you still commit. You find Minju more beautiful than ever.

Beneath her dangling feet you find a letter in crude hand-writing.

To my dearest daughter

I know you won‘t understand this but this is necessary. Ever since your mother passed, I haven‘t had a clear thought. My head is a mess, my mind isn‘t mine. But I have to take responsibility. I have to stop this voice, this feeling for you. You look so much like her, it‘s too painful for me, I can‘t look at you. Please forgive me, I‘m going to her now. For your sake too.

Please forgive me, Minju. I love you.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

„Where is your dad?“

„Out. Somewhere. Drinking, probably.“

„It‘s been a year, huh?“

„What are you doing here, anyways?“

„Keeping you company. Wanna play Mario Kart?“

„So you just wanna game? Play something else then, at home.“

„Hey, Minju, wait! We can do something else if you want. I just need some — excuse to stay with you, something to pass today.“

„But I don‘t want to see anyone today.“

„Not even me?“

„Definitely not you.“

„Okay, that‘s fine. But promise me that you‘ll call me if you need anything — and text me before bed.“

„What are you? My lover?“

„Just a worried friend.“

„I‘m doing fine.“

„You don‘t look like you‘re fine. If you want to be alone, I‘ll go now. But I‘m only a call away.“

„Thanks. Bye.“

#

„Minju! Minju! Open the door, please, open it now!

„Minju! Why weren‘t you in school yesterday? Are you okay? Open the door!

„I swear I‘ll kick it down right now!“

„He is dead! He is dead, fucking dead and it‘s my fault!“

„I‘m coming in!“

„No! Go away! Don‘t look at me, I‘m a demon, a devil! I killed him!“

„Calm down, please. Put, put that away.“

„No!“

„Put the rope away, Minju. Please.“

„…“

„Okay, now breathe. Slow, calm, ste—“

„I don‘t want to breathe — I want to suffocate like he did.“

„Minju, please.“

„I killed my father. I‘m a murderer, I should die.“

„Minju, please. You need to breathe. No more sobbing, no more screams. Listen to my heartbeat.“

„I-I can‘t, I don‘t deserve to!“

„Then I will hold you closer, until you‘ve given up this awful plan, until your tears are dried, until you can tell me why—“

„…“

„Minju,

„I don‘t want to lose you.

„You‘re my best friend.“

„Please, let me, let me go. I‘m a demon, a monster.“

„Even if you were, I‘d stick with you. I‘m not going to let you die tonight.“

„…“

„What is in your hands?“

„My reason.“

„Your final letter?“

„My dads final letter.“

„Whatever is written in this — it does not mean that it‘s your fault and that you need to die too. Minju, isn‘t life beautiful?“

„It‘s fucking not. I can‘t do this anymore.“

„You‘re right to feel this way. But it‘s the only life you got and even if this is just me being selfish, I want you to continue trying, continue living.“

However, after almost three years of staying in the same company where you felt overworked, underpaid, and undervalued, you decided to resign and maybe take a couple of months off before looking for another job.

It was definitely the right thing to do

You felt better after spending some time by yourself and catching up with some of your friends and realizing that you’re one lucky bastard. Why?

Because you graduated from the same university and became close friends with THE Olivia Marsh. A beautiful South Korean-Australian girl with a bright and lovely personality.

She had signed with a label and debuted as an artist but you still got to hangout with her every now and then.

The two of you met at a cafe recently. She told you about her job and you told her about yours.

“You know, I heard you’re a great photographer as well. Is it true?” Olivia said while munching on a pastry she ordered.

“And where did you hear that?” You said, leaning back comfortably in your seat.

“Oh, around campus. They didn’t really say your name, they just called you Du*ling*.” She said, a teasing look on her face.

You laughed at the nickname.

“So I’m an owl now? Not sure about ‘great’ but I do know how to work angles and lighting and stuff like that.” You replied, not really one to boast.

“Great! I’ll give your number to my manager and he’ll contact you regarding the price and schedule.” Excitement evident in her voice.

“Wait, what? What’s happening?” You were confused.

“Well, you’re looking for a job and we’ve been looking for a photographer so I was thinking we could help each other out?” Your best friend said while pulling her phone out from her bag.

“Yes, of course! I’d be happy to help.” You said without hesitation.

“Thank you so much! It’ll be worth it, I promise” A smile appears on her face.

“I should be the one thanking you,” you said, returning a smile.

Hours went by of catching-up, eating some pastries while spilling some tea, until both of you eventually parted ways and said goodnight.

You received a text from her manager the next day and spent hours preparing and organizing what you’ll need. Your outfit, different lenses, an extra of this and that; triple-checking everything before packing all your gear.

The rest of the week went by quickly.

Liv kept texting you that she’ll try to convince her team to increase your pay and you kept saying that she really did not have to but she insisted on it.

D-day eventually came, you punched in the address they sent and rode your motorcycle.

When you arrived, everything had already been set up but you couldn’t find your friend and she wasn’t replying to your texts either.

You asked around and were told that they were still getting her outfits ready so you looked for a bench nearby to set up your camera.

Her manager spotted you and gave you more information about today’s shoot while leading you to the first location. You followed and saw this wide area where a few lights and a huge fan were set-up.

“I’ll go see if she’s ready. You can wait here and let the others know if you want to adjust anything.” Her manager said before leaving you there.

While waiting, you decided to talk to some of the staff you’ll be working with and noticed an ‘X’ mark on the ground.

I guess that’s where she’ll be standing

You were scanning the area when Olivia finally came out. She was wearing an all-white dress that hugged her curves and showed just enough cleavage. It was the first time you saw her in a dress and your jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

She walked towards the mark and the shoot finally started. You held your camera steady, taking multiple photos in different angles as she tried different poses.

Her radiant beauty and stunning visuals just lured you in and you couldn’t help but notice the way her long brown hair complimented her overall look, how smooth her skin looks, her perfectly pink lips, how the sunlight seemed to dance on her skin, and how comfortable she was.

You remained professional and continued taking photos. They switched the fan on this time and she closed her eyes as the wind blew her hair. You moved to the right, trying a different angle, and she struck a different pose. One that you wouldn’t forget.

She placed her hands behind her back, her feet together, and bent forward almost halfway. You had a perfect view of her cleavage and the sunlight hit perfectly, showing you her silhouette underneath the thin fabric of her dress.

Thank God I have my own camera.

After a few more clicks, everyone moved back inside the studio and you followed.

“Just one more outfit and we’re almost done, keep up the good work!” You heard someone say.

Olivia went back to the dressing room and you looked through the photos you had taken.

No, keep it professional. You told yourself, trying not to zoom in on certain photos.

Distracted, you didn’t see her come out and just heard another staff member shout “Let’s switch the lights!”

You looked up, the houselights went off and the studio lights switched on. Standing in the center was your best friend, in another white dress that revealed more than the previous one did.

She wore a white tube top paired with a white skirt that stopped mid-thigh, and a white see-through cover up.

It’ll be worth it, I promise!

Her words repeated in your head. Is this what she meant?

You were already struggling to keep your thoughts at bay and this made it harder.

Positioning yourself, you let out a soft exhale and started taking photos. When you felt you had enough front-view shots, you switched angles and.. shit

Her skirt split at the sides, revealing an even shorter and almost skin-toned shorts, causing a bulge to grow in your pants. You cleared your throat and continued to take more photos.

After a couple more shots, the same staff member shouted “OK, Houselights please! That ends today’s photoshoot, great job everyone. Let’s start packing-up.”

Olivia smiled and thanked everyone before disappearing again to get changed. You grabbed your things while greeting and thanking the others before walking out towards your bike.

Ready to leave, you were about to text her that you’d head out first but her manager spotted you and called you back in.

“Glad to have caught you before you left. I just sent it to you, could you check if you received it?” He asked.

“And sorry about this but it’s my child’s birthday today, could I ask you to drive her back to her place? Security will stay behind so don’t worry, you can ask them for help.”

You pulled out your phone and saw the exact amount that was agreed upon sent to your bank account.

“Yes, I got it. Thank you! And sure, I can do that” You said with a smile.

“Thank you as well” Both of you shook hands. “Oh, I almost forgot. She said she had something for you. You can head down that hall, last room on the left.” Olivia’s manager said before waving goodbye.

You turned and headed towards that room, knocking before you entered.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m coming in.” You said.

“Oh, perfect!” She was still in that see-through dress, taking photos with her phone.

“Help me take photos so I can post them later.” Liv said, handing you her phone.

“Your manager said you had something for me?” You asked while taking a few photos of her then handing back her phone.

“Right, lemme go grab it.” She turned to the side to reach for a pouch and you noticed those white shorts she had on earlier were now gone.

“Here,” she stood a little too close and gave you the pouch, “Keep it a secret.” She smirked and turned around.

You opened the pouch and inside it was a black remote. You looked back at her and saw her standing in front of a full-body mirror, her back facing you.

“Is this..” you were about to ask what it was but she cut you off before you could.

“Lock the door for me?” Olivia said, removing the see-through cover up and letting it drop to the floor.

“I’ve really been wanting to try this so I looked for someone I can trust.” She confessed while sitting on a high chair she positioned in front of the mirror.

That skirt looked useless as it rode up higher, revealing more than it should, and she knew it.

“And I’m that someone?” You said as you locked the door before turning around and walking towards her until you were standing right behind her, remote in your hand.

“Everyone should be gone by now,” A seductive smile on her face, “go ahead and press it.”

“Not yet,” you replied.

You felt like something took over you as you found yourself grabbing a nearby tripod, attaching your phone and setting it up so that it’s out of sight but capturing her entire body through the mirror.

“Say the magic word,” you said after hitting the record button.

“Please.” She said, sitting like a good girl with her hands on her lap.

“Please what?” You teased as you stood behind her.

“Please, Daddy..use me” She begged, lifting her skirt and spreading her legs.

Fuck

No panties, vibrator already inside her pussy.

A switch flipped inside you and, suddenly, everything that made you hesitate was now gone.

“Olivia Marsh, were you always this naughty?” You asked, breathing into her ear.

She bit her lip and let out a soft moan.

Your best friend was about to speak but you immediately turned it on and increased the intensity.

“AH! Yess!” She gasped.

You slid your free hand from her shoulder down to her cleavage, cupping her tits under her tube top.

“A growing artist but you’re letting me control your little toy and film you like this?” You continued teasing while groping her tits and pinching her nipples.

“Mmh, I don’t care. I trust you.” She said in between moans, her hands reaching back to grab your shoulders to try and steady herself.

You brought the intensity to the highest level before putting the remote in your pocket and reaching down to rub her clit.

“Oh god! YES!” Her moans grew louder.

You leaned down and started kissing her neck and shoulders, leaving marks that would be difficult to hide, as you rubbed her clit faster.

“Oh, Fuck! That feels SO good!” Her head tilted back, expressions becoming more lewd, pussy getting wetter.

“Are you ready to cum, Livvy?” You asked, squeezing her soft breasts and applying more pressure as you rub her pussy lips.

“Yes, yes! Please let me cum.. Please!” She moaned, her grip tightening on your shirt.

“Then cum.” You commanded and quickly pulled the vibrator out of her pussy, keeping her seated and steady.

She let out a loud, pleasure-filled scream as she squirted. Her first toe-curling orgasm, that will soon become too many to count, drenched her skirt and spilled her love juice all over the mirror.

You let her catch her breath and turned off the vibrator, putting it aside. When you turned around, she was trying to stand and walk but ended up falling on her knees instead.

The way she looked made you harder, it started to hurt.

On her knees, covered in sweat with a smile on her face. The look in her eyes told you that she enjoyed it and that she wanted..

“More..” Olivia said breathily. “Use me.”

You stood still, the air in the room shifting as you stared at each other.

“Crawl.” A command from you made her let out a little whimper.

She knew she needed more but she couldn’t walk. You watched as she crawled towards you, her skirt wet, thighs glistening, hair sticking to her skin.

When she got close enough, you unbuttoned your jeans and she unzipped it. Unable to wait, she pulled it down immediately along with your boxers. Your cock sprung free and the innocent look in her eyes turned into a look of hunger.

“Daddy,” almost a whisper, “so big”

You could swear her eyes sparkled when she said those words.

“Open.” The only word she needed to hear.

Her mouth opened and, in a blink of an eye, she was already sucking, licking, and stroking what she couldn’t fit in her mouth.

Your hands flew to her head and you pulled her by the hair to bring her back closer to the mirror, your cock muffling her scream.

When you stopped, she hollowed her cheeks and bobbed her head faster.

“Mmh fuck, that’s it. Make it worth watching..over and over” You growled.

Tucking her hair back, you place your hands firmly on her head and thrust your hips to match her rhythm.

She gags and chokes but doesn't pull away. Her hands feel your thighs then one cups your balls while the other disappears in between her legs.

Wet squelching sounds start to echo around the room.

You looked down at her and seeing her stare straight at you while taking your cock in her mouth like that brought you closer to the edge.

Livvy pulled off with a wet pop to catch her breath but continued cupping your balls while fingering herself.

“Ngh..ahh, I’m about to cum” She moaned.

“Then let’s do it together.” You said, shoving your dick back in her mouth and down her throat.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as you quickened your pace and she finger-fucked herself faster. Her hand that was squeezing your balls started quickly tapping your thighs, signalling that she was close.

“Do it. Cum” You groaned.

Her body trembled and her head jerked back, mouth wide open as she came.

Perfect

You shot a heavy load of cum inside her mouth, some dripped down onto her perfectly round cleavage.

“Ahh,” a smile formed on her face as she felt your seed fall onto her tongue.

Olivia slowly pulled back, keeping her lips sealed to avoid spilling any more of your sticky white fluids.

You brought a finger to her chin, making her look up at you, and she knew exactly what to do.

She swallowed and, with a finger, she scooped up what dripped onto her tits and licked it clean.

“Good girl,” you complimented.

Her hair was a mess, cheeks rosy, and her skirt absorbed most of what would’ve otherwise been a puddle.

“You're gonna have to help me clean up”. She said with a little giggle.

“Right,” you smiled, “here.” You reached a hand out and helped her up, guiding her to the closest chair.

Physically, you appeared composed but in your head, it was a complete mess.

You just made HER orgasm twice, received a blowjob from a famous artist and came in her mouth.

You had a lot of questions you wanted answers to but for now, you needed to clean up.

“Got any towels or wet wipes maybe?” You asked her.

“It should be..in there.” She said, still a little out of breath.

You opened a cabinet and thankfully, it looked newly stocked. You grabbed 2 towels and a pack of wet wipes and walked towards your best friend.

“Thank you..Sorry to ask you this but my legs are still weak, can you wipe those?” She asked, pointing at the floor and the mirror.

“Do I get anything in return?” You joked.

“Round 2.” She said,

Your eyes widened. You weren't expecting her to say that. Heck, you weren't expecting a reply at all.

“I have that on video,” You replied.

She just smiled as she cleaned herself up and did her best to get changed.

You grabbed your phone to stop the recording and did the same.

When both of you had finished, you carried her on your back on the way to your motorcycle. Surprisingly, the security team didn't ask why you were carrying her and just quietly brought her things to their car.

You only had one helmet so you gave it to her and hopped on your bike. One SUV led the way and another followed right behind you as you drove to where Livvy was staying.

Questions floated in your head but you wanted it to be just the two of you so you waited. It was about a 30 minute long drive and both of you just stayed quiet.

No words were spoken but your brain was actively replaying and remembering everything that had happened earlier. How she looked in each dress, every pose she struck, her silhouette, that see-through cover up falling to the floor..her cleavage, those soft full tits, her warm mouth engulfing your cock.

You were getting hard again and even with your biker jacket on, you could feel her chest pressing onto your back during the entire ride.

Whenever there were people around, her arms would simply be wrapped around your waist but in empty streets, she would carefully and subtly stroke your cock through your pants.

The drive felt longer than expected and you’d try to stop her at red lights but she still kept going. After 2 minutes on a straight road with little people and a left at the stoplight, you finally arrived at the hotel.

Following the SUV, you head into the parking lot and she gives you one final teasing stroke as she hops off your bike, a knowing smirk on her face as she takes the helmet off.

The guards carry her things and lead you towards the elevator. You counted 2 luggages, 1 backpack, and 1 hand-carry.

“Thank you so much! We can take it from here.” Livvy said with a bright smile, slightly bowing as she thanked the security team.

“Are you sure?” One of them asked.

This was an opportunity for you and, with all the teasing she did, you couldn’t wait anymore.

“Don’t worry, I got it. Thank you so much!” You said, smiling kindly and reaching for the bags.

The elevator doors opened just in time and you went in, bringing all the bags with you.

“Which floor are you on?” You asked as the doors closed.

“Oh, hold on.” Your artist friend pulls out a card from her handbag and taps it on the scanner before pressing the button for the highest floor.

“All the way up, huh” You said.

“Yup, they booked the entire floor.” Olivia replied.

When you got off the elevator, you saw some of the staff members you had met during the photoshoot come out of the other rooms.

Damn, she wasn't kidding

“Oh, hey! Wanna come join us? We're all having dinner together and might grab a few drinks after” One of them spoke, extending an invite.

You just shrugged, showing that your hands were full, then looked at Liv.

“We're good, thank you! I have an early schedule tomorrow. You guys have fun!” She politely declined.

“Alright, get some rest!” The staff waved goodbye and got in the elevator.

“Busy sched?” You asked as she unlocked the door to her room.

“Um, I might've lied?” Scrunching her nose a little as she smiled, making you chuckle.

“Good one. Where should I put these?” Gently tapping on the luggages with your foot.

“Just leave them here,” she pointed at a corner in the room.

Only then did you get a good look at the room and her outfit. The latter almost makes your jaw drop again.

“Wow” You pretended to look around, hoping she didn't notice you scanning her body with your eyes.

“This room is amazing, isn't it?” She said, plopping down on the wide purple couch.

The couch was to your left when you entered, behind it were floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched towards the end of the room where a bed perfect for 2 laid centered, a work desk beside it with one office chair, and to your right was a sliding door that led to a huge bathroom complete with a bathtub and a frameless glass shower area.

It was indeed amazing but she was just too beautiful. Her long wavy hair that covered the marks you made on her neck was now tied up in a ponytail. She was wearing a white sleeveless cropped top, brown leather jacket with one side sliding off her shoulder, and a pair of denim jeans, her shoes discarded by the door.

“Beautiful.” You exhale, your eyes meeting hers.

“Come on, sit down. It's really comfortable.” Livvy said.

You took off your shoes and sat to her left.

“Yup, I could fall asleep on this couch.” You said as you leaned back, sliding down a little so you could rest your head.

“It’s just 5:40, don’t sleep yet. I’m gonna order food for dinner, what do you want?” She asked, nudging you awake.

You

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” You replied, your mind too busy with thoughts of her.

“Alright,” she punched in the order, “it might take a while so..”

“Why are you doing this?” You finally asked, interrupting her.

“Hm? Well, you were looking for a job and we needed a photographer” She replied, sounding so innocent.

“Not that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m truly grateful but..” you paused, sat up straight, and looked at her, “why are you doing-”

Her lips landed on yours, a quick and sudden kiss.

“This?” She whispered, her face just inches away from yours.

“That,” you replied.

A few seconds of silence and of just looking at each other's eyes, searching, admiring, memorizing. Then she answered..

“I saw the way you looked at me and,” She paused and sat closer, her knees touching yours. “I thought I’d try, you know, teasing you with a few poses.”

“It really was nothing at first but the more you looked and the more aware I became, the more I felt..weird?” She continued, unsure of how she felt.

“So you noticed that I was..staring?” You couldn’t help but place your hand on her right thigh with how close she was.

“You weren’t just staring, it was like you were mmh..” your hand was slowly moving higher, her jeans were the only thing stopping you from feeling her skin, “I don’t know what it was but..I started liking it.

Her right hand landed on your left thigh, a little too close to where your bulge was growing.

“And in the dressing room? Do you really trust me that much?” You asked, your pinky finger just mere inches away from where she needed you to be.

“I started liking it and.. my mind wandered. I was suddenly imagining..” another pause as she squeezed her thighs together.

“Imagining what, livvy?” You teased, sliding your hand away.

Almost immediately, her legs parted again, craving for more attention in between.

“Imagining..different scenarios and it turned me on. Now, I can’t help it..” She got up and straddled your lap, her hands on your shoulders.

“I really trust you and, right now, I really really need you.” She confessed, almost begging.

“Kiss me,” is all you said and she dove right in, crashing her lips on yours.

You felt her thighs through her jeans and slid your hand up, stopping only to give her ass a gentle squeeze before continuing your journey of conquering, feeling her lower back and toned abdomen, then sliding her jacket off, all while you two shared a very intimate kiss.

Her arms wrapped around your neck, hips grinding in a slow teasing rhythm, your tongues meeting and dancing, soft moans escaping her lips.

Your little make-out session became more and more heated, both of you pulling away only for short breaths.

Minutes had gone by with the two of you still on the couch, in the same position. The only difference is that you were now topless and Olivia’s jeans were left crumpled on the floor, a wet spot now evident on her underwear.

Neither of you wanted to pull away but you were running out of breath and you could tell that she was too. It was all too perfect to end it there but, as if on cue, both of you pulled away, a thin string of spit snapping.

She was panting but her hips still kept going. You just watched as you caught your breath.

“Is this dinner?” You joked, making her let out the cutest and hottest laugh you’ve ever heard.

“No, silly. But it definitely tastes good.” Her reply made you smile.

“We can keep going then?” You asked.

“Mhm” Olivia nodded, her smile reaching cheek to cheek.

“Great”

Without any warning, you attack her neck with open-mouthed kisses and make a trail of hickeys down to her shoulders, leaving your hands on the small of her back.

Livvy’s moans grew a little louder, her hands flew up and her fingers tangled in your hair.

“Mmh..easy” She tries to slow you down by tugging at your hair and pushing your shoulders but you remain unfazed.

“Do you not like it?” You asked before moving to her other shoulder.

“I..love it, just slow d- Ah!” A surprised but excited gasp.

You pinned her down on the couch, right hand intentionally landing on her chest, fingers ready to pull the white cloth down to expose her tits, your left hand gripping her smooth and creamy thigh.

“I can’t.” You breathe. “You, you did something to me..and now I want more.” You say before crashing your lips on hers once again.

Your tongues meet for another dance and you pull her top downwards, exposing her left tit and half of the other. You cup it in your hand, rub and pinch her erect nipple, and slide your free hand down and inside her now soaked panties, squeezing her soft plump ass.

She moans in your mouth and her hands reach down to unbutton your jeans. You feel it and follow her movements, pausing momentarily to push it down along with your boxers and kick it off before continuing what might be the longest and craziest make-out session you’ve ever had.

Your hands travel back to where they were but hers slide down, one hand stroking your erection and the other taking off her wet underwear.

“Mmh, shit.” You let out a low growl.

Everything about her was just perfect and you were getting addicted.

You didn’t know right then and there but she felt the exact same way.

Intoxicated

With her underwear gone and pre-cum already dripping from your cock, you stopped the kiss and searched her eyes for an answer. No signs of hesitation.

She spread her legs voluntarily, pulled you close, and aligned you to her dripping entrance. Your tip felt the warmth of her folds and

*Ring Ring!*

The telephone rang, making both of you jolt slightly. Her hips bucked up and yours thrust forward, unintentionally pushing your entire length inside her needy pussy. Both your hand and hers immediately flew up to cover her mouth to muffle a loud, pleasure-filled scream.

You groaned, feeling her slippery wet and tight folds, and muffled your moan by diving into the crook of her neck.

You wanted to forget about everything else and just fuck her right there but the telephone kept ringing.

“Looks like we have to get that,” you whispered in her ear.

“Can you reach for it?” Olivia asked you.

You stretched your arm, reaching for it, and handed it over to her.

“Don’t. Move.” She mouthed before greeting the person on the phone.

You were ready to stay still but you felt her tighten around you.

Fuck

Slowly, you slid halfway out, trying not to pound her while she’s on the phone. Your movement made her stutter a few words and her free hand press on your chest as if telling you to stop but her pussy still gripped you tight.

Her wet, warm folds and the way she squeezed you felt too good, it was driving you crazy.

You gave in and started moving your hips, pulling out ‘til only the head is left inside and pushing back all the way in.

No hard thrusts. Just slow, complete movements.

“Stop. Not now.” Her voice weaker than a whisper to avoid being heard on the phone.

Liv’s free hand kept trying to push you away but her pussy welcomed the intrusion, getting wetter as minutes passed.

Finally, the call ended and she gestured for you to return the telephone.

“I told you to stop” She said, her hands pulling you closer this time and her legs locking you in place.

“I can’t.” You replied, thrusting a little faster.

“Mmh, st-stop.. We need- nngh” Livvy moaned, struggling to speak as you went faster and harder.

“D-dinner..down- stairs!” is all she managed to say.

You move onto a kneeling position and bring her legs up to your shoulders without slowing down.

