극야

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

Verse two—gukbap.

On most days, I enter the office a full hour before everyone else, a habit picked up over time as other career pursuits took up more and more of my time. Even if I can’t do overtime work, I should at least finish the work assigned to me, so that I do not make trouble for everyone else.

This morning, I get settled in, have a single cup of coffee, and I’m starting on the leftovers from the week before, when Kim, from the design department, walks in, evidently hoping to find someone else instead of me, “Editor, could you just look at the draft we sent in last night? There was supposed to be a correction that Kim needed to get to, but he didn’t really do it in time.”

“I’ll take a look,” I wave, and he slinks away, probably to talk more shit about the editing department. There are people coming in—the editor-in-chief, who spares no one a single glance as he makes a beeline straight for his office, the assistant editor who’s got way too much on their agenda, and the other people in the department, who don’t bother to care about me, in a way that’s actually impressive.

The day is slow, and I get through my tasks with frightening efficiency. By the time they call me in for an after-lunch meeting, I’m done. It’s easy, given that I don’t pay attention to my colleagues gossiping behind my back. Even at the meeting, I’m seated in a chair far away from the screen, hoping that no one calls on me to talk about my work.

The Chief, a man who rarely says anything apart from his own piece, walks in five minutes after the meeting is supposed to begin, smiling to himself as though he’s received some great piece of news that he cannot wait to share with the rest of us. There are others too—Haneul, Choi, everyone who’s already made up their minds about me as soon as I stepped foot into the Busan office from Seoul.

“Alright, we’re running late,” he says, clapping his hands to get our attention, “let’s start with the agenda for the week, shall we?”

The meeting is boring, and we take turns to talk about our designated work for the week, nothing more, nothing less. I manage to say about three sentences before mumbling a thanks and sinking back into my seat. Just ten more minutes, and you can go back.

Just as we’re about to get up, the chief waves a hand, saying, “this part of the meeting is to honour a very special person in our department, who’s managed to get recognised by a prestigious awards foundation.”

My stomach sinks. Please, god, no. already I can feel the stares at my back, people whispering is that why she took so many days off in those months? And talk about being selfish. She didn’t even tell us. I close my eyes. Maybe, just maybe, this is a fever dream. I’ll open my eyes, and I’ll be back home, in the flat with a view of the sea, sipping my morning coffee, listening to that voicemail from Seungkwan. A do-over, just like I’d begged for.

“Right here,” The Chief points at me, and the room bursts out into polite, disinterested clapping, “the assistant editor, who managed to get the Daesan award, despite juggling her full workload at the same time.”

I groan internally, polite smile plastered on my face. “Thank you, sir, although I would like to thank my colleagues, who did their best to manage parts of my workload when I was off sick the previous month.”

“They were glad to do so, my girl, glad to do so!” he booms, smiling beatifically, as though he didn’t shatter the only semblance of peace I had in my work life. Fuck. Now everyone thinks I was off having fun in Seoul while they were picking up after me. “If there’s a genius like you in the department, there are people who have to make do with being second best.”

Great. Now he’s officially put the nail in the coffin of my work life. I grimace in response, and he barrels on, ignoring it, “which is why, the board of directors has taken the initiative to start our own imprint, one that will deal with fiction exclusively.”

More polite applause at this announcement, although no one really seems happy at the prospect of being saddled with more work, and the Chief amends his statement, “Of course, the work will not exactly begin until next year, giving us all ample time to prepare ourselves for a new challenge! How about it, guys?”

This time, the applause is far more enthusiastic. People shuffle out of the office as fast as they can, eager to get back to their routine work. I get up from my seat to follow suit, but the Chief stops, calling out, “Assistant Editor.”

I pause, turning back to him, “Yes, sir?”

He doesn’t waste any time getting to the point, “The board would like to use your work as the first title to be released from the new imprint.”

I squint my eyes, “Sir, we publish manuals for human resources.”

He waves a hand, dismissing all my valid concerns, “never mind about that. Just—make sure you send in a manuscript as the first title going to print.”

I repeat myself, slower this time, “Sir, we print human resource manuals. These people have no idea how to edit fiction.”

“That’s immaterial,” he waves, “why didn’t you publish with us in the first go?”

“I sent it in, actually. Through the in-house programme. Someone rejected it because it was fiction.”

He sighs, which usually means someone is getting fired, “Never mind that. How long is your contract with your publisher?”

“Five years, sir. Per usual.”

“And will you be amenable to changing companies once the five years are up?”

I stare at him, “Sir, I don’t think I can tell you that right now, given that I’ll have to talk to the company currently in charge of my publication to make a decision like this.”

The chief spends about six seconds in thought, and claps his hands, laughing, “Of course, of course—no reason why you should not prioritise one over the other.”

“After it lapses, shift your titles to the new imprint. We’re counting on you, yeah?” He’s gone, without even giving me the opportunity to say unless you pay me more than them, no. I walk out of the meeting room and back to my own station, pulling up a  manual to start working on in order to kill time before I can take my leave. There’s no question of me moving my manuscripts from Seungkwan’s company to mine, unless Seungkwan is included in that package; if he moves companies, I would say yes in a heartbeat. Seungkwan is more than my editor—he knows exactly how to change my rambling sentences into coherent phrases that cut deep, and he bats for me when no one else does, has been doing so since the release of the first title. To change companies and contracts without considering him would be disloyal on my part.

There are people talking beside me. I sigh loudly, and they immediately shut up, in an impressive display of herd behaviour. Gossiping about me again, I suppose.

Are you going to say nothing, a voice tells me, someone that sounds suspiciously like my sister, needling, insistent, they’re going to badmouth you and you’re going to say nothing? Just sit there and take it like an idiot?

They’re not worth it, I reason, if they were, I would have made it known I didn’t like it. It's not important. If they get happiness from talking shit about me, they’re welcome to. No one is going to tell them anything.

You’re just going to let them walk all over you, just like that?

I shake my head, trying to distract myself. What can we have for dinner tonight? Or do you want the same meal—instant rice and a stew put together in five minutes?

Or, we could go to the diner from yesterday.

I sigh loudly, enough for the gossiping in the next cubicle to stop, running my hands over my face. Running away from the diner last night was a poor choice on my part, but when exactly have I made good choices? Worst thing about the whole fiasco was that I still owed him the money for the meal. God. Would it be okay to just drop off the money in an envelope, stashing it in front of the door? He probably has security cameras all over the front stoop. Either way, I still wanted to go back there, just for the good food; the best I had had since moving to Busan. With those skills, it was strange why no one had said anything about it in the office, especially when they all exchanged restaurant locations every week on cue.

The clock strikes five, and the Chief, ever so punctual, stands up, making his way out of the office. One by one, the people in the office also make their way out, smiling and laughing amongst themselves. Planning dinners, or something like that. I’m seated at my desk, watching people pass me by, going their own way. I still have my leftover work to get to.

The edits on human resources training manuals take a lot more time than people might think. I spend about three hours, sifting through egregious spelling mistakes that would have us recalling three hundred copies of a very expensive manual once it was sent to a company. Despite the small workforce, there were a lot of important orders coming through here, and as the Assistant Editor, it falls on me to make sure that the others are doing a good enough job. What happens after that, should be none of my business.

“Who the hell writes these manuals?” I mutter, correcting the thirteenth typo. “Don’t write words that sound similar to curses if you don’t know the proper spelling.”

The clock chimes nine, and just like that, I’ve spent about three hours working on minute edits that make no sense for any experienced editor to leave, unless of course, they’re doing it on purpose. There are two other assistant editors in the office, both of whom get to leave on time, while I am stuck here with work that should have been done by editors before me.

No. Don’t shove your responsibility onto other people. You were the one with the extended leave a few weeks ago.

I sigh, going back to my work. Perhaps it’s going to be a long night. The work is more important than you are, right now. If you do this well, your Chief might let up on getting you into the new imprint.

It’s late, when the work gets over. After the entire office has cleared out, I leave, taking my usual way across the beach. It’s already late enough for my stomach to protest, and I take the long way, walking as slowly as I can. This is the only time I have for myself, to unwind after the long day I’ve had.

Make sure to transfer the contract from your current publishing house to ours. That was a threat. A direct threat, and if I had anywhere else to go, I would have submitted my resignation. But I don’t, and so I must deal with everything—the Chief’s veiled threats, my coworkers’ disdain, the long hours that leave me with nothing but tiredness—all because I left the house, and therefore, I must survive.

My phone rings loudly, and I pick it up without even checking the caller ID. Only one person calls me right before midnight, “Yes, Mom?”

“Were you in the office?” my mother asks, “I called you before, and you didn’t pick up, so I figured you were still busy with work.”

“Yes, recruitment season is coming up, so we’re busy with writing new manuals for incoming hires,” I sigh, “never mind, I don’t want to talk about my job right now. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to see how you were doing,” my mother replies, “looks to me you’re doing fine.”

“Yes, yes, I’m so busy I can barely think of anything else,” I laugh—genuine enough that she doesn’t get the message, “why else would I be back so late?”

“At least you’re being safe, right?” she asks, worried, “you live so far away, I can’t even send you side dishes to eat.”

“Hah,” I exhale, looking at the waves crashing on the shore, “you know, Mom, you can hear the waves from here.”

“The waves?” She sounds worried. “Are you alright? You know, I’ve read what happens to the lighthouse keepers.”

“Oh my god, Mom. I’m not going to go insane like a lighthouse keeper,” I laugh, “I’ll not be going insane just because lighthouse keepers did. I live in the second largest city, not an abandoned island.”

“It sounds like an abandoned island to me,” she grumbles, “your dad worries himself every day about how you are doing.”

“Mom,” I smile, “I’ll be back home for New Years’ Eve. Could you save the interrogation until then?”

“Really?” her voice is so happy, it makes me feel slightly awkward, “I’m glad to hear that. Your sister is coming home too, with her children. Although it isn’t that much news, since they live about ten minutes away from us.”

“Still, it’s good to have one of your children be near you, right?” I laugh, and she laughs too. For a single moment, I can pretend that everything is all right in the world, that the stress of the day does not exist. “Give the phone to Dad. I haven’t heard him in a long time.”

A small shuffling noise, and my father is on the other side, gruff and stoic, “are you eating well?”

“Just had the best seafood stew at a diner yesterday,” I grin, “thinking of going back there tomorrow.”

“Seafood stew?” my father muses for a minute, “I hope they used mussels. Mussels in seafood stew is always my favourite. People don’t use mussels anymore, since they’re a bit of work.”

“They used mussels, actually,” I say, and he laughs, “it was a good place to eat, dad. Next time you come here, I’ll take you out to eat dinner.”

“Make sure they have good gukbap,” he says, serious all of a sudden, “a restaurant is never good if their gukbap is not.”

“I’ll remember that, Dad,” I laugh, before cutting the call. If their gukbap is bad, the restaurant is useless. Gukbap was easy—rice soup, made in a thousand different ways, all different, all unique to the restaurant that makes them. Easy to fuck up, if you didn’t know the exact measurements of what went into making a good soup. Clean, nothing overpowering. I remember my mother making it for me on rainy days, trying to soothe a child who would fall sick so easily it was a task to make her hold on to life.

My mother once told me I used to get so sick, so often, they thought I wouldn’t make it past my first year. Perhaps that was why they always took care of me, even in my teenage years, when all I wanted was freedom.

—

The diner is empty again tonight, devoid of customers. The owner sits at a table, writing down something in his notebook. He stands up when I walk in, all smiles, “did you forget the way here?” he asks, “it’s been almost a week since you came back.”

“Yeah, realised I was craving something,” I grin. “Do you serve gukbap here?”

“We do,” he nods, “is that all you need? I’ll be closing soon, so tell me what you want before I clean the kitchen.”

“Just that,” I take a seat at the bar—the same place where I sat the first time. “Is it always this empty, or did I just come too late?”

“The day has been a bit slow,” he explains, going back into the kitchen, “gukbap, right? It’ll be done in a minute. I don’t have pork, so you’ll have to make do, though.”

He disappears from sight, and I busy myself with my phone, looking through my notifications. It’s not as if there are a lot, but I keep seeing things pop up on my social media feed, things that I should have cut out of my life entirely. It’s not always that my failure to do anything gets me; I’ve been this way since I was a child, apparently.

You used to bottle it all up inside of you, and tell us nothing.

Perhaps that was why I ran away to Busan—a city populated enough for me to hide, and yet calm enough for me to float along it, adrift at sea, nothing more to think about, than a constant reminder of why I failed, how I failed. Is this how most people live?

The owner sets a plate in front of me, steaming rice soup with an abalone garnishing, expensive enough for me to raise my eyebrows at it, and he simply smiles in response, “Imagine waiting for someone to come by, and they ask you to make rice soup for them. It’s a request you can’t ignore, right?”

“You said you were all out of pork,” I shake my head, “and you’re serving me abalone.”

“I was out of pork, not abalone,” he smiles, taking a seat next to me. “Why did it take you so long to come back?”

“You sound like you were waiting for me.”

“I was, actually.”

I stare at him, still smiling, and for a moment, I wonder if there are hidden cameras around the diner, with people waiting for me to make a slip, popping out of their hidden corners, “Are you kidding?”

“Not at all,” He pours himself a glass of alcohol, “you remind me of myself.”

“Ah, like an old man,” I joke, looking back at the soup. “How old are you?”

“Not as old as you think.”

I shake my head, still laughing, before taking a sip of the soup, fragrant and flavourful, with the abalone providing a slight difference from the usual pork I’m used to, unlike any other place I’ve tried this at. My father was right when he said a restaurant is never good if their gukbap is not.

“They use this as comfort food here,” he explains, watching me eat, “I remember sneaking out to eat this every week when I was a trainee.”

“You were a trainee?” I look him over, and sure enough, he does look like he could be a celebrity—his features are perfect, sloping nose unusual enough for me to have taken notice the first time I walked in here, skin pale enough not to tan even under the heat of the direct rays, “you should have been a celebrity, then. Why are you working at a diner in the middle of the beach?”

“I was a celebrity, actually,” he admits. “Now I run a diner.”

“Celebrity to diner owner.” I smile, “that’s a strange path to take.”

“A good one, too,” he mutters, “it’s a pretty good job, this one.”

“A celebrity, a diner owner, and a phenomenal cook,” I count them off, “what else are you hiding?”

“What are you thinking?” he replies instead. “Since you asked me what I’m hiding, I think I should ask you what you think of it.”

“The trainee?” I chuckle, “what were you a trainee for?”

“A boy group,” He laughs, “fell through at the last minute, though.”

“Ah, is that why I never saw you online? I used to be a big K-pop fan, you know. Followed all the groups when they released new music.”

“You must know Hoshi, then?”

“Hoshi?” I pause, “He used to release really good music, but I didn’t really listen that closely. My friends do like his music a lot, though.”

He nods, and I resist the urge to run away, my friends like his music. It’s not a lie—they do like his music, have liked him since he came out with his debut single—it’s me who has been dropped from the list. If he asks about my friends, I’m not sure I could even say a single word.

“Soonyoung—I mean, Hoshi, he’s from my label,” the man explains, looking sheepish, “I mean, I used to be a trainee there.”

“Ah.” I finish the rest of my meal in silence.

“No payment, not for you.” He smiles, “I still didn’t get your name, though.”

“Do I really have to?”

He says nothing, merely grins, and waves me goodbye. On my way back from the diner, I light a cigarette as usual.

He’d looked less tired than before, less lonely, too. Did he finally have someone to talk to? He’d looked happier—serving me rice soup while I waited.

I pick up my phone to call Seungkwan, who picks up within two rings.

“Ah, noona—” he begins, and I cut him off, “Seungkwan, can I send you my pitch right now?”

“Right now?” There’s a scramble on the line. Then he’s back, “yes, tell me.”

I take a deep breath, “I go to a diner every day.”

“Huh?” Seungkwan is sceptical, as always, “what do you mean you go to a diner every day?”

“I want to write about the diner, Seungkwan,” I explain. “I don’t know—it’s just that even though I haven’t been that many times, every time I go, I come back thinking about my life differently.”

“Noona, you always think about your life. That’s why you’re the one writing, not me.”

“No—just trust me on this one, okay?” I’m begging at this point, but Seungkwan needs to be convinced, “it’s a good start, right?”

“Send me a chapter, and I’ll think about it,” he mutters.

“So, you’ll do it?”

“Just send me a page! God, you’re so annoying,” he huffs. “Okay, fine! I’ll do it! Just send the damn chapter before next week ends or you’ll be dealing with someone else.”

“I love you, Seungkwan.”

“Love you too.”