“You keep telling me to stop but, ever since you got on the phone, your pussy won’t stop squeezing me so tight.” You tease her, hands sliding from her toned abs and up to fondle her tits.

“Aahh! D-daddy..easy, please!” She begged, her moans getting louder.

Despite her protest, you could feel that she was close.

“Don’t hold it back, love” You quickly realized what you said but acted like nothing happened.

“what..ngh fuck..what did you just sa- AAH!!” You cut her off, pressing a thumb to her sensitive clit and making her cum.

Her body trembled, mouth agape, eyes rolled back, hands searching for something to grip as another toe-curling orgasm traveled through her.

You grab her wrists, cross her arms above her stomach and thrust real hard, releasing your thick load deep inside her.

“Deep.. oh fUck!” She moaned, a dazed smile on her face.

You let go of her wrists and lean down, planting a kiss on her forehead.

“That was amazing, liv.” You whispered, gently tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Your dick feels amazing, Daddy,” Olivia replied breathily, her hands caressing your arms.

“Fuck, who taught you how to talk like that?” You said before crashing your lips on hers again, now completely addicted to their softness and how her tongue danced with yours.

“Mmh, wait. We really..have to stop now mh, and grab dinner.” She said in between kisses, fingers tangling in your hair then sliding away.

You paused to look at her. You didn’t want to but she was right. There’s no doubt that you were hungry for each other but you were also getting hungry for actual food.

You gave her one last peck on the lips and slowly pulled out. A smile of satisfaction creeped up on your face as you saw cum drip out of her stretched hole.

She felt it too and let out a little giggle. That giggle of hers that was cute and sexy at the same time.

“There’s so much, it’s spilling out.” A seductive and satisfied tone in her voice, her fingers trying to push the liquid back in.

“That’s going to expose our little secret when we head out. Can’t let that happen.” You reach down for your pants and grab the little pouch she gave you from one of the pockets.

“Here, to keep it from dripping.” You pull out the vibrator and slowly push it inside her.

“Mh, that could work.” She smirked and you helped her up.

“Can you walk?” You asked.

“Yup, for now.” She replied with a wink and headed towards her luggage.

You watched her get changed, admiring her bare body and creamy skin, while you grabbed an extra shirt from your backpack.

After 5 or so minutes, both of you had gotten dressed and headed towards the door.

“You ready?” Asking her just to be sure.

“Not quite.” Her hand slid from your shoulders to your neck and she pulled you in for another kiss.

Your hands automatically move to her hips as you return the kiss and gently pin her against the door.

“Let’s just finish this final paragraph, okay?”

“Fine. I’ll read it.”

“Then we’ll have this shit over with.”

“No cursing in my classroom!”

Snickers from the girls to your right, quick, mindless reading to your left, someone drops a pen. Didn't this happen yesterday?

“Very well done. Class is over, have a nice weekend.”

“But Ma’am, it’s only Thursday.”

“Oh. My bad. Then we’ll see each other tomorrow.”

Two dozens of bags get lifted from the ground, books and paper crammed into tight spaces, someone drops their smartphone. Yes, definitely deja vu.

“Shit!”

“Well done, Yena. I bet it’s cracked now.”

The slow turn of a delicate hand. Hundreds of scratches make the glass look like a spider’s uncarefully spread web. Someone cracks a laugh. Am I dreaming?

“I told you. Now, now, don’t cry. I’ll get you some ice cream, hm~?

Yena’s sobs and Chaewon’s coos can still be heard down the hallway. You shake your head in disbelief. Of course, this exact scenario didn't happen yesterday. It is as close to impossible as winning the yearly lottery daily, but your feeling of deja vu remains. The days blend into one another, nothing significantly changes.

The setting? The same. No one is going to paint over the old, dirty walls of this school to give them a new color, new life. They remain as a seemingly immovable constant, just like the yellow lights at the ceiling or the barely cleaned windows separating the outside from the classroom and the classroom from the floor. Maybe the weather changes, but at this point you’re even uncertain of that. Gray clouds lay on the world, an impenetrable layer that reeks of rain.

The time? The same. Your school's schedule is its most stable factor. The principal enforcing it is as certain as taxes and death. If too many teachers are missing to fill in the gaps, he himself will step in to ensure the absolute maximum of education, even if it’s 5pm. Part of this tyrannical precision is the teacher’s right to extend a lesson past the bell’s ring. It is utterly ineffective, as no one actually listens anymore, but it will never change.

The characters? The same. Not a day goes by where mostly bubbly Yena isn’t whining about something, be it the grandest of issues or a lost hair. Her best friend Chaewon is always on her side. With her calm, kind words and envious patience she is the perfect Yin to Yena’s Yang. Then there is Eunbi, the class representative, with amazing grades, amazing visuals and eyes colder than the arctis. Sakura is everyone’s crush, a girl who adores video games, looks absolutely beautiful and is a social magnet. Sadly for all the boys, she only has eyes for girls.

You could go on and on about all the other colorful characters in your class, friends, enemies, classmates, but it all leads to the same hole. The hole of repetitiveness. Not only the lives around you seem to be in an endless loop— you play along perfectly. Your thought processes all wander off into similar directions, your banter with Jimin and Chan is always about the same topics, hell, even your yawns during Mrs. Bae’s classes are perfectly timed. Day in day out, you always stay to your routine.

Isn’t it time to break out? To stand up and instead of going home, go to a friend's house? Walk through the park for another hour? Run downtown to eat some fresh churros? Your desire to break out grows, but it cannot overcome your rationale telling you:

Why am I concerned about this? Everyday life looks similar at times. So what.

A shuffle. The sound of a chair scratching over the floor brings the battle ensuing in your mind to a screeching halt and you jump. Someone is still in the classroom with you. This is unusual. Usually, you are the last one to leave. You don’t need to take a train or bus to get home, it’s just a fifteen minute walk, so unlike your classmates, you don’t need to hurry to the awfully timed public transportation. Today, however, someone decided to break with the loop.

You turn your head to search for the culprit. In the last row, someone sleeps, their head on their crossed arms, chair pushed lightly back to make the position more comfortable. In your many years of school, you have seen a couple of students sleep like this, even during class. Mingi was one of them, but he transferred last year. Yoongi as well, but he got his act together and is almost on par with Eunbi in terms of grades. 

You are sure it’s her when you see chestnut-colored hair dripping down on all sides of her head. Kim Minju, the quietest person in the class. It’s been years since you heard her speak a word louder than a whisper. She is always reserved, unapproachable and frankly, you sometimes forget she is still in the same class as you. She is a fitting last remaining option for someone sleeping at their desk.

“Hey,” you speak into the room, waiting for Minju to react. She does, by lifting her head up from the scratched surface of her table. Her eyes, slightly hidden by hair all over her face, dart around the room until they find you.

“Hey,” she says in a sleepy voice. You can’t help but smile. Minju looks somewhat adorable and helpless like this. Although most of her expression is behind curtains of brown locks, she looks like a lost child searching for her parents in a crowded theme park. 

“Are you okay? Don’t you want to go home?” 

“Later.”

“Later? But class is already over.”

“You’re still here too.”

You chuckle a little. Her voice sounds like she is still in dreamland and her head is unable to be upright. She lays on her arms once more. She is odd and you can’t help but be intrigued by it. Carefully, you stand up and take the seat next to her. Minju looks at you with surprise in her damp eyes. You wish you could read them better as she hasn’t shown signs of being talkative. 

“This must not be comfortable. I’d choose a bed over this any day.”

“It’s fine.”

You sigh as Minju turns her face away from you. This has been fun while it lasted, but she is frustrating to talk to. If she’d resent you, she would have already told you to piss off, but with this not being the case you feel like you’re just annoying her. 

“Your choice. I’ll go now though.”

“Okay.”

“See you tomorrow!”

No further words from her. Minju is clearly not mentally in this place. Is this the fate of those who only dream and don’t listen in class, you ask yourself while stepping out of the room. If so, she needs to be pulled out of it quickly. Somehow.

#

Today is not going to be the same. This sentiment has been stuck in your mind ever since you woke up. However, you haven’t really acted like it. Your alarm went off the same minute it always does, you listen to the same three songs while chewing on your favorite cereal and watching the same show. Teeth brushing and time to sprint to school have remained at their bare minimum, hell, the list could go on and on. Your sentiment has just been a faint thought. Until you step into the classroom.

“And then, and then he didn’t respond.”

“Aw, I think it will be fine. You wrote him so late, he probably just fell asleep.”

“Everyone, please stay calm! The teacher is coming.”

Yena is whining about something, some boy from the grade above or below. Again. Chaewon is comforting her with the patience of all the angels in all the heavens. Again. Eunbi is urging everyone to sit down with pronounced gestures and a loud voice. Again. It’s like you’ve heard these exact sentences before. This is beyond absurd and you have to do something. You will do something. 

Before Mrs. Kang starts the lesson, you take a longer route to your desk. With full intention, you pass by Minju’s desk and knock on it twice. Like yesterday, her messy head lifts from her arms and you try to find her eyes through the veil of her greasy hair. 

Doing something absurd like this has left you without a plan, without any words to speak, so you just put on a dumb smile. Minju doesn’t return it. She simply flops back onto her arms. It’s like reality is forcing everyone into their positions and if you don’t fight back, it might just get you as well. You sit down on your chair and look at the unamused girl as the first couple of lines are drawn onto the board. 

The lesson comes and goes like a soft wind. As soon as Mrs. Kang wraps it up, you have already forgotten everything she said. Your mind is solely stuck on how to get this terrible loop of everyday life out of your system. For some reason, you feel that the answer is with Minju, this one girl you never had anything to do with. She looks like the epitome, the greatest victim of the problem. It's time you do something for real, with a proper plan.

“Hey,” you approach her again, as the rest of your classmates fall into their usual, loud chaos.

“Hey,” Minju responds. It scares you how she has the same tone as yesterday. Maybe she hasn’t had enough sleep and rushes to school just for attendance. Her hair has also not been washed, it’s even dirtier and messier now. She kind of reminds you of a lone wolf, abandoned by everyone. 

“Uhm, I don’t know how to say this and maybe I’ll sound stupid, but—”

You grab yourself a chair and sit down in front of Minju’s table. Finally, she is bestowing you with a look over her folded arms.

“—I noticed, like, how do I put it, everything is so repetitive and bland, it’s really bugging me.”

“You think so?” she whispers dryly. 

“Of course! Everyone is saying the same stuff, does the same stuff, like—just look at Yena! She is always whining. And Jimin is always teasing Jun. And you’re always sleeping. I’m sorry, it’s just bothering me.”

You end your small tantrum with a sigh and hope that none of the mentioned took notice of it. It felt good letting off this steam, you were really pent up until now. However, you doubt that it was the right way to start a conversation with someone who is basically a stranger. 

To your surprise, Minju starts to sit upright and plug some of her long strands behind her cute ear. Her eyes scrutinize you while her face remains blank, unamused. Then she bluntly speaks, almost at a normal volume:

“Uh-huh, and why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want to do something I have surely never done. Something that will end this vicious circle at least for a day, maybe two.”

“You can do that on your own. Why do you need me for that?”

“W-well, I think maybe it could be something interesting for you too.”

Minju still doesn’t look convinced. Who could blame her? The way you come out of nowhere and act like a slightly crazy person wouldn't convince most people to take action. In panic you stare at the ground to your left, to your right, trying to find some words to explain yourself, before—

“Hmph, you are weird. Would it be enough if we met on the weekend?”

You look at Minju in surprise. Did she just suggest that? The whisper, the calm, dry voice with not too much enthusiasm couldn’t be anyone else.

“I think we never saw each other on a non-school day, so why don’t we just meet at the gate?”

“I knew you would understand me!” you shout triumphantly and almost jump from your chair, “We can meet at the gate and see where the day leads us. You okay with that, Minju-ah?”

Minju nods slowly and a faint smile appears on her adorable cheeks. You find it amazing how she still looks so pretty, even with her lack of make-up and wild hair. She could look superbly stunning with just a bit more care put towards her face, hair and body. But you won’t judge her on that. Maybe she just had a bad day. Maybe she never cared about stuff like this in general.

“Great, then we’ll see each other the day after tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

#

Tap. Tap. Tap. The tip of your blue and gray shoes hit the paved ground in front of the closed gate. After all these years, it’s the first time you notice how smooth the black rocks beneath you are. All the footwear scratching over them for all those years polished them to the point where faint sunlight gets reflected. 

It’s been quite a while since you woke up this excited. Your alarm went off at nine and with an unbridled excitement and unwarranted, but great expectation, you filled your backpack. Water, snacks, spare clothes, small games, more snacks—it’s like you prepared for a children's birthday party, sleepover included. 

And like a child you stormed out of the house, early enough to not annoy your parents and take a very different route. You wandered through small alleyes, the smell of rain still oozing from the gray asphalt and beige walls. Although you enjoyed it, you wished for the sun to come out—rain, rain, go away—you are literally a child and for today, that is okay.

Your wish came true. The light gray of the clouds was no match for the sun and small patches of sky blue pop up with every minute you wait. Now, it’s only Minju who is missing. The catalyst for why you finally got over the hump and out of the lulling everyday life. She’ll be here any minute. She’s never been late for school, something she obviously isn’t very fond of, so she won’t be late for this either. 

But why her? Why did it take her for you to do something like this? There is a weekend for your taking every five school days. You could’ve just ran out or called a friend and do anything but mold in your room for endless hours. It might be the thrill of something absurd, new, unnecessary but necessary. Your questions come to a halt when you hear footsteps.

You look up to see all the perfect variations of brown. Minju wears a wool dress with a stylish checkered pattern in various dirty colors, orange, green but mainly brown. Underneath the dress, a tight, cozy looking turtle neck wraps around her torso and arms in the color of chocolate chip cookies. Across her chest is the leather sling of her almost black handbag. Above all however, is the brown of her hair. Not greasy and unwashed as the days before, but smooth and combed, tugged behind her ear it hides her shoulders. Brunette excellence that delights your heart.

She stops before you. With an awkward sway, she avoids looking at you. The way her lips press together looks adorable, you can’t help but smile and disrupt the silence.

“Hello, Minju! So awesome that you could make it.”

“He-hey,” she waves at you instead of keeping eye contact for long. This seems to not be her cup of tea, but you won’t let your mood get dampened. She will hopefully get into it.

“I had a lot of ideas of what we could do,” you begin and straighten your back. Even like this, you aren’t that much taller than the girl wearing her, of course, brown shoes, “But first, I wanted to know what you think. What are you feeling today?”

“What I feel?”

Her eyes force your attention on them. Now that you can look into them mostly undisrupted with better lighting than in the classroom, you see a certain dullness, listlessness, even lifelessness in them. It takes you out of your childish dreams, the naivete that builds up. You take a step closer towards her. She tenses up.

“I-I just mean, what you felt like doing today. If you’re not feeling well or anything, that’s fine. A-are you—”

“No, no, it’s okay.”

She laughs it off with a wave of her soft hands and takes a step back. You can feel that something is off. Maybe you got her on a bad day. Or maybe even in a bad time, judging from how she looked throughout the week. It’s not the perfect day to make her jump over some mental barriers. Or maybe, this is the perfect day after all. The day to wake up, to get life back into your veins, to feel it again. 

You smile at her and scratch the back of your head.

“Okay then. Do you have anything in mind? Your dress looks unfit for a round of rugby, so I guess…”

“Wait, what?” Minju furrows her eyebrows, but then falls into laughter when she sees your playful smirk, “Oh, for a second I thought!”

You see her laughing face for just a split second before she hides it behind her hand. It’s cute, heartwarming even and you instinctively join her. In this moment, where all tension is lost in a simple joke, you forget that this is the first time you heard Minju laugh. In your presence, she’s never been this loud and bright before. 

It’s like the clouds open just a tad bit more—the same way your relationship might open up a bit more on this simple day.

“I can’t believe you thought that, Minju-ah. How should I fit a rugby ball and a dozen other players in this backpack?” you playfully mock her and she gets shy, while still giggling.

“I dunno, I’m sorry. That was just dumb.”

“Nuh-uh, you’re fun. I might not have a ball inside here, but I have this.”

You open up one of the many zippers and pull out two candy bars. The see-through plastic holds sweet caramel and toffee wrapped in chocolate. Sweetness wrapped in brown goodness—just like Minju, but you won’t make that joke. This is not a date with flirts but a rebellion against dullness. You hand one of the bars to Minju. Her eyes light up.

“What? I love those! How did you know?”

“I guess I’m good at guessing, I guess.”

“Ts, you sound like a child,” Minju mockingly replies, but opens the plastic wrap with child-like anticipation and urgency. You chuckle and observe how this sleepy head became lifely with just some candy. 

“I’m okay with being a child. We can go to the playground if you want.”

You take the first steps downtown and Minju follows you, her full mouth protesting your decision. 

“No, stop. I, yum, made up my mind.”

“You always speak with your mouth full?”

“N-no. Shush, let’s go grab something. I want, hm, a smoothie. Or ice cream.”

You smile that she finally found something, but you can’t stop teasing the cutie that finally caught up to you.

“And then we go to the playground?”

A hit on your shoulder.

“Yah! I’ll make up my mind, pabo.”

#

“Oh man, that was something,” you sigh, taking off the 3D-glasses. From smoothies and ice cream, you somehow got out of her that she wanted to go watch a 3D-movie at the other part of town. It still took more convincing from you until she told you which movie it was. Although it’s certainly not your type of film, you still went with her. 

“It was so good! When I thought I got all the clues, they still tricked me.” 

Minju has her fingers cutely formed into a fist as you too walk out of the theater and onto the street. Although it’s not yet completely dark, you feel the evening coming and this fun day ending. As Minju still goes on about how intriguing the case was and how she thought the gardener was the murderer, you tap her shoulder.

“I still don’t get why this is a 3D-movie. Like, why? Why have these effects for a detective movie?”

“You’re a pabo. It’s to pick up on the clues better! Ts, I told you that.”

“Well, maybe I’m just too dumb for these movies,” you rub the back of your neck and watch the annoyed, but finally fully alive Minju become flustered. She pouts and pulls at your arm.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that. I hope you still liked it, I’m sorry.”

“Minju-ah, I’m playing around! Looks like you’re the pabo.”

It baffles you. How can this girl look even cuter, with this shocked, angry, playfully fun expression on her fairy-like features? You feel your heart filled with warmth. Your mind is freed at the sight of Minju and at the thought of how the two of you got out of this loop. Nothing is the same as before. 

“It’s getting late,” you say and take a quick look at your phone to confirm the time, “Should I accompany you home? It might be dark before you get there.”

They fall. Minju’s bright eyes sink. The glow in them gets tainted by the dullness from before; but also pain. Pain that’s also in her weak smile that she can’t keep upright for long. Minju frowns and looks to the side, away from you. Suddenly, it’s all reset. Back to the beginning. You can’t let that happen.

“It’s of course fine if you want to go alone. O-or I could call your mum and…”

Minju fidgets, her delicate hand tightly wrapped around the leather of her handbag’s sling. She stares onto the tip of her feet. She looks cold, lost, like a forgotten child in the midst of an endless crowd of people. Things turn dark, not only because the clouds once again hide the sun, but also because Minju’s voice isn’t filled with excitement, but downright mourning.

“Mum, no. No, it’s okay. Thank you, but I’ll go home on my own.”

“Are you sure? Is there, is there some way I can help?”

“I think—”

Minju hesitates. Her fingers fiddle with her dress, then with each other, before she stuffs them into her pocket. She gives you an apologetic look, one that tries to convince you that there is nothing to hide and that things are just the way they are. Your heart tells you to not play along. There is something that’s really hurting her. So bad that it turns her back to the Minju, sleeping through life and all it has to offer. You have to lift the veil, you—

“—I should go on my own. It’s not that far, nothing will happen, hm.”

“Okay, uhm, was nice though.”

Your tongue betrays you. This is not what you want. It might be a smooth way to get out of the awkwardness, but it doesn’t get you closer to the problem. Something hurts her and you want to know it. 

“Yeah, it was. Guess I’ll see you in school.”

The last chance, but you won’t take it. No reason to stir up conflict. The day was good, it got you two closer and things inevitably changed. Why risk it?

“Yeah. Have a great Sunday, Minju.”

“You too. Bye.”

She gets a hand out and gives a small wave. A small wave, a small smile, but it’s all rushed and it's painful to look at. The beauty wrapped in all the chocolate colors turns around and quickly steps out of your reach. The reach of your hands, of your eyes, of your voice. 

“Bye.”

#

Sunday went by quickly as it always does and Monday greets you with the usual. Not the kind of usual you can always return to. The restaurant with your favorite vibe, the table in the hidden corner, the always comforting food. This 'usual' is what you're looking for, not the same old gray in the sky, same old cracks in the walls, same old chatter in the classroom. It's jarring. 

It makes you appreciate your new friend more. Minju is not quite usual today. She doesn’t look gloomy, her silky, clean hair is crested with a cute, pink barrette and she greets you with a smile and a wave. The usually dark bags below her eyes are partially hidden by a simple, yet effective touch of make-up. Minju’s beauty shines through her imperfections and you find yourself slightly blushing at the sight.

“Hey,” you say with a small smile and carefully place your elbows on her desk.

“Hey,” Minju responds, backing off a tiny bit. She reaches for her notebook. It’s blue, mostly tattered and the pages are empty. ‘Oh no,’ she mouths, eyes still drawn to her bag below.

“Are you alright? Need something?”

“I… I think I forgot my pencil case,” she whispers shyly and tries to hide her face. 

“Oh, I can give you one of mine.”

Hand her the pen and she bows thankfully. You both smile at each other a final time, before the teacher enters the room. You get ready to shuffle your chair back to your desk, but Minju’s soft voice makes you freeze in place. It’s like she opens the gate to new possibilities with just a couple of words.

“I hope, uhm, that you had a nice Sunday.”

“Th-thanks, Minju, I hope you did… too.”

#

Tuesday rolls around, and you couldn’t care less about the mundane things. You are excited to go to school, to meet Minju. You are excited about the brewing suspicions of your friends, which takes them out of their usual character a bit and makes the bickering interesting. With all this excitement, you swing open the door to the classroom. Everything, everyone is in order. Their eyes are on you as the door crashes against the wall with a loud boom. Your eyes are on Minju’s seat. It’s empty.

“Ey! Watch out!” Chaewon yells at you, as she tightly holds Yena’s hands. The duck-like girl quivers in fear. You must have scared her quite a lot. Tears pool in her eyes and you give her an apologetic bow.

“I’m sorry you two, I should have been more careful. Do you by any chance know where Minju is?”

Both girls shake their heads and Chaewon continues to glare at you, like she wants to stab you with a poison-filled syringe. Not that you would care. Minju not being here is a far greater concern to your mood. You fear that the day might immediately fall into the same rhythm, so you hold onto the hope that she is just late and will walk through the door at any moment. Maybe she will have the same enthusiasm as you did.

But it doesn’t happen. Not on Tuesday, not on Wednesday. The clouds do not part for two days. To say that it dampens your mood would be an understatement. Worry and annoyance have a hold on your thoughts, what teachers, parents, friends say is a nuisance and mostly forgotten. In some moments, it feels like a foul stench lingers around the campus. It gets even worse when, out of spite, you walk the same route you and Minju took a couple of days ago. 

You get angry at every stop, but this anger is short-lived and when you stand in front of the cinema, it turns to sadness. The kind of sadness that twists your stomach and leaves you speechless at its intensity. If only you knew where Minju lives or what her phone number was. Those irrational worries that brew in your mind could just be gone. They range from her just being ill with a cold to something terrible has happened with her mother. You clearly remember how quickly all her joy and hype faded when you just mentioned the word ‘mum’. 

Shake your head and head home. Tomorrow, Minju might just be back and if not, you’ll do everything in your power to confirm that she is alright. On Friday, you will ask her to meet again, and visit the park. You want to ask her a lot of questions and then, everything will solve itself. 

#

You breathe a sigh of relief when Minju is in her seat early Thursday morning. Most of your classmates are probably still riding the bus or just waking up, depending on how they usually go about their day, so it’s just you two and Eunbi in the far corner. She studies geometry with her black headphones on. It basically feels like you're alone with Minju. 

You cheerfully walk up to her, hand raised for a greeting. When you take a closer look at the girl however, you see her hair in a worse mess than ever before. It’s like someone took a pair of scissors and cut strands off at random spots. The hazelnut chaos spreads over her cheeks and what might look like bad bangs partially covers her eyes. Dark, tiny, motionless, except there is something flickering in them with unbridled ferocity. Minju’s pale skin is exceptionally pale against the large, black bags below her eyes. Her lips are dry and purple.

“Minju, are you alright?” you carefully ask and lower your hand. Your delighted mood is gone, dead, like the look on Minju’s face and her sorry posture. She looks frozen to the chair, only her knees shake as if she were in the arctic desert. 

“I’m cold,” she answers, her voice tiny, dry. She coffs and you almost leap to help her. But you are not there yet. There is still no proper friendship where you can just cross the boundary and touch her. 

“Can I help you with that? I can turn up the heater… or give you my jacket.”

You take off your jacket and Minju remains motionless. Her hands are in her lap, one resting on the other, the nails painted awfully messy. Her gaze mostly stays on them. 

“No need, I’m just cold.”

Minju looks like she is falling, continuously, into an endless void. It’s darker than her eyes as they close and she starts to cry. However, there is no sob to hear or tears to catch. Minju just cries, in her own way and you feel powerless to step in. You can’t catch her, something is physically pulling you back. Your heart may mourn at the sight, but what is there to do, to say, to make things better?

“C-can I ask what happened? You looked so lively a couple of days ago, and now—”

Your heart spoke those words. They are like a scream to evoke some reaction out of her, but Minju doesn’t stop the sorrow overtaking her more and more. You groan in sad frustration. This sight hurts you, you can’t deal with it. You gently place your jacket on her desk and see her looking at it for a second. 

“I’m sorry, I have no right to just—” You pause and ponder on a better choice of words, “I’ll be at my seat. If you need anything, I’m right there.”

Soon, all your other classmates stream into the room and take their usual positions. None of them seem to acknowledge Minju. For them, she is a figure in the background, one that might have changed a bit and even missed a couple of days, but they remain the same. Illness with two days absence plus a new ‘haircut’? Surely you wouldn’t notice it on a random classmate. 

At the start of the first lesson, your very picky and meticulous math teacher immediately notices your jacket on Minju’s table. You know his eyes are locked in on it and he will call Minju out any second now. But then he hesitates, takes a closer look at the disheveled girl, and looks through the class register. His face contorts like he is in pain. This is very unlike him, and it would’ve intrigued you more if it weren’t for the gloomy feeling in your heart.

“Okay everyone, let’s start… start with, uhm. Chaewon, please tell the class what we did last lesson.”

The teacher continues to be out of sync with how he would normally act. At the end of the lesson, he calls Minju upfront. Now you’re the one frozen on the seat and watch helplessly as he calmly and concerningly speaks to her. You can’t hear him this far back, and the question is, if Minju is able to pick up any of it. She looks down at the tip of her shoes and does not react at all. 

This goes on for the entire day. You can’t bear it anymore. With a final look over your shoulder, you dart out of the classroom quickly. The image in your brain is still the same: a helpless, frozen Minju, a withering girl with an unhearable cry. You notice the only difference a little bit too late, as it is barely noticeable.

Minju’s tender cheeks have the wet trails of tears.

#

Once again, Minju is not at school. This occurrence is so unusual, everyone is acting out of character. Different rumors shoot through the classroom, and they all negate each other. No one has a clue of what is happening, but they all do have an opinion. Chaeyoung in the last row says that she is probably just late, while Chan strongly believes that she is still sick and that the math teacher told her to stay home for longer. Julia has the harshest opinion though.

“I bet she is fully embracing her lazy life. She will either fail or drop out soon. That’s how it goes.”

You cover your ears. Everyone spouts nonsense, although they didn’t even talk to her yesterday. How can they be so sure? What do they know about her? Nothing. It frustrates you. The only people not involved in this except for you are Jimin, who stands by your side against these unnecessary allegations, and Chaewon and Yena. The two girls are entangled in a tight embrace and their heads are probably in a very different place right now.

Suddenly, the door bursts open. Your home room teacher and the principal walk in, both wearing a very serious expression on their faces. The rowdy class shuts up instantaneously. As if connected by one strand of nerves, everyone’s backs straighten. A gut wrenching tension fills the room, as the home room teacher sighs deeply and leans onto the front desk.

“I—this, this is hard. Excuse me, I need a second,” he says and stumbles a step forward. He is clearly not drunk, but his mind is dizzy with some heavy burden. The principal walks next to him and guides him towards a chair. Then he takes his glasses off, all fingers in a light tremble. You notice cold sweat all over his features. It’s contagious and creeps up your back.

“Class, I need you to stay strong, okay?” he begins and rubs the inside of his eyes, “I hate that I have to say this, but I hate even more that it happened. This morning, your classmate Kim Minju was—”

The principal pauses. It’s not long enough to make a large difference in his sentence, but it’s so big, you can hear the rapid pace of your heartbeat. It’s in your chest, your ear, your thumb. The burning red liquid rushes through your body. It meets the cold feeling of the goosebump and cold sweat on your skin, and this fusion almost makes you throw up. Your body gets torn to shreds, your mind is clouded. All in one pause that doesn’t really exist.

“—found dead in her home. She, she took her own life.”

In one moment, reality couldn’t be more surreal yet realistic. The stark contrast between a fragile dream and concrete reality resonates with everyone. It cannot be true, but it is. This is where they start with denial and move all the steps up to acceptance. But how can you accept the unacceptable? The voices of your classmates are background noise, but they are also all that is left. Air, matter, gravity, light, life, they all do not exist. Only the sound of gasps, cries and everything in between.

Then there is you, in pale freefall, just like the snowflakes outside. No one said it was going to snow today, yet it does. No one said Minju would kill herself today, yet she did. No one said deal with it, yet you do. You deal with it. Life goes on.

You throw your head forward and vomit over your desk. A lie knocks on your brain, on your stomach, and you vomit again. Sadly, you don’t have a reflex that will expel the disgusting shield of cold indifference out of your head. You know you will stop caring but you want to suffer. You want to hold on to Minju, the beautiful, quiet girl in class that was never supposed to walk down this dark aisle. 

She never wanted to die. No one does. 

But why?

Why?

Isn’t life beautiful?

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

“You’re such an asshole at times, I swear to God.”

Yena giggles as her head rests on your shoulder. Her bare hand rubs over your sweaty, equally bare pecs. These muscles were forged in the nearby gym and Yena has them all to herself. It’s basically an equivalent exchange, because Yena is no slouch when it comes to taking care of her own body. Abs and a thin waist, they look the best when she’s fully nude. And nude she surely is. You’re each other's trophies.

“Am I?” you ask and blow out the smoke of your cigarette. You told her a story about something, something you don’t care to remember. What or whoever it might have been about probably lost and you won. Such is life. You carefully put an arm around Yena and look at the orange-gray glow of your cigarette. Your girlfriend pouts.

“Babe, be real with me for a second.”

“I’m real every second, Yena, I don’t ever lie.”

“Babe, I’m serious here!”

Yena turns to you. Her stern eyes pin you to the backboard of the bed. This is no time to joke. You hastily put the glowing stick in the ashtray and the two used condoms out of harm's way. Yena then puts her arm on your nape and you have a hard time not staring at her heaving bosom but instead at the duck-like lips that pout cutely.

“Do you really love me?” she asks quietly.

“Oh, I see how it is,” you respond with a relieved sigh. Poke both her cheeks as you usually do in these types of situations. Yena’s tension comes out through her nose like the air of a balloon. 

“You are the hottest, prettiest, most desirable and most likable girl in the class—no, in the entire school.”

“Babe,” Yena blushes,”those were too many. You’re supposed to only list three things.”

“Huh? But what if I wanted to list more? Cuz it’s true.”

“Forget it,” she waves off, still blushing. ”Am I though? What about Yuri or Eunbi?”

“Okay, if you want me to list all of them,” you say, slightly annoyed, but you clear your throat regardless. ”Yuri is too crazy and not even close to your body, Eunbi is probably already married, also aloof, Sakura is gay, Hyewon is gay—”

“Wait, Hyewon likes girls?” 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Seriously, the way she stares at Yuri all the time. Anyways, she is gay. Hitomi is not my type cause she’s too small, Chaewon is your best friend and not as pretty as you—”

“But she is so pretty!”

“Jeez, Yena, we’ll never finish it like this. Who did I forget?”

Both you and Yena ponder for a second, but if you’re quite honest, you do not want this argument to continue. You surely forgot a couple of girls in your class, but none of them can match Yena. She should know that, even if you don’t throw the L-word around a lot. When you do it, it’s only towards her.

“There is Minju,” Yena says in a moment of enlightenment.

“Who?” you respond. Don’t bother with the jarring task to remember who this might be.

“The quiet girl that sits in the middle of the classroom. With long, brown hair, it’s literally super long, I bet she never cuts and rarely washes it.”

“Oh I see. Yeah, no. Who the fuck cares about Minju?”

You turn to the side to cough. Yena’s face still doesn’t look amused so you do the one thing that will surely shut her up. Cup her cheeks in your strong hand and kiss her on the ducky lips. Add a simple “I love you”, and she relaxes. Her slender, naked body topples atop of yours. Finally, it’s time to go to sleep.

#

You wake up to the sound of a bell ringing. History class is over, and as per usual, you took a nice long nap at the end of it. Or throughout it. History has always been boring to you. Old guys did some things sometime in the past, wow, so impressive. It would only be a slight nuisance, but Yoongi and Eunbi always have to act smart about it. As if it actually mattered. 

Can they touch the past, like you can touch Yena’s midriff right now? Surely not. The young woman squeals at your touch and you quickly pull her onto your lap. Thank God she cares as little about any dress codes as you. Even on these mild spring days she already wears clothes exposing, no, downright flexing her abs to your classmates. They see and they drool, but the only one allowed to touch them is you.

“You look sleepy, babe,” Yena says as she cups your face to inspect it. 

“History, Yena, history,” you respond and force your tiny eyes wide open. Five more minutes until the next teacher arrives. Might as well enjoy the time by showing off your best trophy. Yena is better than the push-up and benchpress records, not only because she is great in bed, but also because she actually makes other people jealous. 

Lift her onto your lap and give her a loud, proud and obvious hickey on her exposed neck. Yena holds onto your shoulders and holds her breath as if she would burst into moans and groans at any moment. After your deed is done, you triumphantly turn your head around. Scan the class, because someone is always looking. They can’t help themselves. Poor bastards.

“Look at her,” Yena whispers. She must be doing the same thing.

“Who?” you respond, unable to find the girl Yena alluded to.

“Minju, the one with the long, messy hair, right in the middle.”

There she is, barely three meters away from you, yet in a different realm of existence. Brown eyes lock onto yours, though you can’t make out what emotion they convey. Envy? Disgust? Pity? Well, the last two can easily be attributed to her. Minju’s entire look is appalling. Greasy hair that sticks together in clumps, dirty clothes that probably smell rancid, and an expression that lacks any kind of care or passion. Truly pitiful.

“What are you looking at, huh?” you bark at Minju. The entire class goes silent. They don’t have to hide their gazes anymore. They are only bystanders, witnesses to a tension that you know all too well. This is power, this is the way to victory. You will get your way.

Minju simply shakes her head. She rests her head on her crossed arms and goes back to her routine of dozing, as if nothing has happened. Her attitude of indifference is something you did not expect. You cannot allow such disrespectfulness. 

“Get off,” you whisper to Yena, the anger in your voice not directed at her, but she still follows your command immediately. Slow strides bring you next to Minju’s desk, who senses your presence. She turns her sleepy head towards you and looks up, the same look in her dark orbs, darker than even the greasiest parts of her hair. You clear your throat in annoyance.

“I asked you a question, didn’t I?

“Care to answer it?”

Minju does not budge. She remains frozen below you, but it’s not in the way you want her to be frozen. She should be in fear, trembling, yet not moving at all, but your words, your rough tone does not seem to affect her.

“Lemme ask you again: Why were you lookin’ at us?

“I don’t care which way you swing, okay? Just letting you know there is nothing to get from us. Yena is mine, okay?

“Okay?”

You’re basically shouting at this point. Minju finally moves to put her hands up as a shield. You did not intend to punch her, not even a fist of yours is ready to strike. It’s a relief that your words can still evoke something from her. In a tiny voice that mirrors mice more than humans, Minju answers.

“O-okay. I didn’t me-mean to. Sorry.”

“You didn’t mean to what?” you growl back, voice dripping dissatisfaction from her vague response.

“Ma-make you envious.”

Pin the palm of her hand to the table below. Minju clearly lacks a quick reaction time. She only starts to gasp when the nail of your thumb drills into her sweaty hand, the pale skin growing paler, then white, and finally red. Minju hisses, but only you can hear the words.

“Stop, please.”

“Get lost.”

You leave her be, but not before giving her an angry stare. Behind the helter-skelter of her curtain-like hair, her eyes receive your wrath like a well-deserved punch. Minju drops back into the back of her chair and holds her palm with her other palm. She is reeling like a beaten down boxer. 

“I’d congratulate you,” Yena snarks when you return to her. “But she is just a girl, so no respect.”

“I can never let my guard down. Not in front of anyone. Not when it’s about you,” you hum as the usual noise of chatter and laughs returns to the class. A surge of fire fills your chest, your lungs, like you’re a dragon breathing flames of destruction. The feeling of power, of being the strongest, the one who is not reckless enough to let his guard down around the seemingly weak.

If Minju really likes Yena—

“I cannot allow her to take your heart.”

“Shut it babe, you know I only like guys,” Yena giggles and playfully pushes your shoulder. “What am I saying? I only like you.”

Then you kiss her. A bit too passionate for a setting like this, but not passionate enough to still your hunger for more. More of Yena, but also more of this control. No one else can have her, not even a piece of her. 

#

Damp concrete, a preferable alternative to the deep mud and grass of the nearby forest. You jog with intensity and focus, conquering the streets of your neighborhood. Usually you'd be the king of the trees, sucking in the fresh forest air around you while on the way to the gym, but today you need to take a detour. 

It's a welcome change if you're honest, especially because the lousy weather keeps prying eyes away. No one to interfere with you and your in-ears, the loud music blasting through the cords as you turn corner after corner until your heels come to a screeching halt on the fine gravel in Rainbow Street. 

A girl sits on the sidewalk of this street with its very unfitting name. Worn down buildings in a tiny, ugly array of gray and brown shades sit right next to each other. They are a stain in this otherwise genuinely pretty part of town, Rainbow Street my ass, such a tiny street with all the human filth in one spot—and for some reason, this girl decided to sit here, her butt probably sore from the gravel poking it.

"Looks uncomfortable," you say down to the stranger and pull out one of your in-ears. She doesn’t move her head out from in between her knees. Hell, in this posture she is certainly developing back problems. With wind blowing into the sleeves of her loose t-shirt, she’ll catch a cold first though. 

“It’s fine,” she whispers in a low voice, still firmly staring at the ground as if your comment came with the wind and just passed by. Give her a weak, confused smile in pity. Usually, you’d not bat an eye at something like this. This girl probably has a house, where she doesn’t have to freeze and she probably also has water and soap to clean her dirty hair, so why bother with pity?

“Is it though?” you say with raised eyebrows. “You sit on the ground like a pile of misery and wait for the next wave of clouds for what? To let the rain wash your hair?”

You start to laugh at your own joke, which got the girl to finally move a muscle. Slowly she turns towards you and lifts her head even slower, like it hasn’t been lifted in a hundred centuries. Your laughter fades as you stare into grim, miserable eyes which stare back in hurt, agony even. 

“Oh, it’s you,” you say and move to put your in-ears back in. “No business with you.”

“You’re so mean,” Minju states, her real emotions held behind the blunt statement. “Why?”

“Get lost, Minju. That’s why.”

You jog off, further down the street to quickly reach the gym. Never in your life have you felt the rising feeling of compassion switch to coldheartedness so quickly. For a second you felt like a hero that could save this cute puppy, but in the next, you realized that it actually was the disgusting, wretched Minju who had to flaunt the fact that she clearly lost control over her life.

She doesn’t even bother to take a shower or pretend to have any character. No wonder she’ll continue to be nothing but a loser in school.

#

During your workout, you thought more about the wrong classmate than about the right one. Minju, being the wrong one, has no reason occupying the free spaces in your head. You’d much rather think about Yena, the right classmate, the one with incredible charm and wit. Yena is respected, Yena is envied, Yena is your girlfriend and absolutely amazing. Minju is none of that.

Enraged about Minju’s sulking expression popping up in front of your inner eye again, you throw down the dumbbells. Someone’s shouting in anger, others stare. Enough workout for today, you need a distraction. A distraction served by the right classmate.

“Yena,” you blurt into your phone’s speaker the second your girlfriend picks up. “I’ll be at your place in 30 minutes, you down?”

“Oh my~” she responds and you can already feel her turn in her bed in excitement. “I don’t know, don’t really like sweaty boys coming into my room~”

“Since when did I come into your room sweaty?” 

“I’ll make sure you’re gonna be sweaty, babe~” Yena whispers, voice sultry, dripping of lust like the sweat from your forehead and drool from your lips. 

#

“Babe, promise me something.”

Yena fondles your hair and looks at you with anticipation. It’s something serious again.

“Anything for you, Yena.”

Wrap your arm around her hip and look at her, relaxed, sweaty, just like she predicted.

“Don’t, like, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t terrible, but please, babe, don’t go too hard on her. She’s a girl, you know?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Minju and what happened in class.”

You sigh and look away in annoyance. Pull out a cigarette from the back on the nightstand. Your hand recklessly pushes off packets of pills and condoms. Why am I shaking?

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say and search for a lighter. “She was annoying, right? And disrespectful. And I know that there are girls that like girls and that there are girls that might go crazy, especially over you. I know you’re smart Yena, so you get me, right? It’s not like I beat her up or something.”

You stop yourself from falling deeper into an incoherent mess of bad explanations, but Yena is already side-eyeing you. At least she has a flame for the stick between your lips.

“Yeah, you did not beat her, but you went too far. Raising your hand and pressing down hers? Babe, that was not necessary.”

“I did it for you, baby.”

These words roll from your tongue so easily. Whatever counterpoints Yena brings up, you can easily melt her with them, reducing any valid criticism to nothing but dust.

“But, but she’s a girl—”

“And you’re the only girl for me,” you hum and blow out the smoke before turning towards her. Yena clings onto you like a koala, pouty lips, trembling eyes, and best of all: still fully naked. Press a kiss onto her lips and she gasps.

“Babe, I—”

“I love you, Yena.”

“Me, me too.”

“Let’s forget other, stupid girls and classes. You’re the hottest thing since the sun and I want you now, baby.”

Take another drag and Yena basically jumps onto you. At this point, the two of you won’t have enough sleep for the classes tomorrow. Doesn’t really get better than an extended weekend, you’ll take it with glee. Throw away the cigarette, Yena throws away the blanket. I love truancy on a Friday.

#

“You should really take your girl now!”

Chaewon’s shout is tiny compared to the ear-drum shattering bass of the large speakers right above your head. You look at her, confused, and point at your ears. Chaewon rolls her eyes and points at Yena, who is stumbling through the crowd, a large stain on her pink tube top and a half-empty bottle of vodka in her hand. 

“Better. Get. Her. Out!”

Her message is clear, and it should shame you that she is more worried about your girlfriend than you are, but you’re too used to it. Yena is magnetic to parties and the parties are magnetic to her. They need each other, and usually, you enjoy yourself alongside her, but for some reason, she went over the top today. Shot after shot after shot, down her throat until her dance moves became laughable. 

“Fuck, fine!”

Growl in annoyance to make Chaewon back off to her clique and drinks while you grab the wrist of your completely dazed girlfriend and drag her through the crowd. Your eyes are always at her back, her hips, her bottom. If any filthy bastard tries to touch her, you will tear off his hand and shove it down his trachea to make him regret not respecting you enough.

Outside the old barn at some outskirt of the city, Yena suddenly starts to run, bottle still in her hand, her feet faster than usual. She is an excellent sprinter, but for some reason, the alcohol pushes her to a sudden sprint. You can barely keep pace but soon catch up to her when Yena leans to a wall and—

“Yena, what are you doi—hey, are you ok—”

—violently vomits out the hard liquor and her last meal, some noodles and meatballs. You bunch up her hair and turn your head away in disgust. Yena pushes out more, the unbearable sound not seeming to end in forever, until finally, she gasps for air.

“Sorry, sorry, babe, are you—”

“Jeez, Yena,” you groan and scrunch your nose, unable to look at the pile of half-digested food without feeling your stomach tighten painfully. “Just sit down over there, and try not to—you know?”

Unsure if she understood any of your words, you guide her to a nearby bench in front of the highest point of the wall. Except for the occasional breeze rustling the trees and Yena’s heavy breaths, it’s eerily quiet. You scan the area attentively, no possible attacker will go unnoticed, not even the figure on the far end of the wall. Why would someone sit there and stare skywards? There are barely any stars tonight.

The person has spotted you and jumps off the wall. You’d prepare to fight for your honor and Yena’s safety, but then realize that the person is pretty small and frail. You pull out your phone and point the flashlight at the approaching figure. Dressed in a thin black jacket, it’s none other than Minju. Again.

“Did not expect you here,” you snark at her and point your flashlight closer to her face. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“Hey! Is-isn’t that Min-Min-ju?” Yena bursts out in laughter and rises from her bench. “Best friends, best friendos!”

She steps towards her classmate in deep drunken delirium and tries to hug her. Instead she loses her footing way earlier and is about to crash face first onto the ground. You’re unable to react on time, but Minju is. She catches Yena’s fall, knees painfully digging into the gravel as both her arms catch your girlfriends’ fall. Slowly, the two of them descend onto the ground.

You stand there frozen, as Minju reaches into the pocket of her dirty jeans and pulls out a surprisingly fresh tissue. She carefully wipes Yena's dirty mouth, not shying away from the abhorrent smell and delusional smile. Minju holds her still like a baby, and Yena giggles stupidly. 

“Get off of her!” you shout at the top of your lungs and push Minju off at her shoulders. She jumps and lets go of Yena, who almost meets the ground below if it weren’t for your arms on her back. In your rage you pick your girlfriend up so she stands and sways again. Her good mood fades as she struggles to stand upright, even with your arm around her.

“What is your game, huh? Stop trying to get her, she’s mine,” you snarl down at Minju, who sits on the ground, her legs shivering in this mild spring night. She should have worn more than a skirt if this is still too cold for her, but for some reason, she still has this unusual determination in her eyes. 

“Can I have this?” Minju asks, oblivious to your rant, pointing at the vodka bottle still firmly in Yena’s grip. Your girlfriend doesn’t react to the question and instead rests her head on your chest. She sniffles and weeps, tears soaking into the fabric of your polo shirt. Enraged, you kick a bunch of gravel onto Minju—she should get fucking buried beneath it.

“Fuck off, really. Are you really that desperate? Pathetic.”

“I-I’m not, I just want to drink.

“Would you let her drink it? Yena is already looking bad.”

Furiously reach for the bottle. This fucking bitch. Throw it as hard as you can against the wall. It bursts into a million shards, the vodka running down the gray surface. Someone opens a window.

“Hey! You fucking rouges! Stop this shit or I’ll call the police!”

You’d love to curse back at them, but Yena pulls at the hem of your shirt. You look at her teary eyes and sigh. This has been a big enough mess, no need to push the limits. Stare down at Minju, who still looks at the spot the bottle hit, her eyes big yet blurry. She looks absolutely miserable.

“Back off,” you say to her. “Don’t come close to her again or you’ll regret it.”

#

Monday comes and goes, the same goes for Tuesday. You might sit in class, attend each of the lessons, but you’re not listening to a word the teachers say. Nothing special, if you’re being honest. You’d usually guide your hand on Yena’s thigh and watch her smirk knowingly as she tries to pay attention. This would go on until she pinches you. She tries to keep up with school a lot more than you do, it shows in her grades.

Today however, she is not in the mood at all. She swats you away from the start, her gaze focused, yet angry, as she tries to copy the teachers’ scrabble from the blackboard. You roll your eyes, this is not uncommon either, especially during that time of the month. 

You roll tiny pellets of paper, your ammo for today. Simple, childish entertainment, sure, but you can’t wait to see the reaction of today’s target. Minju had it coming for a while now. Usually you’d send the paper flying over her head at one of the stupid classmates behind her; now she is in full focus.

At least she would be if it weren’t for her absence. You only notice it when you turn around to ready your first throw. She is not there. You drop the pellets to the ground, the only form of disarmament that actually feels like it. How can she not be there? The teacher didn’t even notice, no one noticed—and no one cares, except you.

But why do you care? Students are absent all the time and a loser like Minju has all the reasons not to go. For some reason, it still grinds your gears, brings them to a screeching halt and makes you form a fist. Feel your own fingernails dig into the palm of your hands; this is getting a bit out of control.

Suddenly, Yena’s hand is on your thigh, a surprising twist to your usual shenanigans, however, she is a lot less gentle. You spin around, meet her gaze for a second before the angry hum of your teacher finally gets your attention. She must have been standing there for quite a while, trying so hard to do her job by teaching you something, something, something.

“Oh, so you are still among us,” she notes, looking up and down at you above the rim of her large, blue glasses. “I bet you now know all the details of the French Revolution.”

“Of course,” you respond, voice and posture as nonchalant as ever.

“Do you mind explaining the root causes that led to the Battle of Verdun?”

“Actually, I do mind.” Let your smirk fade for something more sympathetic. “Excuse me, Miss Kang, I just have a terrible headache right now. I think I should leave for today.”