“Ah,” I mutter as I reach the apartment entrance. “He’s always like that, right?”

Seungkwan has always been like that, unwillingly affectionate, yet he manages to be my only cheerleader, at times. From the first day he picked up my manuscript and called me out of the blue, to our first meeting, where he said bluntly to my face, “you look sad”, and even now. He says he won’t do it, but he will. Seungkwan will move mountains for the people he loves. That’s just how he is.

My phone buzzes as I walk into my flat, with a singular message, I’m counting on you for this one, noona. Don’t fuck this up for us, please.

I smile. As if.

—

Jihoon is not particularly given to nostalgia. He hates it, has hated the feeling since he stepped out of the plane at Charles de Gaulle and felt an intense longing for the semi-basement with melon-green walls that had defined his trainee life, the boardrooms where he negotiated for his artistic freedom to an inch of his life, and even the dorms, where he lived alongside a bunch of other teenage boys, all just as clueless as him.

Until that point, nostalgia was a common feeling, the longing of a time that seemed better in retrospect, but Jihoon hated how he felt about his trainee years, and later on, his producing career. He’d thought his life had ended when the HR development team had called their group of ten boys into the melon room and announced that they were no longer moving forward with the boy group. Wonwoo had cried, as Jihoon remembers. Wonwoo had cried, Seungcheol looked furious, Minghao and Jeonghan had tried to bargain. And Jihoon—Jihoon remembers sitting down on the floor, staring blankly into the distance. He had to get up off the floor; he had to do something.

He didn’t; all he did was sit on the floor, thinking, what do I do next?

The dorm was cleared out the next week.

To this day, he hates the word, nostalgia. They’re emotions he’d rather have left behind, in the melon-coloured room which took away so much of his youth. He doesn’t hate that part of himself, just wishes he could have done it a little bit differently. He’s been running his whole life, and has never realised how tired he was. And now—all that remains of that time, are memories that he’d once thought of as commonplace.

They’d called him back from Busan three months after he’d gone back home, and Jihoon still cannot forget the hope in his heart that maybe they’d rethought the decision, that maybe he still had a shot at becoming a singer. He’d dedicated his teenage years to that dream, going to practise in Seoul when all his peers were chasing a different dream, a more attainable one, perhaps. And there was Soonyoung too, who’d joined only a month before, who didn’t really realise why they were all moving out. None of them deserved that. They’d all given up their youths, negotiated over and over with people who didn’t care about their well-being.

No one would fault you for giving it another shot, his father had told him when he was stepping out of his home, if you want to give up on this dream, that is okay, too. Remember you can always come back here.

The company had said nothing about bringing back the debut team. Instead, they’d sat him down in a room entirely different from the practice rooms and told him that they were willing to bring him on as a composer to help with Soonyoung’s debut. You’ve got to bring in a lawyer and a parent to negotiate the terms, they had said, you’re still a minor, even if you turn eighteen in a month. We can’t make a contract with a minor without a legal guardian present. Jihoon really hadn’t heard any of the words they had said, instead focusing on a single word. Soonyoung. The boy who had come in a month before the company had sent them all packing, was who they had brought back in as a soloist, apparently. For them, he was good enough, not Jihoon or the group of boys who had spent years on their craft. He’d wanted to ask them, why didn’t you bring back the debut team? We said we’d do all the producing, we said we’d help with logistics. We said we’d do all of it, so why aren’t you calling us back? Why just him?

In the end, he had accepted the terms laid out in front of him, had his father make the trip from Busan to Seoul with a lawyer to look over the contract before he signed it. Once they made sure his work was going to be owned by the company and no one else, Jihoon moved back to Busan, working on Soonyoung’s debut song in the middle of catching up with his high school assignments.

They all said he was a genius, and he was, because who else would get into a Seoul university a year after he stopped being a full-time trainee? Soonyoung debuted, and Jihoon’s name was first on the list of production credits: Woozi. He’d chosen the name before they had approached him the second time, making shit up with Seungcheol and Jeonghan on a random weeknight. They’d picked out names for each other, too—Seungcheol wanted to be called S. Coups, whatever that meant, and Jeonghan, looking at their atrocious choices, stuck with his own. “I refuse to be part of this madness,” he had said, but Jihoon wanted to keep the name Woozi. Our Jihoon, the producers and the HR development team used to call him. He wanted the name to be a tribute to the people who worked hard to make their debut possible.

Woozi debuted alongside Hoshi, and they never looked back. Jeonghan and Seungcheol both went into business administration, circling back to the same company that cut them off. Wonwoo moved courses, went into game development, and refused to look at the industry ever again. And Minghao—

Minghao had left for China the week after they sent them off, and they had all come to see him off at the airport. His eyes were dry, and Jihoon saw no sign of distress in his eyes. Minghao had moved on already.

“Don’t blame yourself too much, Minghao,” he had said, in an attempt to soothe the hurt he was going through, but Jihoon doubted they even heard any of it.

Minghao swore he’d never return to Korea. Two years later, he arrived for an exchange semester, and never seemed to leave. Xu Minghao, fashion designer. They’d all moved on in their own ways, chose to soothe themselves by doing things they never wanted to do. Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and he were basically torturing themselves, working in the same company that turned them out onto the streets. Wonwoo left the industry, running as fast as he could, in the opposite direction. Minghao, who was always a man of few words, made his own path, doing something that they never really thought he would do, but he’s come back to the country he hates.

Wonwoo had once, on one of their dinners, pointed an accusatory finger at the three of them, “Why the fuck did you go back to that company? If it was anywhere else, I would have understood. Hell, I would have supported you three! But back to the same place that threw us out onto the streets?”

“Wonwoo, you’re drunk,” Seungcheol had said, mildly. “Let’s have this conversation another time.”

“No, we need to have it right now,” Wonwoo was headstrong on the best of his days, but drunk, he was stubborn to a fault, and Jihoon just stared at the man in front of him, still burdened by the experiences of his adolescence, “why the hell did you go back to the company we left?”

“They had their reasons, Wonwoo,” Minghao replies, nursing his drink, “I’m sure the decision wasn’t easy.”

“Then they shouldn’t have taken that decision,” Wonwoo mutters, slumping down against Seungcheol, “remember when they didn’t even tell us why they were disbanding the debut group?”

“They debuted Hoshi a year later,” Minghao replies, tone a shade darker, “how the hell did you manage that, hyung?”

“Huh?” Jihoon realises a bit later that the words are directed towards him, and he sits straight up, “what do you mean about that?”

“How the hell did you manage to write songs that he performed?”

“What?” Seungcheol sits up straight, looking at Minghao, “what do you mean by that?”

“I’m asking how you managed to write those songs for Hoshi, knowing the company debuted him instead of you. Instead of us.”

“Oh.” Jihoon knows he should say something, that the wounds in them run deep, even after years have passed and they have all moved on, but he really cannot. What is there to say that he hasn’t talked about? Should he tell them how he never wanted to sit in any of those meetings, where they would discuss Soonyoung’s debut single, because a little voice in his head would not shut up about the unfairness of the whole system? They were supposed to debut as a team. But they didn’t, and the company turned to Soonyoung instead, placing their dreams on the shoulders of a person who didn’t even understand the meaning of it all. Anything he said, would not hold water, not in front of the people who were hurt, whose eyes carried so much sadness. Wonwoo refused to watch anything Hoshi released, even if Jihoon was the one behind the songs. Minghao—Minghao was looking at him with such profuse betrayal in his eyes, that he knows, none of his empty words would comfort them. None at all.

Looking back at the time passed, Jihoon knew Soonyoung was suffering too, even if it never seemed like that to them. They only saw the carefully curated music stages and high-quality music videos, because it’s easier for an outsider to look in; he’d come across Soonyoung on days where the other would be holed up in the studio, not talking to anyone, focused on making everything perfect—even right up to the day before the song's release. They were jealous, they were hurting, but the experience that Hoshi was going through, that was something they could not understand.

He's still sitting in front of his work computer, when the call from Jeonghan comes through, “Did you just send in a track for a R&B song?”

“I did,” Jihoon has the sense to sound a little ashamed, “it was a bout of inspiration. I’ll change it if it’s not what you guys want.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s the most original piece of work I’ve seen you put out in a couple years,” Jeonghan’s tone is flippant, but he still sounds stressed, “I already spoke to the PDs, the concept hasn’t been decided yet. Hoshi might be releasing an indie album, or a R&B album.”

“The concept hasn’t been decided yet? Why the hell were you telling me to submit a track?”

“I need proof of life to convince them to put you on the team, Jihoon,” Jeonghan’s voice is strained, “how long do you think the people will wait around for you to show up with something other than what has been in your drafts since before you ran off?”

“That’s a bit disappointing, you know. I’m hurt.”

“You literally ran off to Paris when I was in the middle of renegotiating your contract. You can afford to take a little bit of heat.”

“That’s harsher, but it’s the truth.”

“I’m wondering,” Jeonghan says, after a beat, “what the hell gave you this much inspiration, sitting in fucking Busan, of all places. Did you have a vision or something?”

Jihoon laughs and laughs, because Jeonghan, even in his sarcasm, has hit the nail on the head; he had seen a vision. A vision of a woman in plain clothes, who carried herself as though she had a lot of weight on her shoulders. “Something like that,” he replies, “maybe I got inspiration from the waves.”

“That’s why your restaurant is smack in front of the beach,” Jeonghan laughs, “I’ll be in touch with you, and for god’s sake, call Minghao. He’s going crazy.”

“What happened to Minghao?” Jihoon’s seen Minghao crazy exactly once—when he was so angry he cursed at the staff in Chinese, throwing out all the angst of his teenage self, “what happened to him?”

“Hoshi wants to dress in his clothes for the comeback. Minghao is against it to the extent that he actually turned down every request from us to feature his clothing, and threatened me with a cease-and-desist.”

“Can you do that?” Jihoon isn’t really surprised, per se, they were all people who held grudges, deep in their hearts, and at some point, it would have had to boil over. It’s only fair it’s happening now, and not thirty years down the line.

“He says he will. A legal notice to stop us from displaying any of his work in a music video or on any of his appearances. Just talk to him once. Holding onto a grudge for eleven years seems a little bit overkill, I’m going to be honest.”

“Fine, I’ll talk to him once.” Jihoon has no intention of talking to Minghao, because no matter what he says, Minghao will not change his mind once he has made it up, and he’s always been firm on this one account, “no promises.”

He sighs, and leans back into his chair. Nostalgia. Ah. It’s a word he really fucking hates.

But there was her, and she was in his mind, again, a reminder of who he was, the kind of person he had been, for the longest time. She wasn’t just someone who reminded him of the time that had passed him by, Jihoon knew her. They were the same, in fact, he still thinks they are.

His phone rings again, but this time, it’s his mother, instead of Minghao, or Jeonghan. “Hello?”

“Weren’t you supposed to come for dinner tonight?”

“Ah,” he’s looking straight at the clock on the wall, “I’m still stuck at the diner.”

“Liar.” His mom isn’t really one to mince her words, “you’re probably stressing out over your drafts right now, aren’t you?”

“How the hell did you know that?”

“I know a lot of things,” his mother sounds like she’s having fun with all of it, instead of yelling at him like she usually does, “imagine being your mom and not knowing that you smoke cigarettes, even when you’ve told everyone that you quit.”

“Mom!” he does not know how the hell she got that piece of information, but she has it, and now, he’s the one who’s in trouble, “what do you mean?”

“It’s not as if your father quit smoking either,” she says casually, “I know when someone is hiding things from me.”

Jihoon sighs, “Have you ever given police work a serious thought? You’d have become the Commissioner of Police at this rate.”

“It’s probably because I had to raise you as a child.” She replies, “come to dinner in an hour, okay? Your father has been looking forward to this for an entire week.”

Jihoon sighs, but gets up from his chair nevertheless, and slips on a jacket instead of his hoodie. His mother, who knows everything about him, was apparently too forgetful to remind her own son about the weather.

The chill settles into the air as he steps out of the car and walks into the apartment complex where his parents live, because of course they moved out of the house where they had lived all their lives, because Jihoon wanted to move to Seoul and they had no money. It’s almost uncomfortable, looking at his parents, and being reminded of why the hell they had to spend all that money, an investment that resulted in nothing but a shameful return to Busan. And they had not allowed him to give the money back.

“I’m home,” he calls out, stepping over the threshold, “why the hell did I have to come back here when I just saw you guys two days ago? Traffic was insane.”

“Your dad is sulking,” his mother greets him with a kiss on the cheek, “he lost at chess this afternoon.”

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, walking to the balcony, where his father is sitting, polishing scholar stones, “fancy a game of chess?”

“I’ve quit the game,” his father moans, and if Jihoon tilts his head far enough, he thinks he can see tears in the corner of his eyes, “don’t even mention chess in front of me anymore. I hate the game.”

“I—you used to play it for hours, dad, what happened?”

His father, full-on sniffling now, sits straight up, “that man there! Bloody Mr Kim, does he think he’s slick? I saw him cheating, I know he moved his bishop right after I turned around to wave to your mother. Why else would I lose to him when I haven’t lost a single match this past two weeks?”

Jihoon looks to his mother, who shrugs, handle this on your own. “Are you sure he swapped out the bishop’s position?”

“Yes, and I’m never going back there again,” his father announces, “he can keep his chess skills to himself.”

“Really? You mean that?” Jihoon laughs, “you said that two weeks ago too.”

“I did?” he looks up, “that doesn’t sound real to me.”

“It is, unfortunately.” Jihoon sighs, “you keep saying that you’ll quit chess, but you’re gonna go back to the park a few days later.”

“I won’t, not this time,” he grouses, “just you wait, and if I go back to the park, make sure to call me an idiot.”

Jihoon says nothing, just shakes his head, because his father will go back to the park as soon as the craving hits, because he’s never once spent more than a day not playing chess. Not to mention he’s actually great friends with Mr Kim, even if all he says is how much he hates him.

Dinner is lots of rice, and a random stew his mother put together in less than an hour, and the three of them huddle around a cooker, because his mother does not believe in the importance of letting stews cool down before making him and his father consume it. At least his father had the proper sense to put aside Jihoon’s part of the soup to let it cool down before he drank it.

After dinner the three of them clear out the table, crowding around the television, where there is a rerun of a random drama going on, and Jihoon casually pecks on a bunch of almonds. His father swipes a few of them.

“Is this Hoshi’s appearance on that variety show?” His father is pointing to the channel, where he’s changed it to Yoo Jae-Seok and Jo Se-Ho laughing on either side of Hoshi, “when did he make that appearance?”

“He shot for it a few weeks ago,” Jihoon offers an explanation, “he’s not really into giving a lot of interviews, but he really wanted to do this one in particular. He did have a lot of fun on this shoot.”

“Soonyoung seems interesting,” his mother pipes up, “why doesn’t he come by more often?”

“Because he’s too busy with a hundred different schedules, mom,” Jihoon mutters, “he has other things to do instead of coming to my house to just hang out with my parents.”

“Your other friends do.” His mother grumbles, “don’t see how he can’t, just because he’s an idol doesn’t mean he gets to ignore his friend’s parents.”

Jihoon says nothing. The last time Seungcheol came down to Busan, he’d had an argument with Jihoon, screaming and shouting at each other on the beach, fighting like they were teenagers again, this time in a parking lot instead of a basement. Seungcheol had been pissed off with Jihoon for leaving, and Jihoon had been angry with him for not understanding. They’d yelled in the beginning, and suddenly Jihoon found himself throwing punches. The fight had lasted for several minutes, and the end found them both crying their eyes out.

“How could you do this to us?” Seungcheol had said, grasping onto Jihoon’s shirt, “did you know how worried we all were? Dropping off the face of the earth with no explanation?”

“And why the hell do you care so much, Seungcheol?” Jihoon had been angry at that moment, “is it because I refused to renew the contract? Is that why?”

Seungcheol swung before Jihoon could move out of the way, screaming, “is that what you think of me? That little?”

His mother snorts, “Is Seungcheol going to get married or what? He told me was seeing someone.”

“He was seeing a therapist, last I checked,” Jihoon murmurs, “I doubt he’s got any interest in marrying right now.”

And he was right. Seungcheol had always been a little bit hot-headed, a little bit of a loudmouth. He was the one who fought with the HR team when they were disbanded, throwing one of the most impressive tantrums Jihoon had ever seen for a seventeen-year-old. To be on the receiving end of that anger was certainly an experience. He’d been seeing a therapist for it, although he still insisted that it really wasn’t such a big deal, that he was doing fine without it. Jihoon knew a bit better. Seungcheol, beneath all that bravado and bluster, was scared; just as scared as he was at that moment in time, maybe he never managed to get out of it. God knows they were all serving sentences in time, frozen in the memories of that one moment. Seungcheol and Jihoon never really managed to get out of that mindset. Seungcheol still got angry, Jihoon still deflected.