#

“You should pay more attention in class. You can’t always skip the lessons you don’t like.”

You put your phone on speaker and throw it on the desk. On the other side is Yena, thoroughly annoyed from the moment you started this call. If you’re honest, her annoyance is getting on your nerves as well.

“But I don’t care,” you groan into your room, loud enough for your girlfriend to hear. “It’s really hard to pay attention when it’s just boring shit, day in, day out.”

“I know it’s boring to you, but you know how grades work and that they don’t give a fuck about you not giving a fuck. At least try?” Yena tries to bargain, but you shatter her away.

“Why the fuck are we still talking about school? I should be by your side right now. Should I come over?”

You smirk in lust, one hand opening a drawer with countless condoms in it. Let a pack of it glide through your fingers before you hear a loud sigh coming from Yena.

“Not today, no. I-it’s better we not.”

“Huh? Why is that?”

“Look, it’s…”

A long pause. You almost slam the drawer shut, instead catching yourself at the last moment and only closing it carefully in deep regret. There is a deeply rooted hate in you for evasive behavior like this; it’s terrible in movies or TV shows, but when it is happening in real life, it makes you snap quickly.

“Yena—”

“I-it’s because… you wouldn’t… look, we can’t do it, okay?”

“Oh. It is that time of the month, huh?

“Ew.”

Another pause, this time a lot more tense.

“What did you just say?” Yena growls furiously. “Oh my God, you’re such an asshole!”

“Yena, I—” Your words face an impenetrable wall, not even reaching your girlfriend’s ear.

“No! Shut up! You insensitive idiot, I don’t want to deal with you too right now. Fuck. Off!”

Yena hangs up. You smash the pack of condoms to the ground, a nerve struck by her entitlement. Oh well, that’s how they are during this time. She’ll calm down by Thursday, maybe Friday. You get to sleep, not willing to even see the school building tomorrow.

#

The tide doesn’t turn on Thursday, but for some goddamn reason, you still went up to that school. For the first time since you two became a couple, she completely ignored you. You’ve been waiting at the gate for an extra twenty minutes, which meant less sleep for you, which means more annoyance, which leads to—

“Watch your fucking step, bro!” you growl at a random student, who was unlucky enough to be in your walking lane. This has quickly turned to a day where everyone is better off either treating you like the irritable King Saul or disappearing all together. A day like a threat; it all hangs by a thread that could tear at any moment. 

Your patience is thin and so is Minju’s arm when she tries to pick something up. Too bad for her, she is right there when you try to pass her. With the grace of an elephant you pass by her, painfully squeeze her arm against the table and hear a whimper of pain. 

“Watch it, Minju,” you bark at her and aggressively take your seat, eyes locked on her. Everything about her looks has gotten worse, her posture looks like it’s about to break, she could fold in half at any minute. Any hobo would have more dignity. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”

“I—it hurts.”

You can hear from the tone of her voice, stiff and pained, that her arm really hurts. Minju wraps her fingers around it gently and looks at you, but all you see are her shimmering eyes with nothing left inside, dull and dead—and so absolutely infuriating. 

“Like I said: not in the mood.”

Minju hisses. Blood spills from her elbow. The class has taken notice of the situation and looks on in awe as you stand up and in front of Minju. Someone is brave enough to sneak out, probably to get a teacher to check on Minju and the open wound, from which beads of blood slowly drip to the floor.

“What have you done?” Yena suddenly whispers from behind you, makes herself beside Minju and looks at that twig-like arm. You can’t channel your focus on her for long, Minju’s sniffles drive you to the edge of insanity. 

“She was in the way, okay?” you respond, not bothering to give Yena another second of your time. For this lone, fleeting moment of your life, you can get it all out on this loser—that no one would miss, that no one sees—in all honesty, you might do her a favor with this. Now, she has everyone’s attention. They can also see how dreadful she looks and smells and dresses.

Minju is undeserving of life in your eyes—and your eyes are on her cheek.

“Maybe you should apologize?!”

A smack heard around the world. You could’ve done it so many ways: grab your wrist and use both fists to hit her or maybe angle your elbow to hit her eye socket. Instead, you went straight for her cheek with your left, swung like a boxer and Minju flew off the chair. No way she could’ve dodged this.

Knocked down after one punch, but there is absolutely nothing satisfying about it. It’s all just a mess. The puddle of Minju on the floor, swollen face, bloody mouth, lifeless limbs. The crowd of classmates that surround her, take photos, groan in shock, turn around to not vomit. The hands of Yena all over your face, push you back towards your seat, into the arms of a teacher, then an officer. 

Her face tells you everything. You’ll never see her again, not as your girlfriend, not as your trophy. Those times have ended with this punch heard around the world. In the end, it wasn’t worth it. The ambulance arrives and you hear the principal yelling, not the words, just that he is yelling. To your surprise, Minju never looked better than now—with that maniacal smile on her face as they carry her towards the ambulance.

#

To your surprise, you’re not in a jail cell on Friday, but in the principal's office again. The sound of that smack you gave Minju, it finally left your ears. You’re not deaf anymore and ready to take a chance at redemption. Of course your fist could not have slipped, not with all the witnesses and the power behind it, but maybe a couple hours of anger management will save you from a trial or whatever punishment may await you.

The principal looks angry, you expected as much, but the anger is mixed with shock, speechlessness and disbelief. He must have seen a ghost last night, or God himself. You’ve never seen this serious man look so at a loss for words. 

The door opens, a young woman and a police officer walk in. She is crying, he is stern. They both wait for the principal to say something, but he just points at you, unable to come up with words that could describe you. At this point, you’ve had it with their hesitation, their overreaction. 

“What am I doing here?” you ask, calmly, quietly, as not to show your slight annoyance. 

“T-tell him, Miss Kwon, please.” The principal’s voice is about to crack, so he turns around, hands in his hair, while Miss Kwon sits down next to you. You slowly remember why she is here. She is the confidant teacher, the kind soul, the one who cares for everyone. Even the likes of Minju.

“Min-Minju came to the hospital yesterday,” she begins, her sniffles stopped temporarily when the officer hands her a handkerchief. “She, she looked good. Yes, she did, sur-sur-surprisingly.”

For the first time, you look at Miss Kwon, but she averts you. Her posture is frozen. She continues to talk as if you aren’t there.

“I remember, she smiled, said something about you. We shouldn’t be angry, you showed it to her. I asked her, but she just smiled. The doctors said she was free to leave tonight, to-to-tonight—”

Miss Kwon bursts out in tears again, her ruined face hidden behind two fragile hands that try to keep up her composure. Behind her is still the officer, the only one to look at you in the entire room, and his dark orbs are full of disgust, like he hates your guts to the core. 

“We found her.” Miss Kwon tries everything in her power to get out another sentence, you feel your breath halt for a bit. “She was, she was hanging from the ce-ceiling—”

Miss Kwon wails, but all you hear is a clock ticking in the background. 

“What?”

“She killed herself!” the principal screams and slams his fists into the desk.

“She is dead, she is dead!

He slams down again and again, the floor starts to shake.

“Do you understand me!? Do you regret it!?

He hits it and you realize—

“Do you regret it!?

—he’d love to hit you like this, over and over and over again. 

“Do you regret it!?”

Do you regret the single tear rolling down your cold face?

I can‘t take this anymore!

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

An interest in photography. A camera in your hand since you’ve been four years old. A nice motive. Click.

Other hobbies don’t come to mind. Friends are none of your concern. Just a camera and the desire to one day make money with it. The grades have to match that desire though. Click. Back to study.

You have pictures of all of your classmates. Most of them taken in secret. All of them show how they grew the last couple of years. Yena and Chawon have matured, fit and attractive. The main bully has gotten bigger, meaner. He’d kill you if he ever found your pictures of Yena. They might not be inappropriate or unflattering, but he is scarily obsessive.

One motive catches your eye. While most of your classmates have bloomed to varying degrees, one gorgeous girl has withered. Your pictures of Minju portray her as increasingly less well-dressed, less combed, less happy. You can barely catch a glimpse of her full, uncovered face. It bothers you how she hides it.

No, it’s intriguing. You can’t keep your eyes off of her. Starting someday in the middle of the school year, you can’t stop looking over to her, sitting in the midst of the classroom while being outside everything and everyone.

Snapshots here and there with your phone and a small digital camera during class. They form a collection of this disheveled girl. You’d much rather have something truly worth framing, taking with your best camera model. This will have to do for the time being, you tell yourself.

Suddenly, one day, you swear that she seems to light up more and more. It is not noticeable for anyone else, no classmates, no teachers — only you know that Kim Minju shines like a star today. Dozens of pictures fill the folder of your phone. Your heart starts to race a little bit. Maybe you could approach her, get more of this glow, hell, even a full portrait—

Don’t be ridiculous! A picture like this is impossible to ask for. You never asked anyone for such a favor, let alone someone whose connection to you only exists in your mind, in your fantasy.

Minju is not in class. A day ago she was glowing; now she is hiding. Call her a solar eclipse and you a solar flare the way you burst. The thrill is burning in your veins, blood rushing to your head as you head out, towards Rainbow Street, your most expensive camera hanging around your neck. You stop next to one of the many older, Japanese style houses. There is a police car. You quickly hide behind a tree across the small street, much more akin to a trafficless avenue.

Two officers walk out, with them a few more people, dressed in black with sorrowful and disturbed faces. Minju is not amongst them, even though this is certainly her address. They murmur and whisper and cry about something, someone — they will miss him, why did he do it, oh this poor girl. The officers drive off, the crowd disassembles.

Right before you decide to leave, the sliding door to the small building opens. A fence and a wall obstruct your view, so you decide to climb up a few branches, just a few feet off the ground to maybe catch a glimpse off—

Minju lays in the doorframe, the sliding door not fully opened. Her head rests against the side, tears endlessly streaming down her face. Small sobs, contortions of her beautiful features, her hair everywhere yet at the same time, you’ve never seen so much of her face.

Her features are flawless. This moment feels like a personal show for you. Instinctively, you reach for the camera and take a photo. Then climb higher, take another photo, then again. Minju does not notice you, but her crying intensifies once more. Her hands try to grab something. She wants to hold on so bad. Click. She gasps, cries out. Click. Words stuck in her throat, lips dry and torn. Click.

A hundred more clicks as you try not to overdose on this perfect moment. You have never felt such a rush. Minju is all yours, these pictures are your proof. Nobody gets to see her like this. Your heart races at the thought that this might be the only moment, your only chance to see this spectacle. A spectacle for you and to you only.

With a hint of disgust about yourself you walk home an hour later. Jerk off to her once because what is one more sin for today? The next day, she isn’t at school, but you don’t visit her either. The day after that she is back, but you can barely stand looking at her. In the one picture you take Minju looks her absolute worst, worse than her endless sobbing and crying and screeching and hair pulling. 

You decide to go back to Rainbow Street the very next day, early in the morning. One hour from the start of school and you stand before the house again. You carefully glance at the sliding door. There is a gap, it’s open.

Your heart skips a beat. The thrill of just having a peak is enough to push you forward. Nobody is out here this early, nothing will disrupt your trespassing. Increasingly rapid breaths leave your nostrils as you put an eye to the gap. It‘s completely dark inside, just a faint white reflection hovering in the hallway catches your attention.

Your heart now races. Fingers push open fully the door that was ajar. The dim morning twilight floods the dark house and the faint white turns to a clearer picture. A simple gown, worn out, hangs from the ceiling.

A scream gets stuck in your throat as your knees give out and you collapse on the floor. Minju‘s eyes are wide open, dead and with yet to dry tears in them. Bruises on her neck, bruises on her hands, lips in a hideous purple. The noose barely holds her at the jaw, blood drips from the corners of her mouth.

You have never seen nor imagined something as utterly horrifying. It‘s like every negative emotion is flooding you for your sins. Sins you have committed, sins you still commit. You find Minju more beautiful than ever.

Beneath her dangling feet you find a letter in crude hand-writing.

To my dearest daughter

I know you won‘t understand this but this is necessary. Ever since your mother passed, I haven‘t had a clear thought. My head is a mess, my mind isn‘t mine. But I have to take responsibility. I have to stop this voice, this feeling for you. You look so much like her, it‘s too painful for me, I can‘t look at you. Please forgive me, I‘m going to her now. For your sake too.

Please forgive me, Minju. I love you.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

„Where is your dad?“

„Out. Somewhere. Drinking, probably.“

„It‘s been a year, huh?“

„What are you doing here, anyways?“

„Keeping you company. Wanna play Mario Kart?“

„So you just wanna game? Play something else then, at home.“

„Hey, Minju, wait! We can do something else if you want. I just need some — excuse to stay with you, something to pass today.“

„But I don‘t want to see anyone today.“

„Not even me?“

„Definitely not you.“

„Okay, that‘s fine. But promise me that you‘ll call me if you need anything — and text me before bed.“

„What are you? My lover?“

„Just a worried friend.“

„I‘m doing fine.“

„You don‘t look like you‘re fine. If you want to be alone, I‘ll go now. But I‘m only a call away.“

„Thanks. Bye.“

#

„Minju! Minju! Open the door, please, open it now!

„Minju! Why weren‘t you in school yesterday? Are you okay? Open the door!

„I swear I‘ll kick it down right now!“

„He is dead! He is dead, fucking dead and it‘s my fault!“

„I‘m coming in!“

„No! Go away! Don‘t look at me, I‘m a demon, a devil! I killed him!“

„Calm down, please. Put, put that away.“

„No!“

„Put the rope away, Minju. Please.“

„…“

„Okay, now breathe. Slow, calm, ste—“

„I don‘t want to breathe — I want to suffocate like he did.“

„Minju, please.“

„I killed my father. I‘m a murderer, I should die.“

„Minju, please. You need to breathe. No more sobbing, no more screams. Listen to my heartbeat.“

„I-I can‘t, I don‘t deserve to!“

„Then I will hold you closer, until you‘ve given up this awful plan, until your tears are dried, until you can tell me why—“

„…“

„Minju,

„I don‘t want to lose you.

„You‘re my best friend.“

„Please, let me, let me go. I‘m a demon, a monster.“

„Even if you were, I‘d stick with you. I‘m not going to let you die tonight.“

„…“

„What is in your hands?“

„My reason.“

„Your final letter?“

„My dads final letter.“

„Whatever is written in this — it does not mean that it‘s your fault and that you need to die too. Minju, isn‘t life beautiful?“

„It‘s fucking not. I can‘t do this anymore.“

„You‘re right to feel this way. But it‘s the only life you got and even if this is just me being selfish, I want you to continue trying, continue living.“

You text her first.

This happens on a Wednesday, eleven days after the night market. You've seen her twice more since then — once for lunch near her studio, once when she dragged you to a bookshop in Mangwon that she swore had the best natural light in the city, which turned out to be true and also turned out to be an excuse to photograph you pretending to read while she shot through the shelves.

You: "You said one photo."

Yujin: "That was one photo. In twelve parts."

But you haven't texted first. She always initiates. The sunset photo, the trust me, the lunch invitation, the bookshop. She throws the line and you let yourself be caught, and neither of you has acknowledged the pattern because acknowledging it would mean naming it, and naming it would make it a thing, and you don't do things.

Except today.

It's 6:14 PM. You're on the rooftop. The sunset is doing something mediocre — hazy, washed out, the kind of sky that doesn't photograph well and doesn't inspire anything. The rooftop feels wrong without her on it. Not empty — wrong. Like a room with the furniture rearranged. Everything's still there but the geometry doesn't work anymore.

You take a picture with your phone. Frame it badly on purpose. Send it to her with:

You: Your standards are low if you think this light is good.

Three dots. Immediate.

Yujin: YOU NOTICED THE LIGHT!!!

Yujin: I'm winning

Yujin: I'm literally winning right now

Yujin: This is the best day of my life!

You put your phone down. Look at the ugly sunset. Something in your chest does the inconvenient thing again, except this time you don’t file it under ignore. You just let it sit there, taking up space, warm and unclassified.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re smoking less.

You don’t make a declaration about it. There’s no moment of decision, no ceremonial crushing of a final cigarette, no dramatic last drag. You just notice, one afternoon, that the pack on your desk has been there for three days and it’s still half full.

Three days. A pack used to last you one.

You pick one up, roll it between your fingers. Don’t light it. Just hold it, the way you’ve held thousands before — and your brain does what it always does when your hands are idle and a cigarette is involved. It goes back to the first one.

The first cigarette you ever finished was on a balcony in Mapo-gu, second year of university, stolen off someone’s kitchen counter because the party was loud and you needed five minutes of quiet. She was out there drinking water. Said her name was Gaeul. Business administration major with a composure that didn’t match her age and a face that held everything one layer deeper than the surface. She tried a drag of yours and made a face like you’d handed her a war crime. You talked for an hour. Three weeks later she was your girlfriend. Four years after that — both of you at the same company, her in HR, you in audit, the rooftop the only place your orbits still touched — she stood up there and told you she needed something you couldn’t give, and you stood there and said nothing, and she left, and you let her. The girl from HR who might find you on the rooftop. That’s what you tell people now, when the rooftop comes up. That’s the version that fits in a sentence and doesn’t require you to explain that she wasn’t just HR. She was the reason you started smoking in the first place. The cigarette was still bright back then. First drag. Sharp and clean and almost good. You didn’t know yet that the taste goes flat if you hold on long enough.

It went flat. After her, you smoked the way some people drink — not to feel something but to keep the hands busy and the mouth occupied and the empty hours from settling into a shape you’d have to look at. Pack a day. The rooftop every evening. The taste stopped registering around the same time the food did, around the same time the weather did, around the same time you stopped being a person who noticed things and became a person who just stood in places where things used to happen. The long middle stretch, where the cherry just glows and glows and nothing changes and the ash gets longer and you don’t bother flicking it.

Then Rei. Expensive heels on your ugly rooftop. She kissed like a dare and left the country without saying goodbye, and she should’ve been just another drag — the same burn, the same nothing — but she wasn’t. She was the part where the heat finally reaches your fingers. Where the taste turns bitter enough that your body overrides the habit and you flinch. And the flinch wakes something up. Not a lot. Just enough to notice that you’ve been holding onto something that stopped giving you anything a long time ago.

You look at the pack in the drawer. Half full. Cellophane still crisp.

Your mouth wants something else now. Something that doesn’t taste like burning. You close the drawer.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Her apartment is on the fourth floor of a building in Yeonnam-dong, and it looks exactly the way you expected — which is to say, it looks like a person actually lives there.

This is the first time you’ve been here. She texted come over, I shot something incredible today, you have to see it, which you suspect is also code for I made too much jjigae. You said yes without the customary delay you usually impose between receiving an invitation and responding to it. That delay — the gap between someone asking and you answering — has been shrinking for weeks. You’ve noticed. You haven’t done anything about it.

The apartment is bright. Small, but she’s made it feel larger than it is through the strategic absence of clutter in the living areas and the absolute chaos of her work spaces. Photos are pinned everywhere — the walls, the fridge, the edge of the bathroom mirror (you see this through the open door and avert your eyes, which is ridiculous, because it’s a mirror, not a state secret). Camera gear lives on every surface. An older camera body sits on the bookshelf like a trophy. A stack of Instax prints, held together with a rubber band, sits next to a half-burned citrus candle on the coffee table.

It smells like her. Or like her apartment, which is the same thing at this point — citrus candle, kimchi jjigae on the stove, the specific warmth of a space that someone has made into a home instead of just a place to sleep.

Your apartment doesn’t smell like anything. You’ve lived there for two years and it still looks like you’re between moves.

She hands you a cold drink from the fridge.

“You keep these stocked now,” you say.

“I keep lots of things in my fridge.”

“You bought this because I come over.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Points a spatula at you.

“Auditors shouldn’t be allowed in people’s homes. You’re a menace.”

She turns back to the stove. The jjigae is simmering, and she adjusts the heat, tastes from a spoon, adds something. She’s in a loose tank top and shorts, and from this angle — her standing at the stove, you sitting at the counter — you can see the line of her back, the way her shoulder blades move when she stirs, the strip of skin above her waistband where the tank top rides up.

You look at the strip of skin longer than is defensible.

She needs something from the shelf behind you. She doesn’t ask you to move. Just reaches past you, one hand bracing on the counter beside your arm, her body pressing close enough that you feel the heat of her through the tank top’s thin fabric. Her hip brushes your side. Her shoulder is against your chest for a half-second. The gochugaru is right there — she could’ve asked you to pass it. She didn’t.

Her fingers close around the container. She doesn’t pull back immediately. There’s a beat — maybe a full second, maybe less — where she’s in your space and neither of you acknowledges it, and the heat from the stove and the heat from her skin are the same temperature and your hand, resting on the counter, is close enough to her hip that you’d only have to move your thumb.

She grabs the gochugaru and steps back. Shakes some into the pot. Stirs.

“You’re doing it again,” she says, not turning around.

“Doing what.”

“Looking at me like you’re auditing something.”

“I was looking at the photos.”

“Mm-hm.” She glances over her shoulder. The look is unhurried. She doesn’t smile, exactly — it’s more like the ghost of a smile, the knowledge of one, held at the corner of her mouth but not released. “The photos are on the wall. I’m at the stove. You were looking at the stove.”

She turns back to the jjigae. You look at the photos.

Her street work. The real stuff. Night markets, rain on windows, an old woman feeding pigeons in a park, a child asleep on a bus with his head against the glass. Every photo is a small act of attention. A declaration that this moment, this person, this slant of light through a bus window was worth stopping for.

You look at them for a long time. Longer than you’ve looked at anything that wasn’t a financial statement in years.

“You see a lot of things,” you say.

“So do you.” She’s stirring the jjigae. The steam rises around her face. “You just look for different stuff.”

“I look for what’s wrong.”

“I know.” She doesn’t turn around. Just keeps stirring. “Maybe that’s why you keep coming back here. Someone’s gotta balance you out.”

You don’t argue. The fact that you don’t argue is the loudest thing in the room.

Dinner is good. Not restaurant good — better. Home good. The kind of good that comes from someone who measured nothing and tasted everything, who learned to cook by watching and doing and burning things until she didn’t. She eats with the same full-body commitment she brings to everything — shoulders moving, eyes closing on the first bite, a small sound of satisfaction that she doesn’t censor. You eat quietly but you finish your bowl and she refills it without asking and you finish that one too.

“You liked it,” she says.

“It was adequate.”

“Your left eyebrow twitched.”

“It didn’t.”

“Two bowls says otherwise.”

After dinner, she pulls you to the couch to show you edits from a recent shoot. Her laptop is open, Lightroom on screen, and she walks you through her process — culling, color grading, the specific adjustments she makes to each frame. It’s methodical in a way you didn’t expect. For someone so instinctive with the camera, her post-processing is deliberate. Analytical. She knows exactly what she wants and she works toward it with the kind of precision you associate with your own field.

She’s sitting close. Closer than the laptop requires. Her thigh is pressed against yours and she hasn’t adjusted the distance, which means it’s either intentional or it’s the way she naturally exists near people she’s comfortable with. Either answer does something to the air between your ribs.

She leans across you to point at a highlight adjustment, and her hair falls against your jaw. Citrus shampoo. The strands brush your neck and she’s talking about exposure compensation but you’ve stopped processing the words because her hand has landed on your thigh for balance. Her fingers are spread, casual, like this is just where hands go when you’re reaching across someone’s body to demonstrate a slider adjustment. She’s still talking. Her hand stays. Your thigh is very aware that her hand stays.

She finds the photo she’s looking for and sits back. Her hand lifts. The absence registers.

“You’re good at this,” you say.

“I know.” No false modesty. Just fact. “I’m really good at this.”

“That wasn’t a compliment. It was an observation.”

“Sure it was.”

She scrolls to a photo you haven’t seen. It takes you a second to recognize the subject.

It’s you. In the bookshop. You’re standing by a shelf, not looking at the camera, your hand on the spine of a book you don’t remember touching. The light from the window catches the side of your face, and the expression you’re wearing isn’t the mask. It isn’t the flat affect or the professional neutrality or the sardonic shield. It’s just you. Reading a book title. Existing in a room without performing anything.

“When did you take this?”

“When you forgot I was there.”

You look at the photo. You look like someone you almost recognize. Not the version from performance reviews — technically excellent but interpersonally challenging — or the version that ate convenience store kimbap alone at his desk for two years. Someone softer than that. Someone who might be okay.

“It’s going on the wall,” she says.

“It’s not going on the wall.”

She holds the look a beat too long. Her eyes drop to your mouth — fast, reflexive, the kind of glance that a person makes before they’ve decided to make it — and then snap back up. She smiles. Turns back to the laptop.

“It’s absolutely going on the wall.”

She prints it on her Instax the next day. Texts you a photo of it pinned to the wall between a night market vendor and a shot of rain on a bus window.

Yujin: You're in good company

You look at the photo for a long time. You, in a bookshop, not trying to be anything. Surrounded by her work. Held in the same regard as the things she finds beautiful.