“At least he’s seeing someone,” his mother snipes, “who are you seeing, apart from your customers?”

Jihoon stills. His hesitation is plain, and his mother pounces on it like shark tasting blood, “you’ve met someone. Who was it?”

“None of your concern,” he mutters, busying himself with chewing, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“He’s met someone nice, then,” his father laughs, “Jihoon has always been one of those people who don’t like to talk a lot about their love lives.”

“I don’t have one.”

“But you met someone,” his mother leans in, eyes glinting, “go on, who was it? Did you get her name, at least?”

“No, I did not. And she’s just a customer, it’s that she feels a lot like me.”

“Oh, it’s bad,” his father tuts, and Jihoon makes a face. I should have never even tried to lift his spirits, “he likes her a lot.”

“I don’t!”

And he does not. He’s not even interested in her romantically; he just wants to know her a little bit better. He wants her to feel a bit more comfortable, at least be a bit more comfortable with him. He wants to be the one she opens up to, because—ah fuck, he’s interested, isn’t he?

After dinner, he goes out for a smoke with his father, who refuses to smoke, but still does, taking a cigarette from the box from Jihoon, “your mother hates this, you know.”

“She still tolerates it, because you don’t have a drinking habit.” Jihoon laughs, “she hates drinking.”

“Your mother is an angel, you know that, right?” His father smiles, puffing out rings of smoke, “she’s always been empathetic, even when she didn’t really have to be.”

“She’s the one who kept at it, telling me to go to Paris when I told her I was not feeling great.”

“Both of us wanted to tell you that, you know.” His father sighs, “you used to come back home after months at a time, dark circles underneath your eyes, and we lay awake thinking what the hell was Seoul putting you through. Even during your trainee days, you never came home stressed out and tired.”

“I was going through a lot, it seems,” Jihoon murmurs, “at least I got to get out of it. I don’t think it's been that easy for anyone else.”

“I know.”

His father continues, “I know the others—Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Wonwoo, Minghao—they’re all suffering. Minghao still refuses to acknowledge the company, and Wonwoo doesn’t even put on music when he watches television. You’ve all been stuck in your personal brand of hell, ever since that day. It’s difficult, trying to move on from an experience that shaped your whole life. Hell, even your careers were impacted by this.”

Jihoon says nothing. He really thought he was hiding it well, but apparently in front of his parents, he has been able to have exactly zero secrets.

“You think I didn’t know why you three went to work in the same company? Jeonghan and Seungcheol didn’t even have to do all that, they had other places they could go to. But they went there, and chose to work with some of the very people who disbanded the project.”

“The Seventeen Project.” Jihoon interrupts, “It was The Seventeen Project.”

“And they treated ten of you boys like it was nothing. That will leave an impact, even if you’ve all moved on with your lives.”

Jihoon nods. His father is right about all that. They’re still stuck in that room, that fucking melon-green walls closing in on all of them, even in adulthood. They grew, moved out of their homes and into university, they moved on but really, had they?

“Don’t think too much about it,” his father says, when Jihoon opens the door to his car, hands full of leftovers, “just remember that it’ll be worth it in the end.”

It’ll be worth it in the end. Hah. Jihoon wants to laugh, but instead, he just nods, seatbelt clicking into place as he makes his way down the narrow street. It’s a five-minute walk from his restaurant, but his parents’ house is in the middle of a neighbourhood full of residential buildings, which means the street leading up to the house is triple-parked. Extricating any kind of vehicle is a task, and he’s trying his best to get his car out of the mess, when he sees her. This is the third time he’s seeing her, and it’s the same feeling as the first time—the same heady rush of excitement, the same feeling of déjà vu. For a moment, he’s transposed to the Jihoon of three years before, running frantically behind deadlines, without a moment to think for himself.

Without thinking too much about it, he opens the door, jumping down, “Hello.”

She merely raises an eyebrow. “Are you in the habit of making home deliveries too?”

“Home deliveries?” Jihoon stares at her, only realising that he’s still holding onto the leftovers from dinner, “ah, I was having dinner with my parents.”

She gives him a sad smile, “ah, dinner with the parents. That sounds great, actually. I’m going to have my own dinner right now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She makes a move to pass him, and he steps in front, “Ah, hold on, hold on, do you want to have dinner with me?”

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him, and he can feel the weight of her gaze, “Didn’t you say you had dinner with your parents?”

“I did?” He’s racking his brains, “ah, yes, yes I did.”

“You did,” she raises an eyebrow, “now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She moves past him now, and Jihoon sees her walk past him, towards her house, wherever it is. He’s not interested, not at all, it’s just that she reminds him of himself. Yes, that’s what it is. She just reminds him of himself. Not interested. Her shoulders are drooping, barely holding on against the weight of the world, and he just thinks to himself, she looks so lonely.

Was that how he’d looked to the others? That lonely? Was this how the great Lee Jihoon was to others, this sad, lonely shell of a human being, whose loneliness was measurable by how their shoulders dropped when their backs were turned. He’s seized with a sudden bout of self-loathing, of course his parents worried when he looked like this.

“You never really gave me your name, you know!” He yells, fully aware of how desperate he looks, but he’s damned if he lets another person become Lee Jihoon again, “I gave you my name, right?”

She turns. And with that enigmatic smile still fixed into place, “No, you didn’t. I don’t know your name, either.”

“Ah.” Now he’s getting embarrassed. He’s supposed to be slicker than this, damn it. “Do you want to know my name?”

She laughs and laughs and laughs. It’s a different sound than what he’s used to, a mix of sad and happy, almost as if she’s fighting against her instinct. She sounds more carefree than he’s ever imagined her to be, not that he’s imagined her in any sense of that word. “You really want to tell me your name?”

“It’s Jihoon,” he stumbles over his words in his hurry. “Lee Jihoon. That’s my name. You don’t even have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

A beat. Then, “you’re right,” she says, with no sense of anger in her tone, “it’s getting late, Lee Jihoon. Go back home.”

And with that, she’s gone. Jihoon wants to hit himself on the head, but he’s sane, a sane adult who would never do anything like that, and so, instead of running away from her, he walks back to his car, and calls up Jeonghan, who answers in a single ring, “what?”

“Should I come back to Seoul?” Jihoon bursts out, “not that I want to go back, I hate the city, but I don’t think I should be living in Busan anymore. I need to move somewhere else. Jeju? England?”

“Hold on, you’re not making any sense.” There’s a lot of background noise, and Jeonghan shuffles a bit before saying, “did she reject you?”

“Who—no! No one rejected me!” Jihoon yells into the phone, putting his car into reverse gear, “I just think I should have a change of pace. England seems perfect for this. Should I go?”

“Who’s the girl, Lee Jihoon?” Jeonghan teases, “you’re never really this insistent on anything if it's not for a girl.”

“I do not do that.”

“Agree to disagree.” Jeonghan laughs, “did she reject you?”

Jihoon sighs. There’s no escaping Jeonghan, is there? “She just said she doesn’t want to tell me her name.”

“Oh. That’s got to hurt, hasn’t it?”

“Incredibly.” Jihoon is groaning into the phone, “I’ve never really met anyone like her.”

“This down bad, already? You haven’t even met her more than twice.” Jeonghan laughs, and then his tone shifts, “it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you this agitated over a girl. Not until middle school, I think.”

“Ugh. Don’t even remind me of that.” Jihoon wants to die every time people remind him of that time; he should have never told anyone about the crush he’d had in middle school. Jeonghan had never let go of it, it seems, “anyway, let me know what I can do about this mess.”

“She’s a regular at the diner, you say?”

“Well, she’s only been there a couple times, so I can’t really call her a regular. But she might be one.”

“Well, Jihoon, I don’t know how to say this to you, but you’ve fucked up.” Jeonghan laughs, “at least give the girl some space before you start with your nonsense about knowing their names and telling them how much you love and adore them.”

“I have never once done that.”

“You just told me you did,” Jeonghan sighs. “Just—give them as much space as they want. You get over excited when it comes to them, just back off a bit until they approach you in the first place. No need to start going all out when you don’t even know if it’s going to last.”

“Solid advice.” Jihoon’s pulling into his own driveway, equally populated by cars and congested, “how much do you want to bet I won't be adhering to that?”

“I don’t take shit bets, Jihoon.”

—

It’s a seaside diner. One that stands alone in the middle of the wharf, serving customers from evening till they close. It’s a small diner, nothing special. They have seafood on the menu: haemul-tang, gukbap. Everything you need to make the end of an otherwise normal day, unusual.

The person behind the counter is a man, who looks at me like he knows who I am. As if my existence here is a bout of déjà vu for him, a trick of the mind. I am nothing but a long-lost memory to him, a reminder of the person that he once was, or he still might be.

If this was a romance novel, I would say something obvious, comment on how good he looks, standing behind the counter, standing as though he had been waiting for me all his life. I do nothing like that, instead walking over to a side, ordering the first dish that comes to my mind.

When he prepares the food, I look at him. His shoulders droop, his eyes close from time to time. It reminds me of a psychology lecture: when you want to know more about someone, make sure you see them once, from behind. People have barriers, walls they construct around themselves to act as shields from the world. Take a look at people when they have their backs turned to you. You might see a lot more of them than they let on.

This man is lonely. I can see that, from the way he wipes his hands on the edge of the towel, from the way he smiles at me before setting down my order in front of me, every action of his, accentuated by his long, slim fingers that seem almost ethereal. Everything tells me about his loneliness.

And to be honest, am I not lonely either? I’m having dinner by myself at a diner while the rest of my office gets off work to go back to their families. I am here, spending my time with an unfamiliar man, on a night when I probably should be with company.

Loneliness grows comforting when there is nothing else to compare it to.

I hit ‘send’ on the email, and predictably, Seungkwan calls me half an hour later. “Yes?” I pick up, “did you like it?”

“It’s great. Nothing out of the ordinary for you, but I just want to know one thing,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “are you in love with that man?”

“What?” I sputter. “Who the hell are you talking about?”

“The owner!” he screeches, “you write about him in a way that makes me wonder if you’re in love with him.”

“I’m not,” I say, “aren’t you watching too many dramas nowadays? Is this what they teach you guys?”

“They don’t teach us how to write dramas. That’s on you,” Seungkwan laughs, “this paragraph right here, when you describe how lonely he looks to you, is that not a confession?”

“It’s not a fucking confession!” I’m yelling now, pacing rapidly around the apartment, “it’s nothing! I’m not even interested in him that way!”

“Really? Who is he, by the way? Just some random restaurant owner? Because I’ve never seen you write about anyone other than the people who’ve been in your life for more than half a decade, hell, you didn’t even write about Kim Mingyu, and we all know how you feel about him—’

“I’ve known him for only a fortnight, Boo Seungkwan,” I interrupt, and on the other side, Seungkwan cackles, as though he’s stumbled on the juiciest piece of gossip in a short while, “don’t even dare to take this out of context. I’m not someone who does things on a whim. And for god’s sake, stop bringing up Mingyu every time you lose an argument.”

“I don’t do that, and you know it.”

“Really?”

“Never mind,” Seungkwan laughs, “at least tell me if he’s cute.”

“He isn’t.”

“Liar.” He laughs again, and I keep wondering what exactly it is about my life that makes Seungkwan think that all of this is a big fucking joke, “I’ll give you the edits by tomorrow, but this two-page script is enough for the issue, I think.”

He cuts the call, and I throw the phone away to sit back down on the sofa. What the hell was Seungkwan thinking? Just because I wrote about that man, doesn’t mean I am interested. Hell, I don’t even know his name yet. Nothing about the two interactions I have had with him points to any degree of attraction.

But that’s not true, is it, a voice tells me, you know his name, you just don’t want to acknowledge it.

Lee Jihoon, he had shouted at me, as though we were standing on the opposite sides of a gorge instead of three metres away on an empty street. Lee Jihoon. A beautiful name, that. He looked distraught, as though he had been agonising over the decision to call my name out on that empty road.

A step forward would have been too much for him, perhaps, but I was the one who pushed him away in the first place.

It’s a funny thing, to be on the precipice of a decision. I could have told him my name, could have told him who I was, or I could have just let him know that I wasn't averse to spending time with him.

Except when I went to say my name, the same voice inside my head, which has been a part of me for so long, insisted: why are you doing this? When you know he will leave you. Everyone who knows you will leave you, so better for you to do it first. If you hurt yourself before they do it to you, then you’re not going to be affected at all. It’s better this way, so just leave it at that.

But this can’t be an excuse, can it? I can’t keep telling myself that all the time. All my life, I’ve never allowed myself to want. Truly want something. There’s so much I could have had in life, if I allowed myself to reach out and grab it, instead of stepping back, thinking what if. Fear of failure suppressed the desire to win, and the person who has suffered the most, is me.

I pick up my phone, dialling the first contact that pops up, and my mother’s voice floats through, “this late at night? Is everything okay?”

Funny, how she always asks that. Even during university, when I was going through perhaps the worst phase of my life, I never had anyone ask me, ‘are you doing okay?’ But now I am here, and my mother is asking this.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, “did you have dinner?”

“It’s almost midnight, child,” she replies, “of course we had dinner. Your father keeps asking about you, though. He’s thinking of coming down to Busan to see you next week.”

“Next week?” I make a mental list of everything I need to finish by next week if my father came to visit: I need to finish cleaning my house, something I have been putting off for weeks, put away all my clothes to make sure it’s not in piles of laundry on my chair, and finally, get rid of all the cigarette packs, because my father is not aware of my smoking habit. No one is, actually, save the people in my workplace, who all look at me like I’m some kind of alien when I join the men on the terrace to take a smoke break, Seungkwan, who’s told me to stop it so many times he’s one step away from nagging me with cancer PSAs, and of course, Lee Jihoon, who looked at me like it was a habit he knew all too well. I also need to restock my groceries, because my father likes cooking elaborate meals at home — a passion he’s turned into a hobby after his retirement.

“Next week,” my mother replies, “he’s booked the tickets already. He wants to see first-hand how you’re doing.”

“Dad never does that, though.”

“He does,” she repeats, “he’s always been a sucker for the two of you. He’s going to come by, so make sure you take him to that diner you found the other week. He’s been going around telling me he wants to have the gukbap there.”

“Diner?” I’m stunned for a moment, to hear my father act this way, my stoic father, who never really had a bout of excitement over anything save our grades, “he really wants to have rice soup at a seaside diner in Busan? Is that why he’s coming?”

“That’s not why, of course,” my mother’s tone grows pensive, “you’ve always been more closed-off than your sister. He worries, that’s all.”

“And you don’t?”

“Don’t take my words out of context,” I laugh at that, because of course I am closed-off, of course I am someone who hates talking about their feelings, of course I am all that. It's who I am, it’s a part of my soul. I cannot change it now, even if I want to, “he’s coming to see you, you know. He worries a lot. We worry a lot.”

“I’m doing fine, mom,” I sigh, “there’s really no need for anyone to come down to Busan, of all places. If you want, I can go to Seoul next week.”

Yes, this is right. This way, I can go to Seoul, and my father won’t have to be seen with the image of his youngest daughter living half a life in another city. Of all the things I know about my father, this is one I am sure about; knowing how I live will break his heart. He won’t be able to take it.

There’s a reason why I hid everything from them as a child, after all.

“No, he’s pretty adamant on going down,” my mother reasons, “at least this way he’ll get to go out of the house.”

I laugh, “When’s the last time he did that?”

“Don’t even ask me,” my mother sighs, “he keeps saying he doesn’t need the exercise, but he really does. Ask anyone, and you’ll know exactly why. He’s just being lazy.”

“He still likes playing chess, doesn’t he?”

“That’s all he does. Sometimes he’ll go out of the house to get groceries, and have the neighbour’s kid deliver it to the house while he spends hours in the park playing chess with old men. Even the neighbour’s kid is angry with us, at this point. Did you know he’s managed to establish a chess club for the retirees in the neighbourhood?”

“You always complain about him, mom, but in the end, you’re the one who keeps up with all his demands,” I sigh, “but does he really need to come by? Can’t I just come to see you both in Seoul next weekend? I can make it; it’s not a big deal.”

“Are you avoiding it?” she asks, and I want to do two things; smack my head on the nearest hard surface, or throw my phone away entirely. Of course I’m avoiding hosting my father. “No, I’m not,” I reply, “just thinking about all the things that I need to do before he lands in Busan.”