You don't respond for an hour. When you do, it's just:

You: The lighting's decent

Yujin: THAT'S WHAT I SAID!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’ve stopped finishing your cigarettes. Stopped starting them, most days. It’s not a decision — it’s a drift, the way a habit loses its grip when something else starts occupying the space it used to fill. You light one on the rooftop, take two drags, and then she texts, and you put it out. You buy a pack and it lasts a week.

And then — on a Tuesday, walking to her apartment with takeout in a bag because she texted come over, I need you to see something, which is always her version of I want company and food — it hits you all at once.

Everything. The city at full volume, unfiltered, the way it must sound to people who haven't been breathing through smoke for five years. The ginkgo trees on the sidewalk, sharp and clean and slightly rotten in a way that's somehow good. The sweet oil from a hotteok cart two blocks over. And underneath all of it, already, before you've even reached her building — the ghost of citrus and warmth, the scent your brain has filed as destination, as arrival, as the smell of a room you want to be in. Your lungs expand. Your mouth is empty — no cigarette, no filter, no acrid drag to flatten the world back down to manageable. Every receptor is open and the data is flooding in and it's too much, it's genuinely too much, your hands are doing a thing and your chest is doing a thing and the city is so fucking loud and bright and alive that you have to stop walking for a second and just stand there on the sidewalk like an idiot processing the full bandwidth of being a person without a chemical buffer.

“Huh. So this is what the world smells like.“

Her door buzzes. You climb four flights.

She opens the door with the camera already in her hand, screen tilted toward you, talking before you’ve crossed the threshold — "Okay, look at this, the light in the stairwell today was insane, I got the most incredible—” and then she stops. Looks at you. Reads something on your face that you didn’t know was there.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” You hand her the takeout. “Just walked here.”

“You look like you ran.”

“I walked.”

She takes the bag. Steps aside to let you in. Her hand brushes your arm as you pass — casual, the way she always touches, except this time the contact sends a current up to your shoulder and you go still. Not a flinch. Worse. The specific stillness of a body that received more signal than it was prepared for. She catches it. She catches everything.

“Hey.” She’s standing close in the doorway. Closer than the doorway requires. Her hand comes up — slowly, deliberately — and fixes your collar. Smooths a fold that doesn’t exist. Her fingers are warm against the side of your neck.

The apartment is behind her, golden and smelling like citrus and old jjigae. She’s in front of you, tilting her head slightly, reading your face the way she reads a frame — looking for the thing that most people would miss.

You almost close the distance. Your body tips forward — a fraction, a millimeter, an amount that only someone who studies angles for a living would notice.

She notices.

Her breath changes. Her fingers stop moving on your collar. For a full second, neither of you breathes, and the space between your mouths is so small you can feel the warmth of hers without touching them.

Your hand moves to her waist. Instinct, not decision. Your thumb lands on the strip of skin between her shirt and her jeans and she inhales — sharp, quiet, the kind of breath that sounds like a door opening.

She steps back. Holds up the camera.

“Come look at this light. Seriously. It’s insane.”

And the moment dissolves, but the charge doesn’t. It sits in the room like a frequency — below hearing, above ignoring. You eat the takeout. She tells you about the stairwell light. Her knee touches yours under the counter and neither of you moves it.

You stand in her doorway later, putting your jacket on, and think: this is what the cigarettes were for. This is the thing they were replacing. Not calm — presence. Not numbness — the ability to be in a room with someone and feel it all the way through.

You just weren’t in the right room.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re walking her home. It’s late — later than either of you planned, because dinner at the jjigae place down the street turned into dessert at the bakery she found last month, which turned into her telling you about a documentary she watched about deep-sea photographers, and you let her talk because her voice when she’s passionate about something makes your lungs forget how to work properly.

Your hands are empty. No cigarette. The craving that used to sit in your fingers like a phantom has been replaced by something else — a different kind of itch, a different kind of reaching.

The street is quiet. Her shoulder keeps bumping yours because she walks slightly off-center, gravitating toward whoever she’s with, and every bump sends her scent to you — the citrus, the clean sweat from the warm evening, something underneath that’s just her. Your lungs expand the way they used to for the first drag. You’re breathing her in without meaning to.

She’s mid-sentence about bioluminescent jellyfish when she stops walking.

“What?” you say.

She’s looking at you. Not the photographer’s look — not assessing angles or composition. Just looking at you the way a person looks at another person when they’ve run out of reasons to pretend they don’t want to.

“Nothing,” she says. “You just — you’re doing the thing.”

“What thing.”

“The thing where you’re actually listening. Where your face goes all…” She gestures vaguely at you. “Soft. You probably don’t know you do it.”

You don’t know you do it.

She steps closer. Not dramatic. Just one step, closing the gap from walking together to standing in each other’s space. Her hand goes to your collar. Not adjusting anything this time. Just landing there, the way it does now, her fingers finding the side of your neck like that's where they go.

“Yujin.”

“Mm.”

“What are you doing.”

“Fixing your collar.” Her hand stays where it is. Her thumb traces a small line along the fabric, or along your skin, or along the boundary between the two. “It was crooked.”

“It wasn’t crooked.”

“It was a little crooked.”

You look at her. She’s close enough to smell the honey tea on her breath. Close enough that your body identifies her proximity the way it used to identify the lighter in your pocket — instinctive, chemical, the knowledge that relief is right there if you just reach.

You close the distance.

Her mouth is warm. The first contact hits you the way the first drag of a cigarette used to — that rush, that full-body exhale, that thing where every nerve ending recalibrates at once. Except this is better. Immeasurably better. Because nicotine was always a substitute for something your body actually wanted, and this — her lips, her breath, the soft sound she makes when your mouth finds hers — this is the thing itself.

She tastes like honey tea and something that your brain immediately categorizes as necessary. Her hand moves from your collar to the back of your neck, and she pulls you closer with a firmness that surprises you — not forceful, just certain. Like she’s been waiting for this and now that it’s happening she’s not going to let any part of it be half-done.

You kiss her on a quiet street in Yeonnam-dong with the glow of a convenience store sign casting blue light across the pavement, and it lasts long enough that when you pull back you’ve both forgotten what she was saying about jellyfish. Your hand is on her waist. You don’t remember putting it there. Her fingers are in your hair. Neither of you is breathing normally.

“That was—” she starts.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“You were going to say something about the light.”

She laughs. Breathless. “I was going to say it was worth the wait.”

The walk home is different. She holds your hand — not laced fingers, just her palm against yours, steady. Your thumb traces a small circle on the back of her hand, involuntary, and she squeezes once in response.

At her door, she turns, back against the frame, and looks up at you — and you don’t wait for her to initiate this time. You kiss her and she makes a sound against your mouth, a small surprised hum that vibrates through you, and her hands find the front of your jacket and pull. The kiss deepens, her tongue finding yours, and the taste of her is addictive in the clinical, neurological sense.

“Stay,” she says into the space between your mouths. Her hands are still fisted in your jacket.

“Yujin.”

“I’m not — it doesn’t have to be anything.” Her voice is lower than normal. Rougher. “Just stay.”

You stay.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The door barely closes before her mouth is on yours again.

She pulls you in by the jacket, walking backward, and the apartment is dark except for the city glow through the window. You hear the camera bag hit the floor — she dropped it somewhere between the hallway and here, the first time you’ve seen her treat that bag as anything less than sacred. Your jacket follows. Her hands are on your chest, your shoulders, the back of your neck, touching with the same instinctive urgency she brings to a camera when the light is perfect and fading fast.

“Lamp,” she says against your mouth, and reaches sideways without looking, fingers finding the switch. Warm light floods the room. And in that light you see her face clearly: flushed, bright-eyed, mouth swollen from kissing, looking at you like you’re the best frame she’s ever found.

You push her gently against the wall beside the lamp. She lets you. Her back hits flat and she gasps — not from impact, just from the sudden stillness after all the motion. Your hand finds the side of her neck, tilts her chin up, and you kiss her the way you’ve been wanting to since the break room, since the stairwell, since the first time she said you look good in this light and you pretended it didn’t register.

She kisses back like she’s starving. Her hands slide under your shirt and the contact of her palms on bare skin sends a current through you that makes your fingers tighten on her waist.

“You smell different,” she murmurs between kisses, her nose against your jaw. “Since you stopped smoking. You smell like—” She breathes you in. “Like a person. Not an ashtray. It’s really good.”

“Thanks?”

“Shut up. I’m complimenting you.” She pulls back enough to look at you. Her eyes are dark and steady and completely unguarded. “You taste different too. Better. Like, significantly better.”

“You’ve been thinking about how I taste?”

“Since the first time you almost smiled on the rooftop.” Zero hesitation.  “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. Like, an embarrassing amount.”

She pulls you off the wall and toward the couch, her hands on your belt loops like handles. She pulls you down. You’re over her, weight on your forearms, and she looks up at you with her hair fanned against the cushion and the light turning her skin gold, and her legs wrap around the back of yours — casual, automatic, the way her body claims space wherever it goes.

Her t-shirt has ridden up. Your hand is on the bare skin of her stomach — taut, the muscles underneath shifting when she breathes. She inhales sharply when your thumb traces the line of her hip. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt and pull you down, and the kiss is slower now, deeper, the urgency giving way to something more deliberate. She’s exploring you. Cataloging. Committing.

You do the same. The curve of her waist. The softness just below her ribs. The way her breath catches when you kiss the hollow beneath her ear, and the way she tilts her head to give you more access without being asked.

She pulls back. Breathless. Her hand on your chest, feeling your heartbeat.

“Hi,” she says. Smiling. Wrecked.

“Hi.”

"We should slow down."

"We should."

Neither of you moves.

Your weight shifts. Barely — just the beginning of the motion your body makes before it stands up and puts distance between itself and whatever's happening. You've done it a thousand times. Doorways, conversations, rooftops. The lean-back. The reach for the cigarette that buys you thirty seconds of not being here.

Your weight settles back.

Her eyes search your face. Whatever she finds there — the answer you're not saying, the permission you're not asking for — she reads it the way she reads light. Instantly. Completely.

She reaches down and pulls her t-shirt over her head.

It’s not a performance. No arch of the back, no calculated reveal. She pulls the shirt off the way she slings a camera strap — practiced, unselfconscious, a body moving through a decision it already made. Her sports bra is plain, gray, functional, and the sight of her in it — the bare skin, the lines of her collarbones, the flat plane of her stomach and the way the light catches the curve of her waist — lands in your chest like a controlled detonation.

She drops the shirt on the floor. Looks at you.

“Your turn.”

You pull your shirt off. Her eyes track the movement, and then they’re on your chest, your shoulders, the lines of your body, and she’s looking at you the way she looks through the viewfinder — finding what she wants, assessing, deciding. Her hand comes up and presses flat against your sternum. Warm palm. Steady pressure. She can feel your heartbeat and she knows it.

“You’re shaking,” she says. Not a question.

“No I’m not.”

“You are.” Her thumb traces a line across your chest. “It’s okay. I’m nervous too.”

“You don’t look nervous.”

“I’m an excellent liar.” She grins. It breaks the tension just enough — just enough to remind you that this is Yujin, the woman who force-fed you tteokbokki and steals your headshots and finds beauty in rust stains, and whatever happens next is still her. Still this. “Except right now I’m not. I’m actually nervous. Look—” She takes your hand and places it over hers on your chest. “See? My hands are being so embarrassing right now.”

Her fingers are trembling. Not a lot — just enough that you can feel it, and the vulnerability of that admission, the fact that she showed you instead of hiding it, does something to you that her body against yours didn’t.

You kiss her. She kisses back with her trembling hands on your face, and the kiss is different now — the urgency is still there but there’s something underneath it, something that has weight, and when she pulls you down onto her the contact is skin to skin for the first time, her stomach against yours, her chest against yours, and the closeness of her is almost too much.

She reaches behind her back and unclasps the sports bra. Pulls it off. Drops it with the same unselfconscious practicality as the shirt.

She’s beautiful — not decorative, not posed, just the raw meaning of the word. She’s beautiful the way the rooftop was beautiful after she photographed it. Something you’d seen a thousand times that suddenly looks like it matters. Small breasts with dark nipples, already stiff from the air or the anticipation. The athletic build — lean stomach, the subtle definition of someone who moves for a living. The lamp paints her gold.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“I was looking at the lamp.”

“Liar.” But she’s smiling. And she pulls you back down.

Your mouth finds her neck. Her collarbone. The hollow of her throat where her pulse beats fast and visible. She arches into the contact, her hand on the back of your head, guiding without directing. Her breath comes shorter. When your mouth reaches her breast and your lips close around her nipple, she makes a sound — a small, sharp inhale that you feel more than hear — and her fingers tighten in your hair.

“That's—” She doesn’t finish the sentence. Her hips shift against yours and you feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her shorts, and the friction pulls a sound from your throat that you didn’t authorize.

She hears it. Her eyes go wide, then dark.

“Do that again,” she says.

“Do what.”

“Make that sound again.” Her hips roll into yours — intentional this time, a slow grind that sends a bolt through you. “I want to hear it.”

She’s moving. Her hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing the line of your waistband, and the touch short-circuits whatever part of your brain was still keeping track.

“Off,” she says, tugging at your belt. “These need to be off.”

You stand up long enough to handle the logistics. Belt. Pants. She watches from the couch, propped on her elbows, hair everywhere, chest rising and falling, and her eyes track down your body with the specific attention of someone taking a mental photograph.

“Good,” she says. Simple. Like she’s confirming exposure settings.

She lifts her hips and slides her shorts down. Then the underwear — plain, black, functional — and she drops them on the pile and looks at you with zero embarrassment, zero hesitation, the same confidence she carries into every room she enters.

She’s completely bare on her couch in the low light.

“Come here,” she says.

You go to her. Kneel between her legs on the couch. She reaches for you but you catch her hand, press it back against the cushion, and she blinks — surprised, curious, not resisting.

“Wait,” you say.

“For what?”

You don’t answer. You kiss her mouth. Then her jaw. Her neck, slower. The dip of her collarbone. Between her breasts, where you can feel her heartbeat through her sternum.

“Where are you going,” she murmurs. Not a question. More like she’s tracking you. Her fingers slide through your hair.

Her stomach, where the muscles tense under your lips. The jut of her hip bone. The inside of her thigh, where the skin is softer than anywhere else you’ve touched tonight, and her breath goes jagged.

“Oh,” she says. Quiet. Almost to herself. “Oh, you're—”

You are.

You’ve been tasting everything differently since you stopped smoking. Coffee. Street food. Rain. The city itself, bright and unfiltered and overwhelming. Every flavor sharper, every sensation louder, every input arriving without the buffer of smoke and tar flattening it to manageable.

This is the one you’ve been waiting for without knowing you were waiting.

The first taste of her makes your brain shut up. She’s warm and slick and the taste is clean and sharp and entirely her, and your mouth knows what to do before your mind catches up.

Her hand flies to your hair. Not guiding this time — holding on.

“Fuck.” Her voice is wrecked already and you’ve barely started. Her thighs tense on either side of your head. “That’s — right there, don't—”

You don’t move. You stay where she put you and work her with your tongue, slow and focused, learning what makes her breathing change and what makes her hips cant up and what makes her fingers tighten in your hair until it hurts. She’s responsive in a way you didn’t expect — not performative, just honest. Every reaction is immediate and unfiltered. When something works, she tells you. When something really works, she stops being able to form words and just makes sounds.

“Slower,” she breathes. Then, ten seconds later: “No — faster. Like before. Do that thing — yeah. Yeah.”

You slide two fingers inside her. She’s wet enough that they go easy and her back arches off the couch and the sound she makes is somewhere between a moan and a laugh — surprised, almost delighted, like she didn’t expect this to feel as good as it does.

“More,” she manages. “Keep — your mouth, don’t stop your mouth—”

You curl your fingers. Find the spot that makes her thighs shake. Keep your mouth on her clit and work both at the same time, and her whole body starts to vibrate — not trembling, vibrating, like a struck tuning fork, every muscle engaged and every nerve firing.

“You’re so good at this,” she says, and her voice cracks on the last word. “How are you — fuck — how are you this good at this.”

She’s close. You can feel it in the way her walls tighten around your fingers, in the way her breathing loses any rhythm, in the way her hand in your hair goes from holding to gripping to pulling hard enough that your scalp burns.

“I’m going to—” She can’t finish. Her hips lift off the couch and her free hand slams against the armrest and she comes with her thighs pressed against your ears, muffling the sound she makes into something low and distant and shaking. You feel it from the inside — the clench, the pulse, the flood of warmth — and you work her through it, gentling as she gentles, until she’s trembling and pushing weakly at your shoulder.

“Stop,” she breathes. “Too much. Come here.”

You crawl up her body. She pulls you down into a kiss — slower now, tasting herself on your mouth, and you feel the moment she registers it because she makes a small, bitten-off sound and her hand tightens on the back of your neck.

“You’re really good at that,” she says against your lips.

“Observation, not compliment.”

“Shut up.” She laughs. Breathless, warm, her chest shaking against yours. “That was — I need a second. Give me a second.”

You give her a second. She uses it to wrap her legs around you and pull your hips against hers, which is the opposite of what someone who needs a second does.

“I thought you needed a second.”

"I lied." Her hand reaches between you. Wraps around you. Your jaw clenches and your hips jerk forward and she watches your face with an expression that's equal parts tender and fascinated. "There. That's the one I've been looking for."

She strokes you — slow, certain, her grip firm — and your arms shake where they’re holding you up.

“I want you,” she says. Not a whisper. She says it at full volume, in the warm apartment, with the lamp on and the city outside. “I’ve wanted this for weeks. I’m so done waiting.”

“You’re the least patient person I’ve ever met.”

“And yet.” She positions you at her entrance, her hand steady, and then she looks at you — holds your gaze, completely still. “Don’t be gentle.”

The first push is anything but. She tilts her hips up and you sink into her and the heat is staggering — tight, wet, her body opening around you in a way that makes both of you stop breathing for a second. She takes all of you. Her legs tighten around your hips. Her hands find your shoulders and grip.

“Move,” she says. “Please move.”

You move. Not slow, not careful — she said don’t be gentle and you’re taking her at her word. She matches you immediately, her hips rising to meet yours, finding your rhythm and locking into it like she’s been waiting to move with you.

Her fingers move from your shoulders to your face. She holds you there, foreheads almost touching, breath mingling, and watches you as you fuck her. The eye contact is unbearable.

“Harder,” she says.

The couch protests. Her nails rake down your back and you don’t care. The sounds filling the apartment are hers — small gasps that build into longer moans. Your name, once, said like something she’s certain about.

“Wait—” She pushes at your chest. You stop, and for a half-second you think something’s wrong, but she’s not in pain. She’s thinking. “Turn over. Sit up.”

You sit back against the couch. She climbs onto you without hesitation, one knee on either side, and pauses. Looks down at you. There’s something in her expression — not playful, not tender. Predatory. The kind of look that makes your stomach drop in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with what comes after it.

“You should be a little scared right now,” she says.

“Of what.”

“Of me up here.” She settles onto your thighs. Rolls her hips once — slow, testing — and the contact makes your jaw tighten. “Because once I start, I don’t care how it feels for you. I’m using you.” She leans forward. Her mouth brushes your ear. “I’m going to grip you and ride you like I’m trying to rip it off. And you’re going to let me.”

Your hands find her hips. Your grip is harder than you intend.

“That’s not a threat,” she says, pulling back to look at you. The grin is devastating. “That’s a promise.”

She sinks down in a single movement that pulls a groan from somewhere deep and involuntary.

“Better,” she says, settling. Her hands on your shoulders. Her face above yours. She rolls her hips — once, slow, testing the angle — and her eyes flutter shut. “Much better. I can feel all of you like this.”

She starts to move. Her hips roll in a rhythm that’s unhurried, certain, the kind of movement that comes from someone who lives in her body. She sets the pace. Your hands are on her hips but she’s dictating everything.

"Look at me," she says.

You look at her. The light turns her skin gold and her eyes are dark and her mouth is open.

Her rhythm slows. Not stopping — just settling, like she's adjusting a frame. Her eyes move across your face the way they move across a viewfinder.

"You have no idea what you look like right now," she says. Quiet. Almost to herself. Then, steadier, "Don't close your eyes."

You don’t close your eyes.

“You feel so deep like this,” she murmurs. Her hips grind down and her breath catches. “Every time I move I can — fuck.” Her nails dig into your shoulders. “Right there. Stay right there.”

She clenches around you and her rhythm stutters. Her hands move from your shoulders to the back of the couch for leverage and the change in angle makes her cry out — surprised by her own pleasure. Her movements get faster, sharper, chasing something that’s building faster than she expected.

“Touch me,” she says. She takes your hand and presses your fingers against her clit. “Right there.”

You rub circles against her while she rides you and her rhythm breaks completely. Half-grinding, half-bouncing, chasing two sensations at once. Her head falls back and her breathing goes ragged and she’s saying things you barely process — right there and don’t stop and fuck, that’s good — and then she goes rigid above you, her walls clamping down, and she comes with your name on her lips and her nails in your shoulders.

She rides through it. Shaking. Slowing. Her body goes slack and she drops her forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard against your neck.

“Give me a second,” she pants. “Just — one second.”

You give her the second. Your hands trace up and down her back, feeling the muscles tremble under your palms. She lifts her head. Looks at you. Her eyes are glazed and soft and her mouth is swollen and she looks at you like you’re something she’s afraid might disappear.

Then she lifts off you. Slow. The separation pulls a sound from both of you — loss, air, the sudden cool where heat was. She slides down between your legs, off the couch and onto her knees on the floor, and her hand wraps around you before you’ve processed the change in geography.

“What are you—”

“Shh.” She’s looking at you. Down at you, now — the angle reversed, her between your legs, her hand stroking you slow and slick with what’s left of both of you. “I want to taste what we did.”

Her mouth closes over you and the world compresses to a single point.

She’s not tentative about it. Her tongue is flat and deliberate and she takes you deep enough that her nose presses against your stomach, and the sound she makes — low, satisfied, a hum that vibrates through you — suggests this isn’t for you. Or not only for you. She pulls back slowly, her lips dragging, tongue working the underside, and looks up at you with her mouth still on you.

She doesn’t look away. That’s the thing. Those wide, dark eyes — the same ones that light up over street food and golden hour and a good frame — are locked on yours, and the contrast between the softness of her gaze and what her mouth is doing is genuinely criminal. She looks innocent. She looks like she’s asking you how your day was. She looks like a girl who found something she likes and is taking her time with it.

“You taste like me,” she says. Not shy about it. Fascinated. She takes you again, deeper, and her eyes stay on yours the entire time — wide, unblinking, almost curious — and your hand finds the back of her head. Not pushing, just holding. Needing something solid because your vision is starting to blur at the edges.

She’s good at this. Obscenely, unreasonably good at this. She alternates between slow, deep strokes that make your toes curl and focused attention on the head that makes your vision swim. Her hand works what her mouth doesn’t cover. And through all of it — every stroke, every pause, every slow swirl of her tongue — she holds your gaze. Those fucking eyes. Soft and round and looking up at you like you’re the only thing worth seeing, while her mouth takes you apart inch by inch.

You try to look away. At the ceiling. The wall. Anything. She pulls off just enough to speak.

“Eyes on me,” she says. Quiet. Then takes you back in, deeper than before, and you watch her because she told you to and because looking away from her right now would require a kind of willpower you no longer possess.

“Yujin.” Your voice comes out rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m going to—”

She pulls off. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Grins up at you from between your knees with her lips swollen and her eyes bright and her hair wrecked.

“Not yet,” she says. “Not like that.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

“Maybe.” She climbs back up. Straddles you again. Takes you in her hand, positions you, and sinks down — and this time the sound you make is unrecognizable. She’s wetter now, hotter, and your whole body is pulled taut from what her mouth just did and the relief of being inside her again is borderline violent.

“Hi again,” she says softly. She starts to move — slower this time, deeper, less frantic. She’s watching your face with an expression that has nothing to do with control and everything to do with wanting to see you come apart.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the break room,” she says. Rolling her hips. “Since you sat there drinking your terrible coffee and I wanted to climb across the table.”

Your hands grip her hips. You’re close. She knows you’re close.

“Come in me,” she breathes. “I want to feel it.”

You grip her hips and pull her down and the orgasm hits like something structural giving way. She holds you through it, arms around your neck, her mouth against your ear, whispering things you can’t process — your name, and yes, and I’ve got you — and the warmth of it, all of it, her body and her voice and her hands in your hair, is the only thing that exists.

She stays on you after. Neither of you moves. Your face is in her neck and her fingers are drawing slow circles on your back and the apartment is quiet except for breathing.

“You’re heavy,” she says eventually.

“You’re on top of me.”

“Details.” She pulls back. Looks at you. Her face is flushed and soft and open and she looks like a person who just got exactly what she wanted and can’t believe it’s real. “That was—”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“It was going to be something about the light.”