After a bit more of small talk, mom cuts the call, and I lie down on the bed, still in the clothes I was supposed to have taken off before I slept. From tomorrow, I will clean the apartment, make it fit for my father to stay over, but tonight, I want a little bit of peace.

Outside my window, it starts raining, unseasonal torrential downpours that make their peculiar noise on my window panes, and I think of that man. Lee Jihoon. The owner of the diner by the sea, with a smile that seemed to be crafted out of sadness. I wonder if he likes the rains, or if his work was affected by the downpours. Nothing would happen to the diner, I’m sure, but even the thought of it is saddening, losing one of the main reasons behind my recent small happinesses. It’s funny how this random place went unnoticed by me all these years, but now that I’ve had a meal here twice, I cannot think of my life in Busan without it.

I wish nothing happens to him, I think, before drifting off to sleep.

—

The rains are unpredictable this year, Jihoon had heard from fishermen on the coast, the rains have always been unpredictable, but this year, they seem to possess a mind of their own entirely. Jihoon isn’t too bothered by this, because as long as he’s been alive, the rains have always been unpredictable. The fishermen have always said the same things, and they have always had rains at pretty much the same time as everyone else. There really was nothing to be afraid of.

But today, as soon as he steps foot onto the stoop of his diner, the skies open, and cold drops of water drench him halfway almost immediately. He’s left standing on the stoop of his restaurant, looking angrily at the skies. Damn it, I should have heard them when they said the rains were unpredictable this year. His shirt is drenched, he’s about to catch a cold, and all he can think about is how he should have listened to the bloody fishermen. They knew better, of course they did. And he hadn’t listened, which resulted in this—him getting pelted with rain in the middle of winter.

He's drying himself off, when his phone rings, and this time it's Minghao, calling in the middle of the night. Jihoon doesn’t even remember the last time Minghao called him this late at night, after their teenage years. There hasn’t been an occasion for him to do so, after all.

He picks up the call, and before Jihoon can ask him about the reason behind this call, Minghao is losing his shit on the other end of the line, “Did you know, Jeonghan asked me if he could use my designs for Hoshi’s next comeback? He wants to have Soonyoung dress up in my designs for the showcase.”

“The showcase?” Jeonghan hadn’t told him this, of course, but Jihoon had a sneaking suspicion this was a miscommunication on both their parts, “I would have thought he wanted to put your work in the music video.”

“The context doesn’t matter, what matters is that I don’t want this to happen,” Minghao seethes, “I sent them a cease-and-desist letter, to make them stop this madness. I don’t know how to make myself clearer; I don’t want any artist from that damn company to be wearing my designs. Least of all Soonyoung.”

Jihoon sighs. He knew getting Minghao to agree would be impossible; he hadn’t realised how deep Minghao’s grudge against the company ran. “Maybe the legal notice was a bit overkill, but you’re entirely justified in not wanting Soonyoung to wear your work. Do you want me to talk to Jeonghan?”

“No, I know he asked you to talk to me,” Minghao mutters, “he knows that you’re the person with the most sense in the group.”

“Minghao,” Jihoon asks, “why don’t you let go of the grudge? It’s been eleven years already, you’re established, I’d wager. Why are you still holding on to that one moment from all those years ago?”

“Hyung,” Minghao sighs, “have you ever thought to yourself, why you wanted to run away?”

Jihoon stops in his tracks. The rain is still pelting, and his entire shirt is drenched, but somehow, at this point in time, he doesn’t seem to care at all.  All that is ringing in his ears are Minghao’s words, “what do you mean?”

“You ran away from Seoul, and we all kept looking for you,” Minghao says softly, “but I used to be envious of you, really. I wanted to run away, just like you did.”

“Minghao,” Jihoon mutters, “you know why I left. Under what circumstances I had to make that decision, you know everything, so why the hell are you—”

“But were those circumstances really necessary?” Minghao’s voice is sharp now, sharper than Jihoon has ever heard it before, “if you didn’t go back to that company, hell, if the three of you went your separate ways, was it going to be necessary for you to take that long break? You didn’t even maintain contact with any of us, and that hurt, really.”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything for a long time. How can he? He’s the one who left, he’s the one who forced the rest of them to pick up the pieces of a disaster that they did not have a hand in, “I’m sorry, Minghao,” he replies, after a beat, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I don’t blame you man, not at all,” Minghao, on the other end, seems to be fighting tears, “I left for China as soon as they told us to go back to our homes. I didn’t look back either.”

“Yes, but we were teenagers then.”

“Sometimes I wonder if things could have been different, after a point. If there were any of us with you when you were at your lowest, if we had been there.” Minghao’s tone is pensive, “if we could have held you back, just for once, would things have been different?’

Jihoon doesn’t say anything. He’s struck dumb by this revelation, because Minghao is not wrong, at all—he was selfish, and was an awful person when it came to his decision to leave. “I felt guilty, we all did,” Minghao sighs, “I’m not blaming you, hyung, just saying.”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” he laughs, but it sounds hollow to his ears, and he wonders if Minghao, on the other side of the call, can hear it too, “doesn’t matter at all.”

“I wish things were different, hyung,” Minghao says, finally, “I’m not going to retract the legal notice, but I wish things were different. Maybe in another time, I would not be sending this notice to the company. But in this lifetime—we’ve got to do whatever we can, right? I know he got what he worked for, and I’m not holding a grudge for that. I just want to understand why it seems like he’s the only one of the entire group of us, who seemed to get whatever they wanted, while we’re the ones who cannot seem to move on from a moment at seventeen.”

“Right.” Jihoon shuts up until Minghao cuts the call, and all of a sudden, the expanse of the sea rushes at him, swallowing him whole. He hadn’t realised when he had stepped onto sand, entirely soaked by the freezing water. Minghao had felt guilty, everyone had. And Jihoon had—

Jihoon had left, of course. He was the one who left, leaving everything behind.

It’s easy to cry in the rain. Your tears are obscured by the failing drops, and all you need to do is hide it as best as you can. Jihoon has realised this now—that tears are cathartic, that they are somewhat of a balm to soothe the hurt caused by his own actions. 

As he crumples onto the wet sand, sobbing his heart out, he thinks back to the moments of his youth, the dorm shared with the boys, and everything they had shared, once upon a time. All those memories, now restricted to work calls and pub hangs and legal notices. Who would have thought that the five boys who never really thought beyond their dinner, would grow up to be so complicated?

Verse one—haemul-tang.

Now, of course, there are methods to running a restaurant. Jihoon is perfectly aware of this, and yet, he has made it a personal mission to flout each and every rule of that (bar the safety precautions, because well, he isn’t an asshole, never mind what Jeonghan says. Jeonghan has to say an awful lot, apparently, because, and this is true, he’s been telling Jihoon about the apparent health and safety violations of his diner. Jihoon knows this is a false and untrue accusation, because the health department has been to visit once in the six months that Jihoon has been running his diner, and it has all been up to code. Likely, Jeonghan was trying to get underneath his skin by feeding him lies, and Jihoon cannot put it past Jeonghan simply lying to get ahead in the game. And unfortunately for him, Jihoon really cannot get angry with the man, because he simply has his best interests at heart, but he will use his God-given, natural right, to get pissed off and complain. A tiny little thing like friendship is not going to stand in the way of him complaining about Jeonghan, no matter what other people might say about him. He’s a grown adult now. And grown adults can complain about their best friends. And Jeonghan is the kind of person who would lie to get under Jihoon’s skin. Seeing him squirm is like a shot of dopamine for him.

“It doesn’t matter how good the food is, or if you’re being considered for an Orange Ribbon, Jihoon,” the offensive man in question is sitting at the bar at the moment, staring at Jihoon, infuriatingly attractive, “the state of this place is disgusting. This is probably the fourth time I’ve come to see you this week, and already it's filthy. Do yourself a favour and shut this down before you get inspected for a health code violation.”

Jihoon says nothing. Saying nothing in response is the easiest way to rile Jeonghan up, because after half a moment’s silence, he pipes up again, “you clearly hate running this place. Take my advice, and go back to your old job. You know, the one that you used to have, since you left everything and began a diner, of all things.”

Jihoon scoffs, rolls his eyes, and says, “what do you want me to go back to? Being a pianist? Being a performer? Or being a producer for the company? Because as far as I can recall, I am still doing that, just not in person. I still make songs. I’ve just stopped going into the spotlight.”