She laughs. Full, warm, her whole body shaking against yours. She kisses your forehead. Stays there for a second, her lips against your skin.

“It was about the light,” she admits. “Everything’s about the light.”

She climbs off. The separation is a small loss. She pads to the kitchen, and you lie there on the couch with the light on your chest and think about nothing.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She gets water. She pads back from the kitchen with two glasses and a bag of dried mango slices that she tears open with her teeth.

“Hydrate,” she says, handing you a glass. She sits cross-legged on the couch next to you, entirely bare, and drinks her water like this is a normal Tuesday. Then she pops a mango slice in her mouth and chews with the same commitment she brings to every meal — eyes closing, shoulders relaxing, a small sound of satisfaction.

She’s sitting naked on her couch eating dried mango, occasionally scrolling her phone with her free hand, and it’s the most surreal image you’ve ever processed.

“You’re staring again,” she says.

“I was looking at the mango.”

She laughs — the one that makes the room smaller.  She puts the bag down and leans into your side, her bare shoulder against your bare arm, her head finding the dip below your collarbone like it was designed for it.

She traces a line down your chest with her fingertip. Slow.

“I was scared you were going to say no tonight,” she says. “When I said stay.”

“Why would I say no.”

“Because you’re you. Because you’ve got that whole thing where you keep everyone at like, exactly this far.” She holds her hands apart, measuring an invisible distance. Presses her cheek against your chest. You can feel her eyelashes against your skin. “I was scared you were gonna do the thing. Where you decide it’s not worth it and just… disappear. Go back to the rooftop and the coffee and pretend this didn’t happen.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You say that. But I’ve seen how your brain works. Everything gets weighed.”

“Not everything.”

She lifts her head. Looks at you. Her face is open — unposed, unperformed, the same expression she wears when she shows someone her best photograph and doesn’t know if they’ll understand it.

“Not this,” you say.

She kisses you. Soft. Unhurried. Her hand on the side of your face, her thumb against your jaw. It tastes like mango and warmth and the specific saltiness of a woman who’s been crying a little and hoping you didn’t notice. You noticed. You don’t mention it.

“Okay,” she says when she pulls back. “Good. Okay.”

You put your arm around her. The apartment is quiet. The lamp is still on. She steals your shirt from the floor and pulls it on — it hangs past her thighs, the collar wide enough to show one shoulder — and settles back against you with a satisfied sound.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Later.

The overhead is off. She’s on the couch with her legs in your lap, wearing your shirt and nothing else, scrolling through the day’s photos on her camera.

You’re reading something on your phone. Or pretending to. Your thumb hasn’t moved in a while.

Her feet are warm against your thigh. Her toes curl absently. She smells like citrus shampoo and sex and dried mango, and you’re aware of every point of contact between her body and yours.

“This one,” she says, tilting the screen toward you. The rooftop at golden hour — she went up there last week while you were in a meeting, chasing the light the way she always does. The railing with the city behind it, everything drenched in amber. “This might be the best thing I’ve shot all year.”

“You say that every week.”

“Because it keeps being true.” She pulls the camera back, scrolls more. “I’m thinking of doing a series. Golden hour across the city — same time every day, different rooftops. Chase the light.”

“Sounds like a lot of rooftops.”

“Seoul has thousands. I’ll never run out.”

“You’ll run out of buildings that let you up.”

“That’s what charm is for.” She grins without looking up. “And bolt cutters.”

She stops scrolling.

You glance over. She’s looking at the screen with an expression you haven’t seen directed at a photograph. Private. Tender.

“What?” you say.

She turns the camera toward you.

It’s you. Not the bookshop one — a different shot, taken last week when you weren’t paying attention. You’re on her couch, reading, the lamp light catching the side of your face. The expression is open in a way you don’t recognize as yours. Not smiling, exactly. Just present. Unguarded. Looking at something just out of frame with an expression that could only mean one thing.

Looking at her.

“You can’t put that on the wall,” you say.

“Too late. It’s already up here.” She taps her temple. “The actual wall is just catching up.”

“Yujin.”

“It’s the best photo I’ve ever taken.” She says it simply. No jest, no deflection. “You have no idea what you look like when you stop trying so hard.”

She sets the camera on the coffee table. Shifts on the couch, pulling her legs from your lap and folding them underneath her so she’s facing you. Close. Her knee against your hip.

“Can I tell you something?” she says.

“Can I stop you?”

“You keep asking that.”

“The answer’s always no.”

“The answer’s always no.” She reaches out and traces a line down the side of your face with her fingertip. Jaw to chin. Slow. “I love you.”

The words land in the room like a shutter click. Small. Definite. Irreversible.

“I know that's—” She stops. Starts over. The certainty in her voice flickers for the first time tonight. “I know it’s soon. I know we barely — I mean, we’ve known each other for what, a month? That’s crazy. That’s actually insane. I’m aware of how this sounds.”

She’s not looking at the camera or the photos or the city. She’s looking at you, and there’s something behind her eyes that isn’t the usual brightness. Something that costs her.

“But I’m not — I don’t do this halfway. I can’t. It’s not how I’m built.” She picks at a thread on your shirt — the one she’s wearing. Her voice is getting faster, the way it does when she’s scared of the silence that comes after. “I’m not here to just test the waters. I’m all in. I need you to know that. I need you to know that when I show up, I’m showing up comp—”

You put your hands on her face and kiss her.

Not the way you kissed her tonight — not hungry, not urgent, not the kind that leads somewhere. This one is slow. Still. Your thumbs rest on her cheekbones and your palms hold her jaw and you kiss her like you’re trying to say something that your mouth has never been good at saying with words. She goes rigid for a half-second — surprised — and then she softens. Completely. Her hands come up and close around your wrists, holding your hands against her face, and she breathes into the kiss like she’s been holding her breath for weeks.

You pull back just enough to see her. Her eyes are wet. Her lips are parted. She's looking at you like she's terrified of what you're about to say.

"The tteokbokki was really good."

She blinks. Her mouth opens. Closes. Something between a laugh and a sob escapes, and she shoves your shoulder — hard, the way she does — and you catch her wrist and hold it.

"I love you," you say.

The words have been true for weeks, maybe longer. Saying them out loud is like putting the final number in a column and watching the total balance for the first time.

She smiles. The small one. The one that’s just for rooms with one person in them. Her eyes are bright and wet and she doesn’t try to hide it.

“Yeah?” she says. Quiet. Almost a whisper.

“Yeah.”

She reads your face. Whatever she finds there is enough, because she exhales — slow, relieved, like she’d been holding something without realizing it — and her whole body softens against you.

“Good,” she says. And then, quieter: “Good.”

She settles against your side. Her head finds your shoulder. Her breathing evens out. The apartment is quiet.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

It’s late. The lamp is the only light. Yujin is asleep against you, her breathing slow and even, her face pressed into your chest. The apartment smells like citrus candle burned to nothing and cold takeout and her, and you’re warm, and you’re not dreaming, and everything about this moment is something you didn’t know you were allowed to have.

Your phone buzzes again.

You reach for it without thinking. Muscle memory — the same reflex that reaches for a cigarette, the same hand, the same automatic motion toward whatever’s buzzing or burning.

The screen lights up. The blue-white glow cuts through the lamp’s gold.

Two messages. From a number you never deleted.

Rei: My father didn't make it. Three weeks ago. I'm back in Seoul.

Rei: I know I have no right to text you. I'm texting you anyway.

You read the messages twice. Three times. The words are short and plain and stripped of everything that used to make Rei who she was — the smoke, the composure, the way she could lean against a railing and make silence feel like a dare. There's no performance here. Just a woman who lost her father and came back to the only city that makes sense, and the first person she texted is someone she left without saying goodbye.

Yujin shifts in her sleep. Her arm tightens across your stomach. Her lips move against your chest — murmuring something, a word or a sound, the involuntary language of a person dreaming.

You look at the phone. You look at the woman sleeping on you. The lamp is still on. The light is golden.

But outside the window, the sky has gone blue. That specific blue — the one photographers know, the one that comes after the golden hour ends. Cold. Beautiful. The last light before dark.

You lock the phone. The screen goes black.

You don't respond. Not yet. Not tonight.

But you don't delete the messages either.

Yujin breathes. The lamp hums. The city sleeps.

And the blue hour holds.

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If you enjoyed the fic, feel free to drop a comment or send an ask. Hearing your thoughts genuinely helps me improve and shape what I write next. And if you’ve made it to this message, I’m guessing you finished the story, so thank you so much for reading. Decide what the OC should do next to influence the next chapter of this story!

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Well, you clearly didn't think that far when booking the ticket.

Anyway, another dip seems like enough cue for the fasten seatbelt sign to chime (no one is standing anyway.), and you are already strapped in all directions. Good thing your hand can still reach down to your pocket for the phone. Of course, no signal — just you and the sweet ass fifteen hours of recycled air.

So the camera roll it is.

You thumb scrolls lazily — dinner you had last night, a building façade that you saved to show to your boss later, a random rock layout in a garden, the pigeon chilling on your window sill. 

And then there’s Jimin. 

You stop at a particular old photo of her back in 2010 — short hair, bare face, sitting cross-legged on your apartment floor, holding your mirrorless camera that you kept telling her to not touch it (it cost you 8 months' worth of allowance saving.) The conversation still lingers in your head, with how whiny that tomboy was.

"I don't get it," she squints through the viewfinder. "Why does it look worse when I touch it?"

"Because you're touching it."

"I have to touch it." "Not like that what the fuck."

You scroll past them now, somehow never delete them.

The plane jolts again, harder this time. The sleeping woman's head knocks against you, but your quick reflex tilt your shoulder and lift her head up so that she falls back upright without waking.

Apparently, that was amusing enough for you to let out a small chuckle — the same dry sound you made in the park where Jimin screamed like a banshee when learning to ride a bike.

Oh right, here's the video: the park near your high school that day was busier than you expected. Students draped across the grass with textbooks they definitely weren’t reading, couples sharing headphones, a few overachievers holding impromptu study circles, and someone near the food stall insisting their guitar cover of “California Gurls” would change lives.

And then there was you adjusting the rental bike seat, and a certain nervous Jimin stood beside you quivering — helmet strapped tight, hands holding the camera with such pseudo-confidence, and her brows furrowed. She may be pretending to be an athlete, but in reality, she just needed to pedal twenty metres.

“Alright,” you said, patting the seat. “Rule one: don’t panic. Rule two: stay balance. Rule three—”

“Don’t panic again?” she interrupted, lips twitching.

You gave her a flat look. “No. Rule three is don’t make me look stupid in public.”

“…Not ‘be stupid’ but ‘not make you stupid’?”

"Yes, also why are you holding the camera?"

"For you to record my success."

"Bitch, you haven't even moved." "Confidence is key."

“No,” you corrected. “Balance is key. Rule 2. Confidence is what you’ll lose in about ten seconds.”

"Sure right. I got this, easy!"

She did not.

“YAAHHHHHHHHHH—!”

Second attempt: the camera is propped on a bench nearby that (miraculously) got you two in sight. You jogged beside her and hand gripped the back of the seat. She pedalled this time with such wobble and instability. Her breathing is no better — out of context, people will think she's on the last leg of the triathlon. For three seconds, her stance was fine…until she steered directly into a bush.

The video ends here, and you don't remember much of what happened afterwards. It’s been seven years ever since you left (Jeesus, fucking christ. It’s 2017 now.), but you don't delve further to it and lock your phone.

Sigh. Bundang. Korea. Hopefully not meeting Jimin right now, and hopefully the visit will be simple.

You close your eyes again as the plane rattles once more.

-

The headache still continues, and it doesn't go away when you spot Jimin from afar before she spots you. (Aw shuck.)

One thing you remember about Yoo Jimin is that she likes to show off. Because look at that girl leaning against a pillar near Arrivals with her cap low, mask pulled down under her chin, and scrolling through her phone. Oh, and there’s a black SUV parked illegally not too far from the curb. Hazard lights blinking too. Mhm. She is definitely showing off that new car, for sure.

Ok so, your first thought is: how the fuck she knows you're coming today? You told virtually no one.

And then your second thought comes immediately: ah, Mom and Dad.

Yeah, your family and hers have always been like that since moving to the neighbourhood — occasional overlapping dinners, the mothers going groceries together, the fathers bonding over oil leaks and DIY sink repairs, and gossip bounds to pass around. This time? No different — they told her, and she volunteers to pick you up. Well, at least it's better than grabbing Uber with a random driver. No point complaining then, you just adjust the strap of your backpack, hand grabbing the suitcase, and walking towards her.

She looks up.

And her face lights up like those episodes of Shin-chan she never outgrew. She pushes off the pillar and waves both arms above her head, greeting you as if you just found a solution for homelessness (A big problem to solve as a future architect). 

And you resist the urge to turn sideways, preparing to sleep on the street instead. Ah shit that sounds bad, but to refute, you don't hate her — she's been your best friend since the age you both discovered that concrete hurts when you fall. (on the head, because Jimin,)

But that — ugh, fucking hell — is exactly why she's the last person you really want to see right now.

Of all the same-age friends you know, Jimin's the only one who stayed up with you on video calls, listening to you when you two were studying for the CSAT. The one who also has a high chance of accepting the scholarship, yet she said "You'll obviously get it." The one who proudly told anyone who would listen that you were pursuing a top-tier PhD overseas. At a university she once admitted she wished she could attend.

And now…Sigh. Maybe not yet. You're too tired for that conversation.

You drag your suitcase towards her, and up close, and she looks…different. Well, longer hair, for one, but more than that, time actually did its job.

The town used to call her the wild child who unapologetically dragged you into the mud, who climbed trees in oversized shorts and punched your arm for no reason whenever you two sat on a bench in front of the ice cream shop. Yeah, all those memories mean jack shit when looking at her right now — fitted jeans, cropped shirt, and baggy jacket, straight posture like a model, long hair falling down neatly. (You look around to make sure there aren't any idol paparazzi around.)

Speaking of the melon in the room, yeah of course you notice. Not that hard when strangers glance at her twice, and how her curve fills out clothes that makes you forget how she once ate dirt just for a dare.

"What?" Ah shit, she catches you looking. "I look good, yeah?"

"…sure."

"C'mon, be more enthusiastic for me! I've been working out."

"I can tell."

She beams brightly upon hearing the exact validation she was fishing for. "Cool, right? Pilate and good styling. Airport fashion is very important."

"Bitch, last time we called, you were in a public park looking like a bozo."

"Whatever." She slaps your shoulder playfully before grabbing your suitcase handle from you. "You look more homeless now than I am."

You glance down at the hoodie you have been wearing since moving aboard, and the-true-definition-of-comfy trackpants. "I flew here for 15 hours. Almost dying in Economy."

"…Skill issue." "Fuck you."

(You almost smile. Almost.)

She yaps the entire walk to the parking lot — the everlasting traffic, the constant honk when she drives at 20km/h when looking for parking space, how she parallel parked perfectly on the first try, and whatever rambling nonsense Jimin has on the back of her seat. It's easier to let her voice wash over you like a radio on a Sunday morning.

In the car, she adjusts the rearview mirror slightly, presumedly to check herself out. A subtle hair flip and a quick lip gloss touch-up.

"You're staring, sleepyhead." Oh, oops. Must've subconsciously staring at her.

"I'm not." "You are."

"Just thinking how much you've changed." "For the better?"

"…" You pinched your brows.

-

The city lights blur past the window as the car merges to the highway, and the night air outside Incheon is colder than you expected. Or maybe you're just tired enough to feel every little  annoying detail — the chill against the glass, growl of the engine, reflection of the lights glares, and the weight of what's gnawing at you inside sitting heavily in your heart.

But…still awake enough to register the fact that Yoo Jimin is driving with one hand on the wheel (like a self-proclaimed cool adult she has always wanted), the other tapping lighting against her thigh to some song on the radio. It's a far cry from the same girl a few years back cowering in her room and chewing her lip raw over a driving test the next morning.

“How’s living abroad like?”

“Uh…” Your eyes are still closed. “It feels like it takes all of my life saving just to survive for a week.”

“Oh come on…that PhD of yours can afford you some fine things in life, amirite?”

“...Sure.” And you sink down further to your seat. “You can say that.”

"Ok then, show off. How long are you gonna be here?"

"Seven days."

"That's short, what the heck?" Her voice drops slightly.

"It's enough for a rest."

"Hell the fuck it is!" Jimin yelps. "You don't have enough time to go to Seoul for a small trip! Checking out the cute coffee shops in the morning and the fun bars at night! You're missing out!"

Enjoying Korea is the last thing you think you deserve to have, but let’s not say it out loud. Instead: "Peace and quiet is enough for me, really."

She glances at you, studying your expression for a moment. And then she slowly nods and looks back at the road.

"Well lucky for you, I'm also free for 7 days."

You hum. "Why? What are you up to? Did your firm give you a vacation?”

“Sorta? I do use my PTO for a few days too. Looks like my work was significant enough for my boss to let me chill.”

“Well that’s nice. How are you going to spend them?”

"Well, I gotta hang out with my tired best friend before I get married, of course."

“Ah sure sure…wai—”

It does take you a few seconds to register, and when you do, you have never gotten up upright than you ever have in your life. "The fuck what now?" And that seems to be the reaction she wants from you. (Clearly satisfied, she is.)

"Yeah, I am getting married."

…Right, so where is the punchline?

"And I'm being legit."

Ok, there isn't one. Damn. Your brain cycles through possibilities as if you're eligible to review the unfortunate guys who get charmed by her. Which poor idiot signed up for that without knowing the boogers she—

Anyway, you lean back to your seat. "Ok then."

"That's it?" "The fuck you want me to say?"

"I don't know, be happy for me?" "Ok fine, congrats."

"That's so dry." "Bitch, you announced it like a Friday morning."

"Well, it's technically Frid—" "Don't even, Yoo Jimin."

She huffs. "You're not even surprised?"

"No, I was." "Was?"

"…yeah." You clear your throat.

She narrows her eyes. "Bitch, you sat up like someone zapped you."

"It's a reflex." "Yeah, reflex. Sure."

"You say insane things all the time. My body reacts before my brain does."

She lets out a loud laugh. "You're so mean!"

You look out to the window, ignoring the small smile at the corner of your lips, and the churning stomach that paradoxically feels like it's tied in knots.

"Do I know this guy? Also, is he fine with you hanging out with me like this?"

"What?” She teases. "Are you curious?"

"Concerned."

"For him?" "Damn right. Now answer the question."

And Jimin laughs again. Gosh, this is going to happen for the rest of the trip, isn't it?

-

Apparently yes.

And it starts with the next day when she unapologetically drags you out of the couch you crashed out of exhaustion. So much for getting used to jet lag. Also, couldn't she wake you up with something else rather than a pillow whacking to your face?

"Wake the fuck up, bestie!"

You groan into the couch cushion. The light bleeds in through the half-open blinds and cuts across the living room in pale strips. Your phone has been running off with alarms that you set it up every 15 minutes out of habit — years of early classes, work shifts, and other things.

None of them compare to Jimin.

"Wake upppppp!"

You begrudgingly peel one eye open (not without voicing out your disdain with a groan) and see Jimin hovering above you. A far cry from the show off girl last night, her hair is messy, wearing the oversized sport uniform T-shirt slipping off one shoulder that clearly has been overworn (she stole this shirt from you one time she forgot to bring it.)

"Let's go hang out today!"

"Ugh…what time is it…?"

"It's morning time!" "One, that is a terrible pun. And two, that is not a time."

She nudges your knee with her foot. “Get up.” 

“Is this how you wake him up too?” “No, just you.”

You drag a hand down your face, and finally feel the ache in your neck from sleeping on her couch. The blanket she forced on you last night is twisted around your waist. At least the caveat is that her apartment does smell nice — a faint of fabric softener and the aroma of something orange(?) that she sprays.

Maybe it is a good thing that she refuses to let you book a motel. Also, your parents are out of town, so staying at their place alone would’ve been… too quiet. ("You don't have a space." “You can sleep on the couch.” “It’s better than a motel, I paid top money for this couch”) Ugh, her reasoning is still scary and effective as before.

You check your phone. She grins too brightly for 8 a.m.

"Ok, ok, fine." You sigh. "Where are we going?"

-

Yeah, if you still have your free will to run (and if she wasn't your best friend), you definitely would've gone somewhere else but Yuldong Park.

(Why. On Saturday. Ugh.)

Ok, the park does (mostly) nothing wrong — it still looks the same as years ago, with the wide blue open sky and the lake that reflects it, the paved walking paths under the luscious and green canopy where people are walking. Some are couples holding hands, some walking with dogs, and kids running around without a care. It’s a welcome noise for sure, a far cry from living alone in your modest apartment where the loudest thing most nights was the hum of your refrigerator and your own thoughts.

The thing the park does wrong, however, is that stupid motherfucking bungee tower that stands there like an evil's lair.

Your stomach squeezes inwards more and more as Jimin parks. Unlike you, who roll off the chair like a slug, she hops out like she's arriving at Lotte Park.

"Stop being a pussy and come on!" Jimin laughs.

It's actually really nice and sunny, but you feel hyper fixated to the cold air that sting your nose, to the wind brushing against your ears, and the very audible creak when someone jumps that followed by the snaps and recoils of the elastic cord (you're probably just being a bitch, but it is that scary!)

"I am not being a pussy." Yep, totally. You're wearing long sleeves and trackpants.

"You definitely were back then." She reminds you now. "You were literally shaking."

"I did not."

"You were praying."

"I don't pray." "You did that day."

You glare at her.

She’s wearing fitted black leggings and a cropped athletic jacket today. Her hair tied high, and sunglasses resting on top of her head. She looks like she was born for this. A little reminder again for those at the back — you're wearing long sleeves and trackpants. Good to know that air resistance will (maybe) do its job. 

She looks genuinely happy. “C’mon! Smile, dummy. It’s our hang out time!” Because you’re here.

Truthfully…you tell yourself you don’t deserve to smile. 

Not right now. 

You shouldn’t be here pretending everything is fine. Hell, you shouldn’t be fleeing back to Korea right now. You shouldn’t get to stand under a blue sky like nothing cracked inside you months ago, when you hand in your drop out forms.

But she keeps on tugging your sleeve with her wide grin. “Let’s go!” And you couldn’t help but momentarily forget the demons in your head.

Because you just found your impending doom,  where the climb up stairs feels endless. Each metal step clangs under your weight. The higher you go, the louder the wind gets, the canopy becomes a blanket of green, and the lake shrinks beneath you. Only halfway up, and your palms are pooling with sweat. Holy shit, yeah, maybe this is your punishment.

"Ya, are you okay?"

See, that should've been your cue to belt out at her and demand to just go back down to the ground. You could admit that you don’t feel steady in more ways than one. But a part of you screams: Things in life have already gone wrong. What else can be worse than that?

"No, I'm fine. Let's…let’s just do it."

You're totally not fine when you finally reach the platform. The open air hits you fully. Nothing between you and the drop but a staff member, the railings and trust issues.

"Holy—" Jimin walks straight to the edge and leans over casually. "It's higher than I remember."

"Don't fucking lean, damn it."

"You still scared?" "Bitch, of course!"

You need a distraction, quick! Uh…ok, the I-beam is a good choice of material for a non-habitable structure like this tower. At least it won't fall over with adequate support. What else..oh, painting it blue is pretty nice — hopefully it was painted with fire-resistant and rust-resistant coating. And uhh…oh, the wind is a bit nicer now, with how it presses her jacket against her body, and the fitted fabric does absolutely nothing to minimise her well-endowed shape.

…ok, maybe too much distraction. "…You, of all people, should not jump."

"Eh? Why?" "It's inappropriate."

"Huh? How?"

"You're…" you gesture vaguely at her chest. "…overqualified for high-impact sports."

A crow caw from afar. And her eyebrows lift.

"Did living aboard make you a perv?" "No! I'm just— don't think that way, I'm being concerned about you."

She steps closer and slaps your back hard, and you nearly lurch forward toward the railing. "You could've said I have a nice body."

"Like I said, I am not a perv. And may I remind you that you are getting married soon?" She was about to retort back when the staff called her to strap in. (Wait, did she just sigh?) And of course, like before, she gives no hesitation nor visible nerves (or none at all) as Jimin steps into the harness like her usual Monday.

You watched her from behind stepping towards the edge. Steady. Calm. And annoyingly fearless. (Don't cue the song.) The countdown starts: Three, two, one. And she jumps with a child's enthusiasm.

Your heart spikes violently when her body drops out of sight, and quickly rushes to the edge before you can stop yourself. The cord stretches, snapping tight. She rebounds upward, hair flying, laughing mid-air like gravity is optional, followed by a loud "WOOOOOOOOO!"

Of course she is fine. She's flushed and glowing when they pull her back up. "Gosh, that was so fucking fun."

She turns to you. "Your turn."

Oh boy.

Unlike the fearless Jimin, it takes all of your courage and self-chanting to step toward the harness. Your limbs feel strangely disconnected as the staff strap you in tight around your ankles, then waist. An extra pull to the strap just to be secure, and even the wedgie doesn't make your fear go away (well, it sort of does.)

At the corner of your eyes, Jimin has both her hands into fists and cheers for you. Her pout, at least, makes you forget about the situation for a bit. Finally gaining control of your breathing, you step toward the edge.

You look down.

Ah shit, it's all coming back now.

The lake looks distant. The blanket of green canopy looks even more like one colour of green like when the rendering is on 200p. And just like the slow ass render, you freeze on the spot.

You quickly snap out of it when Jimin cheers loudly. "YOU GOT THIS, YOU COWARD! THIS SHOULDN'T BE AS HARD AS YOUR PHD!"

You hate that your pride reacts before your fear. Nodding once, you just step off the platform. But was it really a cheer when she just called you a cow—

The world drops violently and, "HOLY SHIT IT'S GOING DOWN SO FAST, FUCK!!!! YOO JIMIN, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!"

Your stomach lurches upward into your throat. The wind roars past your ears so loud it drowns everything else. And your hands clench instinctively to the safety strap. Your mouth goes wild with a mantra of cry for help. 

(And you don’t realise it, but the demons haven’t gone back…yet..)

"OH SHIT! OH SHIT! OH FUCKIN' WHY IS IT SO TA— WHAT THE FU—"

Admittingly, it was funny when you think back, even more so when the cord catches and your body just jerks upward. If Jimin is fearless, you are just weightless. Like a fish getting pulled up to the boat when the staff haul you back up to the platform.

Ok, legs? Shaky, but still here. Arm? Still here. Head? A bit dazed but still here. Ok, sick. You're alive.

Jimin just cackles at the recording when you walk toward her. And instead of feeling annoyed, your heart beats erratically at hearing how full her laugh is. Well, you do, even if it feels temporary, and even if the demon of guilt slowly creeps back.

You hope the tower still stays up if you decide to come back.

-

From Wikipedia:

Yuldong Park had a bungee jumping tower that was 45 metres (148 ft) tall, but operations stopped around 2018, and it was taken down at the end of 2024.

-

Bold of you to assume she doesn't whack your face again the next day. This time at your belly.

You fold in half on instinct, air punching out of your lungs like she just drop-kicked you off a cliff. (Wait, don't give her that idea, she might do it.)

"You fucking piece of sh—"

"Language, Mr. Foreigner-ish." Jimin stands over you, one hand holding the pillow, the other holding the edge of the blanket she just ripped off your body. "Get up."

You groan and turn your face deeper into the couch cushion. And yes, it still ruins your neck even after she claims (multiple times) that it's "orthopedic". Well, she can find those orthopedic(k)-heads and whack them instead.

"What time is it…?"

"Time for some soul-cleansing."

"I didn't sin."

"And I'm not either, but here I am."

Fair.

You drag a hand over your face. It feels like a repeat of yesterday — room flooded with late-morning light, half-drawn curtains, pale streaks of lighting peeking through; something citrusy is in the air, she sprayed that damn mist again.

Oh, and she's already dressed. Long skirt, light blouse, her long hair tied back at the nape of her neck, minimal makeup, glossy lips.

"…Didn't you say you're taking days off? Sudden new clients you have to meet? I thought you said that the project is doing ok? Or going somewhere with your fiance? I need a break from your annoying ass right now."

"…it's Sunday church, you dunce."

"…No." "Yes."

"Why?" "My fiance is busy with work today, so I’m dragging you instead.”

"But I stopped." "Well, just go look at the architecture there or something."

"But I want to slee—" "And I'm leading Bible study today."

2 for 2, you jolted up again, this time from your couch. "You?"

"Yes."

"You? Leading?" "Yes." A little sweeter this time, she is.

"The fuck you do?" "Nothing?"

"Bro, that is worse."

-

After being in the practice since you started your Master's, you and Jimin have come to appreciate how cool the Bundang Church is.

You thought you would get sick of the theatre-like layout after 5 years of attending lectures back when you're still studying for your Bachelors, but you have to admit, it works. The space rises in tiers like an auditorium, and there is a central stage lit with fluorescent lights and a giant projectile screen at the back. The seating arcs gentling toward the stage, and it feels expansive, almost dramatic, but not cold. There’s something truly oddly homely about it.

Or maybe that’s just nostalgia playing tricks on you.

It's one of the largest Roman Catholic buildings on the Asian continent (Jimin boasted one time through a call), yet…it doesn't overwhelm you. It's a mix of modern and Gothic, so none of the stained glasses or intricated walls and columns, but just clean structural lines and brick walls—

Ah. So much for a break after that entire disaster of a life implosion.

"Dummy, we're not at a site visit." Jimin nudges your side.

"No, just wondering how tall the auditorium is." What a try hard."

Well, props to her for pointing out a cause why you're back here. "Anyway, where is the session?"

"On the stage. It's a small group anyway."

"Yeah, like you would present for a full house." "Hey! I am capable!"

Sure, sure. Back then, you two used to sit in the third row from the back (after sneaking away from the parents who sat near the front), whispering nonsense and timing how long Father would stretch the speech. You’d both pretend to bow your heads while actually passing notes. And she once bet you five thousand won that she could recite the whole Psalm section faster.

She lost.

Now she's walking to the stage like she owns it, and your curiosity rises through the roof. (The auditorium is 9m in height. Nice.) She looks like she has a great standing in the society, and honestly, good for her, truly. You’re really proud of what she has worked herself to be.

You? Pretty much fucked. 

Your casual student assistant job for a tyrant shitshow of an architectural firm is going nowhere, you got no proper standing in life like Jimin does, everyday is just you chasing the bills living in a foreign country by yourself, every day chasing deadlines that don’t even carry your name on the credits. Sometimes (or all the time you two call each other) you do wonder if Jimin thrives in your predicament better than you.

(With her optimism? Most likely.)

"Anyway, please address me as Katarina while in session."

…sure. Whatever floats her boat. As long as she doesn’t start interrogating you in front of children. You thought she would have asked already. Yesterday, maybe. Or during lunch.

But she hasn’t.

That freaks you out more than anything ever.

She smooths down her sleeve, posture straightening slightly as she approaches down. There’s a confidence to her movements that didn’t exist when she was the mud-covered kid who dared you to eat dirt behind the convenience store. The main stage is already illuminated. A semicircle of chairs arranged for the kids, with a chair in the middle, presumedly for Jimin. The parents filter in with their children and exchange greetings. Huh, maybe Jimin has become a big shot here. Quite a crowd huh.

"Thank you so much for leading today, Miss Katarina." One mother gives gratitude.

"It's my pleasure, ma'am." Jimin replies with that polished smile. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. You almost applaud.

You have no intention of attending the session — you’re not twelve. And you haven’t really attended properly since you left Korea. So you linger near the aisle instead, which caught the eyes of a few parents.

"And you are…?"

"Hello." You lightly bow. "Her friend, visiting from abroad."

"Oh wow, exciting! What do you do?"

"Working for a firm."

"What field?"

"Architecture."

"Oh wow, just like Miss Katarina! You must've been making good money, right?"

“...you can say that, yes.”

“Oh! I remember you now. Miss Katarina speaks highly of you!”

“Wow, did she?”

The questions keep stacking, (Salary. Overseas life. How competitive is the field? Do you design skyscrapers? Did you get to have tea with the high class? Do you miss Korea?) and far out, it's starting to feel invasive. This shouldn't be how Jimin finds out you–

CLAP. "Ok! Ma’am, sir, I will take it from here. Thank you!"

You glance over at Jimin who is very jolly, but she's already looking in your direction as she announced, which gets the parents to finally tidy themselves up to leave. Huh, maybe Jimin has grown. There’s something annoyingly mature about her social awareness and her way of diffusing before things escalate.

Maybe you did underestimate her.

Maybe you did.

Her fiance must’ve seen this every Sunday, huh. Have to admit, you do feel quite envious of him then. (Or her, you don’t know who you truly envy.)

When the parents leave the space, the kids settle into their seats and exchange greetings, and it does remind you of times where you and Jimin sit together on the corner of the semicircle. Jimin sits on her central chair and guides them into the opening prayer.

Maybe you should pray. Mhm. Yeah, just once in a while.

What should you pray about? About your luck in a better job? Eh, you pray too much for that. About making new friends? Urm…hard to get any time for that when you keep getting overtime work. What about a lucky lotto ticket?...tempting.

Maybe just… pray for Jimin. For her upcoming marriage. For her happiness. It feels easier to wish good things for her than to ask for anything for yourself.

You lower your head.

She clears her throat, smiles. And immediately, you regret your generosity from five minutes ago.

"Yo."

You choke instantly. How the fuck none of the kids laugh at this? How long has she started praying like that? Is this what you call the Generation Gap?

“Dear Lord, thank You for bringing us here safely today…”

How the fuck she is so calm and composed?

“…and please grant patience,” she continues evenly, “especially for a certain idiot in this building who thinks I won’t see him laughing.”

You don't realise a wheeze escape from you before she points it out.

Well that is a jab, Yoo Jimin. Unbelievable.

(Maybe coming back to Korea is not so bad, after all.)

-

Today’s session: Sincerity and Guilt

The aim of our charge is love that issues from a pure heart and a good conscience and a sincere faith.

1 Timothy 1:5, New Testament, 378.

For my iniquities have gone over my head; like a heavy burden, they are too heavy for me.

Psalm 38:4, New Testament, 500.

-

You wake up to the hum of the engine and the faint vibration of tires rolling over the road. Wait, hold the fuck up — this is not Jimin's couch. Well, the stiffness when you wake up is still there, the scent of orange mist is still here (why the hell does she have this mist sprayer everywhere), and Yoo Jimin is here. Phew.

Well, you're in the passenger seat, and she's driving. Not phew.

Hair tied up in a low twin bun, sunglasses sit on her nose despite the sun barely being fully up. Just like before, one hand rests confidently on the steering wheel, while the other taps absentmindedly against it in rhythm with the music playing low from the speakers. Safe to say, she's more awake than you right now.

You squint at the windshield, and trees blur past you. "Where the fuck are we…"

She glances at you, and her lips fail to contain her amusement. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

"What time is it?" "It's…6."

"A.M?!" "Uhuh."

"Are you selling me off?"

"Hey, I tried to wake you up multiple times while I was packing. So this was the best next move."

"Hold up." At this point, she is skipping too many steps for you to even process. "Packing?"

She nods toward the back without taking her eyes off the road. “Camping gear.”

True to her words, there is a cooler wedged between two duffel bags. A folded tent. Fishing rods. A stack of blankets. A grocery bag filled with food. You can only stare at it speechlessly, and then back at her.

So much for having free will.

"Now," she starts quickly, already getting defensive. "Before you yell at me. Yes, you will do that, I know. I just want to maximise our time together! You have like 4 days left!"

…At least she has good intentions. Or you're just giving up arguing with her at this point — her plans sound more exciting than you just lounging around even more like a sloth. So you just sink back to the seat and close your eyes again. (And also pretending to not feel the growing excitement in your chest.)

A good little manageable nap later, you open your eyes to murmurs. And then at some point, you hear her voice clearer, soft and different.

“Yeah, we’re almost there. No, he’s still asleep— Ya, you should be taking my side! I did it with good intention!”

You blink. Who is she talking to?

“This blunt idiot will just lay down on the floor all day, and that is so boring, honey!”

“Jimin,” a voice from the other side says. “Babe, the more you describe it, the more I think it’s a kidnap.”

Oh…her fiance.

Eh, let’s just close your eyes a second longer. This conversation is pretty entertaining..well it was until: “No, it’s fine. I’ll make him carry the heavy stuff. Obviously.” 

Her laugh sounds different than whenever she’s with you. Not brazen or a cackle. More…womanly. Still, it doesn't constitute the fact that she admits that you will be her porter. And far out, she notices immediately when you open your eyes. “Hey, you’re awake.”

“Of course I do, when I’m being subjected to carry all of that shit behind us.”

She lowers the volume slightly, then glances at you before speaking into the phone again. “He’s on the phone. Want to say hi?”

Your brain is definitely not ready for this.

She smacks your shoulder with her free hand while keeping the other hand on the wheel. “At least say hi. Don’t be rude.”

…She’s not wrong. “Ahem, uh…hey man, nice to meet you.”

There’s a brief, polite greeting from the other end. Friendly. Normal. Nothing threatening. Just a man you’ve never met but who apparently knows about you from your best friend. Words have been exchanged —weather, work (not telling him everything, of course), how much of a headache Jimin has been — that is a joke, and other random things.

“Nice to finally talk to you. Hopefully we get to have a can of beer together.” Oh right, and you both love Asahi Dry.

“Likewise man.” You chuckle. “Thank you for choosing Jimin.”

And it’s over.

She hangs up and smiles faintly. “See? That wasn’t hard.”

You turn back towards the windshield, and a while later, the Yuldong Park sign appears as the car passes through. She’s not dragging you back for another round of bungee jumping, right?

You turn toward her in suspicion, but before you can accuse her of attempted murder, she signals and turns into a newly paved entrance you don’t recognise.

"Why are we…" "You'll see."

Today you learn: there's a campsite now. Close to the lake, actually.

Wait, this is kinda cool, what the heck. They have large tensile shelter lining up on the gravel, neatly sectioned tent grounds clean vegetations along the road, and there's a fucking proper cabin for the toilet. Oh yeah, this is definitely not here when you left.

“This is new,” you mutter.

“Opened two years ago,” she says proudly. “I booked us a tent spot. You’re welcome.”

This is too much of a surprise for a morning. The lake greets you again with the glints under the morning sun. The air smells like wet grass and pine. Families are already setting up tents. A couple nearby struggles with poles while arguing in whispers. Everything feels so unfamiliar, and you had too many bad experiences with the unknown.

Honestly, you expected to feel guilty again for being here, and for even having a thought of enjoying this when you feel like you haven’t earned it. But Jimin looks elated, proud of this little surprise she concocted behind your back, and happy that you’re here to see it.

Maybe you can enjoy it…yeah, might as well. So you stretch when you step out of the car, spine cracking faintly. Fuck, that feels great.

"Ok, old man. Stop showing your age."

"Look at you." You point out her stretching pose. "Stop showing your age too, dummy."

She grins.

-

Camping with Jimin is exactly how you remember it back then: a fucking mess.

She insists on assembling the tent herself, but then pushes the work towards you anyway. Well, not all of it, you just unroll the fabric first and flatten it against the ground while Jimin fumbles with the poles.

"Did you check if everything's here, Jimin?" You yawn.

"Of course, duh. I'm the most meticulous girl ever."

One minute later, she's staring at two identical poles and probably forgot how they work. You can hear the mutters under her breath, rambling about what the fuck they do. You look over to find her flipping one pole around, then the other, then squinting at the instruction sheet like it owns her floor plans and a section.  "Jimin, you're practicing architecture as your career, by the way. Top of your cohort, too."

"Reading floor plans are easier than reading Ikea instructions. Be patient, this kid."

“I fear for the lawsuits coming at you.” “Shhhh.”

You crawl over and brush her shoulder, reading the instruction while taking one of the poles from her hand. "Ok, make it stand. I will do the cross support."

The pieces snap together with eases like the sound of breaking spines. Jimin, reading the cue, slides the pole through the sleeve of the tent after you finish it. Together, you lift the structure upright. The frame arches slowly, fabric stretching tight as you secure it into the ground. Your hands get dirty pressing the stakes in. Jimin struggles with one stubborn corner as she plants the stake and then — instead of using her foot — leans her entire body weight on it.

"Ya, don't just lean your melons to it." "It's an accident!"

She pushes harder. The stake finally sinks in and she nearly falls forward. You catch her by the elbow automatically, because you have always been.

She freezes, which makes you freeze. "I get that you're very excited to be productive during our 7 days, but far out, don't overexert it."

Jimin straightens immediately and brushes grasses off her knees like nothing happened. "I had it…"

"I know, I'm just telling you."

When the tent finally stands properly — the fabric fully stretched out, poles standing proudly and strong, and stable enough that it won't collapse after one touch — you both step back to admire it. It's simple, a two person tent, yet you feel more accomplished than the multiple times you have attended the work sites.

And it feels smaller than you remember.

"Not bad." Jimin starts.

"Duh, I mostly built it." "Shaddup, I put equal contributions to it."

"No, you kept leaning on the pole and almost made it collapse multiple times." You nudge her shoulder.

"Are you calling me fat?" "Now you're just twisting my words as usual."

She kicks your ankle lightly. "You didn't even deny it, perv."

"Ok, I am not a perv, and I did not say anything about your chest." "When did I say anything about chest?"

The bantering doesn't stop until the tent collapses after a pigeon lands on it.

-

About an hour later, you two finally fish.

(Let's not think about how many times the tent collapsed because one of you “accidentally” nudged a pole mid-argument.)

You walk down toward the water where the dock is, with the rods balanced on your shoulders. The lake is still calm and barely rippling. The breeze carries that clean, damp scent of freshwater and pine. It cools the sweat at the back of your neck, softens the lingering irritation from assembling the tent for the third time. Jimin, from behind, carries the basket filled with a box of bait, and some drinks. She deserves to carry the heavier stuff with all the shenanigans she caused. 

(Ok, you're not that mean. She just wants to flex her power. Her words, not yours.)

Jimin kneels first, and opens the bait box.

"You still remember how to fish?"

"Probably not." "Lovely, I can teach you again!"

"Yay. How fun." "Don't use that tone with me, mister."

You crouch beside her anyway, taking the hook between your fingers. The worm twists slightly as you thread it through. You did say you forgot, but your hands move like they never did. The motions are almost fluid, precise, steady — muscle memory sliding back into place without permission. Well, almost fluid, because your hand gets a bit sweaty with the laser-focused look from Jimin behind you.

"Jimin, you're scaring me."

"You said you forgot." She pouts.

"…maybe I am built different." "I think I got goosebumps hearing you saying slangs."

"Ok, rude."

She laughs, loudly and full. Hell, her shoulders shake a little after hearing a very corny joke — which makes your heart leap a mile again whenever she laughs. You just shove the rod towards her and sigh. "Here, now don't try to fall."

"I won't." She gets up and stretches (and with an unnecessary old man groan).

“You sound like that with him too?” you ask dryly.

“With my fiancé?” She grins. “Yes. He says I’m like a grandma.”

“He’s correct.”

“Jealous?”

“Of him? Never.” (You do.)

She walks to the edge of the dock, winding up too dramatically like there are multiple cameras around, she casts the bait.

It lands pathetically about 5 feet away.

"Lovely casting, Champion of the Lake." You clap slowly.

"Shush."

You cast yours — smoother, cleaner, and more streamlined. The line arcs perfectly into the water like the Harbour Bridge.

You can't stop the smirk on your face. "Should I teach you instead?"

"Show off, tsk." Jimin pouts. "Bet I catch one first."

"Loser cooks the fish." "And starts the fire."

The dock creaks softly. Leaves rustle. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs. The water ripples gently around the floating bobbers. Jimin hums under her breath.

“You know,” she says suddenly, eyes still on the water, “I made him try fishing once.”

You glance sideways. “And?”

“He got bored after ten minutes. Said it was too quiet.”

You huff. “Weak.”

“I told him you could sit still for hours,” she continued lightly. “Back then, at least.”

Right, back then. “Well, tell him again that I still can.”

“You competitive ass.”

And it's back to childhood again, where Jimin doesn't have a wedding at the end of the trip, and where you don't have to figure out how to tell her. Just an over-the-top competition about basically nothing, where 90% of it is Jimin rambling about her time with her fiance and ways to make it “interesting”.

It's simple.

-

The day ends with you sitting on the camping chair and sipping on hot tea while watching Jimin trying her best with the "fish on a stick". 

It was burned to fuck.

-

The next day, she decides that she refuses to accept defeat.

“You know what we haven’t done yet?” Jimin asks through a mouthful of toothpaste, words bubbling and distorted as she brushes aggressively…in public.

You’re beside her, equally half-dead, foam at the corner of your lips. “What?” you mumble, spitting and rinsing to the gravel. “Are we committing a crime now?”

"No, we're biking."

You freeze mid-wipe.

Your brain lags for a second before supplying the image: the rental bicycles lined up near the trail entrance yesterday. Rows of metal frames gleaming under the sun, and bright plastic helmets dangling off handlebars. The lake behind them looks deceptively calm and inviting.

It probably invites you to a comedy show with you and Jimin.

"You remember back then?"

"That was years ago," she spits out. "I have more practice now."

"You ram straight to the bush."

"It's not going to happen this time," She rinses her mouth again and glares at you. “Trust.”

You don’t.

Yet somehow, fifteen minutes later, you’re fastening a helmet strap under your chin like this was always the plan. Many times you have wondered at some point in life that it was a mistake to sign a lifetime contract as Yoo Jimin’s babysitter. 

The trail curves along the lake, paved smooth and wide. Morning sun filters through the trees, scattering light across the trail. Families ride past casually. An elderly couple pedals in steady paces.

Now, let's see how you both fare when it comes to biking.

You? Mount the bike easily, and push off in one fluid motion.

Jimin? Nah. Well… at least she lasts 10 more seconds before the handlebar wobbles.

“Why is it moving like this?!” she yells.

“Because you are.” “I am stable!”

She is aggressively not stable.

You circle back, riding slowly beside her now. One hand hovering near the back of her seat without actually touching it just in case. “For someone who flexes about Pilates,” you comment, “your core is suspiciously dogshit.”

"Shut up, Mr. One Try."

And just like the old video on your phone, the first few attempts sucks (First one, which is the current one: Wobble. Second one, Wobble. Third one—yeah, you know how this goes.)

By the tenth time, she's actually doing it. Her legs pedalling a bit more stable than before, her shoulders tense but very determined, and the handlebar less wobbly. You just walk behind her now and push your own bike with one hand, the other still hovering near her seat. And for a moment, it was perfect. She looked confident, focused, and you're very proud of how far she has gone since back then.

And then you finally remembered what happened after the old video cut off. 

A pigeon. Yep. A fucking pigeon.

Shot across the path, wings flapping violently, aiming straight for her face like it is fully locked in to its target.

Karina’s scream was instant, ear-splitting. “NOOOO—!”

She swerved wildly. You lunged, but oops! Too late! She toppled straight into you, and both of you crashed onto the grass in a messy heap. The bike clattered to the side, rolling away like it wanted no part of this mess.

You groaned, blinking up at the sky, only to find Karina sprawled across your chest. Her helmet knocked slightly askew, strands of hair falling into her flushed face. Her hands had fisted in your shirt on instinct, and her wide eyes were still darting around like the pigeon might swoop back for round two.

“…Are you okay?” you asked, trying very hard not to notice how close her lips were to yours (and also clenching your ass to not just laugh at her).

Her grip tightened. “I hate birds.”

Yeah, you can’t stop smiling at her. "I genuinely forgot that the great Yoo Jimin is scared of government drones."

“Shut up,” she muttered, smacking your chest lightly.

But she didn’t move.

And that was the problem. Because lying there with her weight pressing down on you, warmth seeping through your clothes, and her lashes brushing her cheeks as she blinked at you—it was too much. Way too much. She has someone waiting for her at the altar damn it, get yourself together.

You had laughed alone in your airplane seat, without knowing déjà vu works like this…except this time she's older, and so are you.

"Jimin, get up, you're crushing me."

She still doesn't get up immediately — her eyes meet yours, and there's something you can't exactly point out in her gaze, but it feels…serious.

A cyclist passes by and coughs awkwardly, which makes Jimin scramble off you so fast she almost trips again.

"Don't say anything." "Oh, I won’t."

"I will tell everyone you screamed like a bitch." "Right, I wonder who screamed again."

You sit up, rubbing the back of your head, watching her inspect the bike. At this point, Jimin will still be bad at this in the unforeseen future, and of course if you come back again, you will still be the idiot jogging behind her with your hand hovering, ready to catch her.

Look, she's pedalling aga— Ah, fucking hell, she's wobbling again. "YA, JIMIN, DON'T RUN OFF ON YOUR OWN!"

“STOP YELLING, YOU’RE DISTRACTING ME—” and she almost runs towards the lake.

-

The sun dips low behind the trees by the time you two drag yourselves back to the campsite. Your legs feel like someone replaced the bones with wet cement. Between having to chaperone Jimin who kept biking off the paths and throwing yourself off the bungee jumping tower again with her insistence (less terrifying this time, which is both impressive and concerning), your body screams to give it a break.

You collapse onto the foldable camping chair, and it is far more comfier than her couch.

“Don’t sit yet,” she says, already crouching by the fire pit with alarming enthusiasm. “Help me with the wood.”

“I deserve a break.”

“You're going to make a pretty woman do the work?”

You stare at her. “Yes.”

"You are so mean."

"Boo hoo, cry me a river, Jimin."

She ignores you and crouches by the fire pit, arranging the wood with far too much confidence for a girl who nearly crashed into a tree. You just poke at the kindling with a wooden stick that is luckily long enough for you to not get up. The campsite hums softly around you — distant giggles from another tent, the faint clinks of cookware, the crickets warming up, and the whooshing of the gentle wind from behind. The lake reflects the last streaks of oranges in the sky.

Down here, the fire glows a bright orange, and you both fall quiet. It's the first real quiet of the whole time you're with Jimin.

Just the sound of burning wood.

Jimin sits cross-legged, chin resting on her knee. Firelight paints her face in warm gold, shadows dancing along her cheekbones. Her helmet flattened her hair earlier; now it’s messy in a way that makes her look younger. (Or maybe that's just the memory creeping in now.)

She looks tired, but her smile lingers.

"This whole trip was really fun." she starts.

You watch a spark drift upward. “Mhm.” Understatement of the year.

"You, somehow, are still better at almost everything even though you said you don't remember."

You shrug, leaning back on your palms. “Maybe it’s genetic.”

She scoffs. “Boooo.”

Silence folds over you again, thicker this time. The fire pops. You focus on it because looking at her too long feels dangerous tonight. After everything — the biking, the falling, the way she laughed when you both nearly rolled down the grass, not to mention all the past few days spending your time with her — something underneath it all feels… you can't really describe it, but it's surely not the groans and complaints like you did back on the plane.

“Oh.” She reaches for her phone. “I should finally show you my fiancé’s face.”

Your heart palpitates more than you should. "O-oh, sure. Gotta see my fellow Asahi Dry fanatic."

She scrolls through her gallery, thumb hesitating for half a second before stopping. Then she turns the screen toward you. "That's my fiancé."

In the photo, they’re seated at what looks like a brunch café. Sunlight pours through wide windows. He’s leaning slightly forward, smiling. Not too wide, not cocky. Just… steady. His hand is comfortably wrapped around hers across the table.

You sigh out of relief, yet your feet keep shuffling.

"Good look, chill, subtly alcoholic like me." You hand her phone back. "Solid pick, Yoo Jimin."

"Solid?"

“What? You want ‘reinforced concrete’?”

She snorts. “You’re so annoying.” But she's smiling faintly.

You lean back on your palms, staring into the fire.

“He treats you well?” “Yeah.”

“Patient?” “Mhm.”

“Rich?”

She slaps your thigh. "Shut up, you prick."

You chuckle. "Ok, then good job. You picked well."

The words taste strange in your mouth. And you feel like she can tell the bitterness of your tone with how she doesn't respond right away, just staring at the flames instead. After a moment, she speaks again. “He’s… steady.”

You glance at her. “Sounds like he does.” Hafta admitted that.

“He doesn’t panic,” she continues quietly. “Even when things get messy. He just thinks it through. Take responsibility. Don't run.”

Ok, that’s a good man, yes.

“He’s blunt sometimes,” she adds, a faint smile forming. “But not in a bad way. Just… straightforward. And when he decides to do something, he works like crazy until it’s done. Even if it kills him.”

What the heck, please take care of your hea— wait. That’s… familiar.

“He remembers small things,” she continues. “Like what I order. Or when I’m pretending I’m not upset. And he gets annoyed when I skip meals.”

…Hey, you used to do that back during exam periods.

“He’s also not the loud type,” she says. “But when he laughs, it’s real. And when he’s scared, he still jumps anyway.”

She keeps talking, unaware — or maybe even aware. “He doesn’t show off, but he always tries to carry the heavier stuff. And when he leaves, he always promises to update me about his whereabouts to not make me worry.”

Looking at her feels like you’re going to burn instead of looking at the fire pops. This is too ridiculous — coincidences happen. There are thousands of men like that in the world, yeah? Don’t get too full of yourself.

“Well, I don’t see red flags.” Your chuckle is so awkward.

She takes a whole breath. "I thought it would feel clearer."

You refuse to look at her. "What do you mean?"

“Like I’d only see him. Only think about him. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?”

Right...this doesn’t sound good.

“But it’s not like that.” She laughs softly, but it doesn’t sound amused. “Every time I look at him, there’s… something in the way.”

"…having second thoughts?"

"No." She answers it too quickly. "…ok, maybe."

"Jimin, that is not good."

"No, I do love him a lot. I really do. It's just that every time I look at him, there's something in the way."

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at her, but your inside is on high alert. "In…the way?"

She turns toward you fully. "It's you."

The campsite noise feels farther away now.

“I can’t look at him properly,” she admits. “Not fully. Because part of me keeps wondering what you’re doing. What you’re thinking. Why are you here? I was genuinely confused when your parents told me you're back here. I-I mean, I’m happy that I can see you in person, of course, but why?"

You force a small scoff. “Vacation. Obviously. You’re reading too much into it.”

“No,” she says quietly. “You’re the one that is obvious.”

Your stomach drops slightly. “How so?”

“You always tell me what you’re doing. Even when you don’t want to.” Her voice is calm but steady. “But you didn’t. Not for months. Then suddenly you’re here.”

Damn it. You thought you were smooth. “I just don’t want to talk about work.”

“I know.” Her eyes don’t leave you. “But you are trying to hide it away from me.”

“Jimin,” you say, voice firmer now, “can we not?”

“No.”

“Yoo Jimin.”

She doesn’t flinch.

“Why are you really here?”

-

It was not a pleasant drive back the next day.

-

The moment you step back to her apartment, you know you have to tell her eventually, even though you have been dreading this moment since the plane took off.

After the dream, the reality follows.

You drop your bag by the entrance. It lands with a dull thud against the wooden floor. Jimin follows behind you, dragging the camping equipment in. Your body aches from five days of being outside and pretending you're still eighteen — biking, camping, falling, laughing, bungee jumping, just living life, really. But your body doesn’t get to feel any of that. Because anxiety is overwhelming you.

Jimin moves around the apartment quietly — unpacking, wiping down the cooler, hanging the key. But she doesn’t look at you.

It's fine, you tell yourself. The moment she asks, you tell yourself you will let her know, and she'll understand. Of course she will, it's your best friend.

It’s Yoo Jimin.

The dork who used to put extra candies in your pockets during exam weeks. The girl who sat beside you at cram school until 10 p.m., both of you half-dead over mock exams, then walked home under flickering streetlights. The girl who understands that when you say something blunt, it’s because you don’t know how to say it gently.

You basically live with her throughout your life. She'll get it…she has too.

(Hopefully.)

"Sit down." She says without turning around. "Have some tea."

"Ok."

She sets two mugs down on the table. Steam curls upward between you like a fragile truce. She sits next to you. Too close.

"Why…why did you really come back?"

The question hits harder than you expect. You thought you were ready. You really do. But you weren’t. And you hate how you keep trying to deflect it. “We’re doing this again?”

“Yes.”

“Jimin.”

“Don’t ‘Jimin’ me.”

You rub your face with both hands. “You’re being nosy.”

She laughs once. “Nosy? You flew back in the middle of March. Not summer. Not winter break. March. You never come back in March.”

"Impulsive decision, really."

"You're the last person to make decisions on impulse." She studies your place. "…something happened, didn't it?"

Your heart pounds once. Hard. Okay, this is it. Just say it. She’ll understand. She will understand. She will…understand…Please understand.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. "I…um, left."

"Left what?" "The program."

The silence is suffocating. Her expression is not helping in clearing the tension at all - it just freezes, like her brain is buffering.

“You… what?”

“I left,” you repeat. “The PhD.”

Her fingers tighten around her mug.

“You mean… you’re on leave?” “No.”

“You’re transferring?” “No.”

“Then what does ‘left’ mean?”

Your throat feels dry. “It means I dropped out.”

The words feel smaller in the room than they did in your head. You wait, bracing yourself for the version of her you expect — the soft one, the worried one. The one who’ll reach for your hand and ask if you’re okay. Just like back then when you two stayed up revising calculus and she’d nudge your shoulder when you looked too tired, right?

Right?

"Why."

That…sounds more like an accusation than anything.

You blink. “It wasn’t…working out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I–I…” Your chest feels like it's compressing. "I was…burnt out." You begin. “My advisor changed. My project stalled. Funding got complicated. And I was swamped with working and juggling with this program. I—”

“So you quit?”

The sharpness in her tone makes you flinch. It's a far cry from your image of Jimin.

"Jimin, I didn't want to just wake up and quit," you say carefully. "It accumulated and I got  burnt out, you have to understand."

"You? Burnt out? We went through CSAT exams, come on. You’re tougher than this!" That disbelieving laugh of hers makes your stomach twist.

"Even steel bends and snaps under intense pressure!"

"You're the most stubborn person I know even when under pressure." "I’m allowed to feel overwhelmed, Jimin."

"You don't give up just like this." "Apparently, I do."

"You got a full scholarship!" Her voice rises as she stands up abruptly, like what coming out of your mouth is blasphemous. “A. Full. Scholarship! You moved overseas. You get PAID to be overseas. You had such a golden opportunity that everyone in our school couldn't stop talking about. You were doing what we talked about since we were seventeen!”

…you don't know how to feel about that outburst.

“You think I don’t know that?” you shoot back, defensive now. “You think I don’t replay that in my head every night?”

“Well, you should know that you sounds entitled as fuck right now, yeah? Then why would you throw it away?”

Ah, now you know how to feel: anger.

“I didn’t throw it away!” you snap. “It was fucking hard!”

“You didn’t try hard enough, then.”

All your efforts just got ripped in front of you. The demons finally come in full swing and douse you with the worst situation right now. "I didn't try hard enough?"

“You had everything lined up,” she continues. “You were ahead. You were building something.”

"Jimin, I was drowning in everything."

"You should've told me!"

"I don't want to make you worry!"

"Oh, so you just shut the fuck up and don't tell me?" She slams her hand to the counter. "You barely send me updates the past few months. Left me on read. And then you show up here like it's some motherfucking trip back to childhood?!"

How do you even respond to that? Well, you don’t— she just keeps on going.

“You have the past 5 days to tell me. 5 FUCKING DAYS, COME ON.” She aggressively scratches her head. “You could’ve told me the moment you landed. You could’ve told me when we went bungee jumping. You could’ve told me after church. Fucking heck, you could’ve told me during camping!”

“I just don’t know the right words to—”

“You’re just fucking running away! You telling me at the last minute RIGHT NOW is the damn proof!”

You don't realise your tears have been falling for a while now. You thought she would say: Are you okay? But instead it's: Why did you ruin it?

“If I knew you were going to do this,” she spits out, “I should’ve tried harder for that scholarship.”

“Excuse me?” Your head jerks up. “Are you serious right now?”

“You think I didn’t want it?” she fires back. “You think I didn’t want to study architecture abroad too? I worked just as hard as you.”

You know she does. So much. “You were the one who got chosen,” she says, her voice trembling. “So I told myself that’s fine. I’ll be happy for you. You’ll go. I’ll stay. I’ll build my life here, and let you know that I'm fine, that I can stand up after the loss of my dream."

She looks at you directly. "I fucking lived through you, wishing that it was me."

The confession makes your stomach twist.

“Every update you sent — your studio projects, your professors, your exhibitions that you helped, all the contributions for your firm — I was so damn proud of you,” she continues. “I bragged about you. I told people you were brilliant. I was seriously your biggest supporter when people shit talk about you.”

Your throat burns.

"I fucking loved that about you," her voice becomes more ragged. “Your focus. Your drive. How you're standing up to yourself. Even when you were blunt and impossible.”

Loved. Past tense.

“And now you’re telling me you just… gave up?”

Something inside you cracks. “Are you stubborn? I didn’t give up!” you shout. “I was exhausted! I was alone there! Do you know what that’s like?!”

“And I wasn’t alone here?” she fires back.

“Hell the fuck no?! At least you had people! Your family, my family, your friends, our friends!” you argue. “I had no one over there. I had to learn English by myself. I had to adapt to a new culture. I had to get used to new neighbourhood. I couldn’t eat my childhood food on days I crave them. Everyone is smarter and more competitive than me. The professors didn't give a shit if I got no sleep before critic days.”

"Again, you could've told me!"

"And again, I don't want you to see me failing!"

"It's far better than you crawling back like a bitch right now!"

“A BITCH?” your bare feeling spills out. “I missed sleep. I missed hang outs. I worked like a fucking dog. I studied like a fucking madman. I fucking clean the garbage room of the kitchen to get minimum wage. I had panic attacks in studio bathrooms. I lived with eating only one meal at a time. I cry in the corner of the train and feel so fucking embarrassed when stranger asked if I need help!”

She freezes slightly, but she doesn’t soften.

“And you still walked away. You think I don't have it tough? It's just life!”

"You can't just say that…" You wipe your tears. "Even I can break down under intense expectations too!"

“So you drop everything? Just like that?”

“Have you not paying att— It wasn’t ‘just like that.’”

“It looks like that to me!”

Silence crashes down, and then she says it. “I was wondering the whole week if I should introduce you to him in person. But I guess I don’t have to.”

“What?” “My fiance.”

“Why don't you have to?” “I’m too ashamed to.”

The word stuns you. “...Ashamed?”

“Yes. Ashamed to put you in the same room.” “Why the hell would you be ashamed?”

“Because he’s—” She stops. Swallows. “Because he’s everything you’re supposed to be.”

The air sucks out of you. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m being serious.”

“Wow, so you married him because he’s successful,” 

“That’s not—don’t twist my words.”

“You married him because he’s stable, didn’t break, and didn’t disappoint you.”

“Stop.”

“Because he’s me,” you continue, laughing in disbelief, “just more successful. Wow, how shallow, Yoo Jimin.”

“Shut it!”

“You couldn’t have me becoming a failure, right? You fucking show off. I should’ve known that habit hasn’t died out yet.” you push. “You need to keep your face in society, so you found a replacement.”

Her face drains of color. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you laugh bitterly. “You said it yourself. You lived through me. And when I fell short of your dream, you needed someone else to project it onto.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Good that you fucking realise it! Then stop living your life through me!” you shout. “Stop tying your happiness to what I achieve. Stop measuring your own worth against mine!”

The silence is pregnant.

“You don’t get to decide what my marriage is,” she says, trembling.

“And YOU don’t get to decide what my breaking point is.”

She looks at you like she doesn’t recognize you. “I miss the 5 minutes when I don’t know how you’re...like this.”

What…’like this?’  “You’re embarrassed of me, huh.”

She doesn’t deny it, nor try to hide it either.

“You built your life here,” you continue, voice hollow. “Good. I’m proud of you. But stop treating me like a trophy.”

“Oh I'm sure I will. Maybe now I can finally focus on getting married,” she says quietly, “knowing you’re not who I thought you were.”

“How could you…” That hurts. That hurts more than anything else she's said.

You stare at her dead straight. You scream for comfort, you scream for understanding. It's the only reason why you fly back to Korea — knowing that Jimin, of all people, will be empathetic to your struggles living alone. The first lesson of being an architect is to be empathetic right?

Instead, you feel judged and small, and the world around you feels so..shallow.

"You know what, just— get out."

You blink. “Jimin—”

“Get out.” She’s shaking now. “I can’t look at you right now.”

“Are y—” You stand there for a second longer than you should. Waiting. For her to take it back. For her to soften.

She doesn’t. And suddenly you don’t know what is familiar to you anymore.

“Fine.”

What else can you say, or do really, except just grab your clothes from the coffee table? Hastily shove them into your luggage without folding. Your hands shake. Your pride feels like shattered glass in your chest. You don't look at her again, and shut the door behind you.

If even your best friend sees you like this, who else is there…?

-

The bungee jumping tower stopped operating around a year later. 

You both freeze in the doorway, half-hidden behind the nearest tower of cartons. The single bulb overhead is bright but mostly blocked with only stray rays piercing the gaps, turning the action into a distorted shadow-puppet show against the far wall. Shadows that stretch and bend from the ground to the wall. Elongated. Warped.

A broad male silhouette stands facing away from you, the hips of his shadow rolling forward in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The kneeling shadow in front rocks in perfect time, head bobbing, ponytail swinging. Every forward bob swallows the shadow of a thick girth; every pull-back lets it reappear, followed by a small, wet gasp.

“Good girl,” the man growls. The voice is deep, nothing like anyone you can relate it to, but it's familiar, so familiar in a stomach-turning way you can't quite place. Jihoon? It can't be. You saw him leaving earlier for another sponsor meeting.

“Deeper. All the way. Choke on it like you mean it.”

The girthy length appears and disappears into her mouth with every thrust, and she moans around him muffled, eager to please. “Mmph—yes—give it to me—”

Each withdrawal leaves blurrish drool strands stretching between lips and cock and she plunges back in before they snap. A wet, choking gag punctuates on every fourth stroke.

“Fuck yes. You want that position, don’t you? Show me how bad you need it. Suck like your job depends on it.”

He's instantly rewarded with another louder and wetter gag. Sounds of spit bubbling mixes with the buzzing silence, and strings of shadowed saliva drips onto the ground below. Her hands rise to grip his thighs, holding on for a tight second before diving back in.

“Faster,” he grunts. “Use that throat. Make me cum down it and maybe I’ll let you bend over for the real reward.”

The shadow obeys instantly, head moving quicker. Sloppy glucking sounds fill the room and her moans vibrate across the crates every time she bottoms out.

Winter’s nails dig crescents into your forearm, a trigger that tears your gaze away from the shadow show. Her breathing is shallow and furious. You both edge one step closer, trying to get a better view, but the cartons still block most of it.

Although, the new angle reveals more now.

It's Director Oh. Shirt untucked, head tilted back as he groans in ecstasy. “That’s it… fuck—swallow around me. Good little slut. You’re gonna earn your wish, aren’t you?”

You rise onto your toes, peering over the carton wall, straining to see the woman’s face, but you can’t. You drop back down, gaze returning to the shadows where she pulls off to gasp, “Yes—please—give it to me—”

Director Oh shoves back in, hand fisted in her hair, fucking her face with short, brutal thrusts.

Winter makes a small, strangled sound beside you. “No,” Winter breathes. “We can’t just—”

You tighten your grip around her small wrists, mouthing for her to stop as you shake your head in disapproval.

“But what if it's someone we know?” Winter mouths back, eyes wide with panic. “What if it's Yujin? Sullyoon? Or even Gaeul?”

“But what if it's none of them?” you mouth in return. “We're gonna be in trouble too. Let's get closer first, just for a better view.”

Winter hesitates, then nods reluctantly.

You both creep forward again, holding your breath, taking one silent step after another, until the cartons no longer block the angle completely.

Now you can see.

Relief hits you first. It's not Gaeul. Why did you even consider that possibility? It's not Yujin or Sullyoon either. It's a crew member — mid-20s, the one you remember assisting with the light and prop adjustments during the shoot. Short brown hair, face flushed, lips stretched wide around him — Director Oh.

He stands with his back to the cartons, pants around his thighs, shirt untucked. Hands still fisted in her hair, he continues jamming himself in and out of her mouth.

She’s trying her best, bobbing fast, hollowing her cheeks, moaning like she means it. But her hands tremble where they grip on his thighs, knees red and shaking against the concrete.

Director Oh groans. “Fuck… just like that. You’re gonna earn it tonight.”

He pulls out with a wet pop, cock glistening, veins throbbing. He slaps his cock against her cheek twice. She flinches but opens wider immediately.

“Beg for it,” he said. “Tell me you want the position.”

“Please…” Her voice cracks. “Please give me the promotion. I’ll do anything.”

He smirks. “Anything?”

She nods frantically.

He bends down, grabbing her chin roughly. “Then bend over the table. Ass up. I’m fucking that pussy next.”

The crew girl hesitates for a moment, as if weighing the pros and cons. Then she stands on her shaky legs, turning and bracing her palms on the metal table beside.

Director Oh steps up behind her, flipping her skirt up and yanking her panties to her knees. He doesn't wait. He lines himself up and pushes in one long, slow stroke.

She gasps with a sharp wince, “Not… not too deep—”

“Just shut up and take it,” he grunts. “You want the job, don’t you?”

He starts thrusting, rocking his steady hips, slapping his flesh against her ass. The table rocks with every movement. Her faux moans turn higher, more desperate. “Yes—yes—please—you can't cum—inside—”

Winter’s whole body goes rigid beside you.

You feel her shift and you feel the exact second her anger wells up, feeling the moment she decides to move.

You haven't even registered her intention when she just yanks her wrist off your grip, barging her way past the cartons, storming right into the scene.

Director Oh freezes mid-thrust. The crew girl yelps, trying to pull away at the sight of Winter. Her skirt falls and her panties are still tangled at her knees. She spins, sees you both, pulls up her underwear, and bolts half-dressed and sobbing through the back exit.

Director Oh’s pulls out with a wet pop, cock still hard and shining. He turns around and yells.

“What the fuck?!”

Winter steps forward, voice shaking from fear, but at least she’s loud. “This is wrong. She didn’t want—”

He laughs. “No. She wanted the promotion. She said yes. Multiple times.”

“That’s not consent,” Winter snaps. “That’s coercion. You can’t just do that.”

Director Oh pulls his pants up slowly, tugging his hard cock back into his pants with slight annoyance. His eyes flick from Winter to you, then back to Winter.

“You’re the scholarship girl, right? Kim Minjeong?” He looks her up and down — chest, hips, legs — like he’s measuring fabric. “Pretty little thing. Tight body. You could be on camera too, you know. Real shoots. Real money.”

Director Oh licks his lips slowly. “All you have to do is be a good girl for me.”

Winter recoils as if slapped. She raises her hand, ready to swing.

“You disgusting vermin—”

You finally move. You grab her arm and pull her back towards the door. “We’re leaving,” you say through clenched teeth.

Director Oh calls from behind you as you both leave, laughing. “Think about it, sweetheart! Door’s always open!”

You drag Winter out into the hallway, slamming the door behind you. You don’t stop moving until you are outside the warehouse. The cold night air hits both your faces like a slap.

Winter’s shaking with her fists clenched, tears streaming. She's angry. Terrified.

“I almost—” she chokes. “I almost let him defile me—”

You pull her into a hug. “You're safe now,” you whisper. She buries her face in your shoulder and sobs.

“We didn’t do anything,” she whispers. “We just… stood there.”

“This isn’t our business,” you say. “We can’t do anything. We almost got caught… and then what? They ruin us, Winter. They ruin everything.”

You hold her tighter. “We tried. That’s more than most people would do.”

But even as you say it, you know it isn’t enough. It wasn't Gaeul, Yujin or Sullyoon this time round, but what about the next time? What can you do? So what if you stopped the coercion from happening this time round? You can't be anywhere and everywhere the entire time. You're not omniscient. You're not omnipotent. You're just a small fish in a big pond.

You push open the café door. The bell jingles softly. It's barely 8 a.m. and you haven't slept much. Gaeul is already there, sitting in the corner booth, two iced lattes sweating on the table in front of her.

She looks up when you walk in, smiling brightly at first, then faltering as she sees your face. You slide into the seat opposite her, hands still cold from the morning breeze.

“You look pale,” Gaeul says immediately. She pushes one of the lattes toward you. “Like you haven't slept at all. What happened?”

You stare at the cup. The condensation beads on the glass are the only things moving.

You think about telling her everything. Yujin. The phone call. The dressing room. The way you let her throat take you while Gaeul was laughing with the rest. The way you still feel her cum drying on your thighs under your jeans.

But the words stick.

Instead you say, “Winter and I… we saw something last night after everyone left. In the storage room.”

Gaeul leans forward, eyes wide, staring with curiosity. “What? Don't tell me you saw a ghost or something.”

“It’s Director Oh. With one of the crew girls. He was… using her,” you mumble, stirring your latte with the straw. “You know, sex with benefits… for a promotion. She said yes, but she was crying. Winter tried to stop it. I couldn't… I couldn't do anything.”

“Oh my god.” Gaeul's hand flies to her mouth. “D-Director Oh? He didn't look like someone who would do that…”

You look down at the table. “She begged him not to cum inside. He just kept going. Like it was nothing.”

“I’m scared, Gaeul… I’m scared something like that will happen to you,” you murmur, hands covering your face in a worrying frustration.

Gaeul reaches to you and takes your hands. Her fingers are warm. “I would never do that,” she says softly. “Never. Not for a job. Not for anything. You know that, right?”

You nod, throat tight. “I know. But you know… things can happen, and what if you get forced to-to…”

“Ahn Minjae. Look at me.” She squeezes your fingers. “If anything seems suspicious, I will stop and leave immediately. Regardless of the benefits. Trust me.”

You look at her eyes, still worried, but you can only give a small nod.

“I'm glad Winter tried,” Gaeul continued. “And I'm glad you're telling me. You're okay. We're okay. We're still okay.”

Gaeul pauses. “If anything like that ever happens to me — or if anyone tries — I'll tell you. Immediately. I promise.”

“Okay…”

“That aside,” her thumb strokes the back of your hand. “I texted Karina to meet us here. I want to make up. Properly. No more weirdness.”

Your stomach twists. Karina. The one person who knows about Yujin. The one person who could ruin everything with one sentence.

Before you can respond, the door jingles again.