“Exactly. Do you know how much we spent trying to find you? You just dropped off of the face of the earth, without a single explanation as to where you were going or what you were going to do afterwards. People thought you had died, you know.”

“My parents knew where I was.” It is strange, how easily he slips back into being a petulant teenager in front of Jeonghan, who, when Jihoon had first met him, was a rather petulant teenager himself, but manages to not sulk too much, lest Jeonghan make fun of him, “and I was doing fine. I just didn’t want to deal with everything.”

“Your parents can keep a secret; I’ll give them that.” Jeonghan grouses, “I thought they were professional spies at some point, because nothing  I said could make them open their mouths about why their only son dropped off the face of the earth after his contract—a very alluring contract that I fought with the company executives to secure for him—expired, and why he had not been picking up the calls of his friends.”

Jihoon has the self-awareness to look bashful. He was an asshole to all of them, he knows. Jeonghan was the one who was the most affected, but all the others—Seungcheol, Wonwoo, Minghao—he’s been a jerk to all of them, dropping off of the radar because he just couldn’t deal with the fame and what came with it. “I’m sorry about that.”

“What were you even doing for all those years?”

“I was doing things. Other things, not producing or playing the piano in front of a crowd.” Jihoon shrugs, “ran away to Paris. I Learned how to cook. Came back to Busan, opened this diner.”

“Man,” Jeonghan runs a hand over his face, “you used to love performing. And then you leave without a word, for years, and then I find you running a diner in the middle of Busan. What really is going on here, Jihoon?”

Jihoon sighs, “not today. Nothing I can tell you today, I’m afraid.”

Jeonghan nods, “fair enough, but you have got to come back to the industry.”

“I’m still writing songs!” he protests, “is that not enough? I said I’d still be producing, and I am making songs for the company. Is writing consecutive hits not good enough for you?”

“It sounds like it’s not good enough for you, man,” Jeonghan says, finishing his food and placing a ten-thousand-won bill on the bar, “keep the change. And for god’s sake, fire Soonyoung. Or at least, make him stop coming here. He’s going to ruin his public image if he starts serving people in your diner. Look at him, he’s putting food in front of people wearing a tiger-print apron.”

“He works without pay,” Jihoon replies, “there’s really nothing I can do about a person who comes in and volunteers their time. Also, the only way he said he was going to serve people was if he was allowed to wear the tiger print apron.”

Jeonghan lets out a long-suffering sigh, “at least make him go home at a normal time. It’s good that he’s spending his break away from people, but serving drinks and food in a diner owned by Lee Jihoon is not really the answer.”

And with that, Jeonghan is gone, and Jihoon is left alone, with three other people in the restaurant, two of them being served by an overenthusiastic Soonyoung wearing a striped apron. He really had meant to let everyone know about his whereabouts, really. Even after all those years of being at the company, being a pianist, then writing and producing songs, even after all of that took a toll on him, he had meant to let the people closest to him know.

But he hadn’t, and his relationships had suffered as a result.

“Jihoon,” Soonyoung drifts into his field of vision, an orange-striped monstrosity, “shouldn’t you be closing up shop? Last call should have been half an hour ago.”

“Hm,” he nods, “I’ll close up shop. You can go ahead, if you want to.”

“You don’t look good,” Soonyoung says, worry laced in his voice, “should I call someone? Jeonghan-hyung? Your mom?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Jihoon can feel the telltale signs of a migraine coming along, but he ignores it in favour of being nice to Soonyoung, because Soonyoung will definitely go and tell Jeonghan if Jihoon is not well, and he doesn’t think he can handle the emotional turmoil of dealing with Jeonghan on two consecutive days, “just go, I’ll clean and close up.”

“You already cleaned,” the other man points out, “you were cleaning before Jeonghan-hyung came by, and I finished the rest of it for you. You just need to wash the dishes from the last two customers and take out the trash, and you’ll be done.”

Jihoon stares at him, a newfound appreciation for Soonyoung colouring his vision. Yeah, screw what Jeonghan has to say about him working here, he’s going to let him work. If he likes it, let him do it. as long as it doesn’t interfere with his work and rest.

When he takes out the trash, Soonyoung having gone home earlier, sits in front of the diner, still wearing his work clothes, and takes out a cigarette. He really shouldn’t be smoking, but here he is, trying to get rid of a habit he had thought he’d left behind. So many people in his life—his parents, the record label execs, Jeonghan, Seungcheol, Wonwoo, Minghao, Soonyoung, now, and he’s managed to let down at least eighty percent of them, soundly. What was he thinking, opening up a homestyle diner in the middle of Busan? He knows why Soonyoung comes out here to work with him, even if his own house is in Namyangju. He’s aware of why Jeonghan has been running around to get him to come back to Seoul. But unfortunately for Jihoon, he enjoys the smell of the sea a bit too much. Likes Busan because he can wake up and go for a walk and have breakfast with his parents, come back to open the restaurant, and live a life that is enviable, perhaps. Hard, but enviable.

He presses the code to lock the doors, then pulls the shutters down. Time to clock out.

—

“No, Seungkwan, I refuse to go to your home for the holidays,” I tell the man sitting in front of me at the café, “I barely know your parents! Why would they want to host me for the holidays!”

“They love you already, noona,” the man wheedles, fully aware of the power of a handsome face, “please, they haven’t ever met a writer in real life.”

“I’m not a zoo animal to be paraded, Kwan. Besides, I have my own, very loving family, to get back to for the holidays.”

“But you won the Daesan literary award!” Seungkwan groans, “please, noona, it would mean so much to my parents if you came to visit them.”

Unfortunately, I’ve never really been able to say no to him, which is a weakness of mine that he exploits on the daily. Besides, who really contributed to the award? Was it me, who wrote the story, or was it Seungkwan, who found my manuscript languishing in a pile of rejected scripts and fought for it until it was published? I thanked him in my speech after I won, but it doesn’t seem enough.

“Fine,” I say, “I’ll go on the day after New Year. I can get a ferry or something.” Ugh. Never mind the fact that Seungkwan has something else brewing (he always has) in that mind of his, travelling the day after New Year, when all the roads are bound to be filled to the brim with people arguing, yelling, and trying to make their way to their own families, is not exactly my idea of heaven.

But, on the other hand, Seungkwan was my best (haters would say my only) friend, and I would actually enjoy his company, so I make a face, but make a purchase for a ticket to Jeju either way. I can always bully him into giving me a ride to his house after I land. I will have to make my excuses to slip away from my home, but I think my parents would be happier if I spent at least part of the holiday at a friend’s place rather than at theirs. It would stop the questions of ‘when are you getting married’, that’s for one.

I make a face at the amount of money I was being charged for single two-way ticket to Jeju, and I show the screen to Seungkwan, who pulls a frown of his own, “I’m taking that out of your pay check, Boo Seungkwan.”

“You don’t even pay me,” he counters, “and don’t pull that face. We all know why you’re even saying yes to this. You just don’t want to deal with your parents asking you when you’re going to get married.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“I’ve known you for three years, so it’s kind of obvious to me,” he preens, “are they still on your case about that?”

“They mean well,” I take a sip of the too-sweet boba tea, “but after a point, they get overbearing. Even they are aware of it, which makes me think that they’re just doing it on purpose.”

“And they still don’t know that you’re a writer?” Seungkwan has this look on his face, the one that I’ve dubbed ‘Incredulous Seungkwan Face’ where he has heard a piece of information so outrageous it cannot possibly be true, but here it is, in his face, as he tries to process it, “come on, at least tell them that you won an award! At least then they’ll stop asking you about when you are going to get a proper position at your job, and I don’t have to lie every time they ask me about it.”

“They ask you about it?” I groan, “I thought I told them not to bother you about anything, but they ask you about it.”

“They worry about you, that’s why,” Seungkwan sips on his coffee, “of all the writers I’ve met, you are the one who’s the most secretive, despite being one of the most famous.”

“You’ve been talking to more writers?” I gasp for dramatic effect, “cannot believe you are betraying me.”

Seungkwan gives me an unimpressed look, “As opposed to who is betraying you?”

I twiddle my thumbs. “You know, who else.”

“Never mind that,” Seungkwan sighs, “at least tell me that you’re coming to Jeju for New Year’s. I’ve already told my parents about you, so you know, no pressure.’

“Yeah, no pressure, you dumb shit,” I grumble, “I’m going to be terrified the whole time.”

Seungkwan laughs, before standing up to leave, and finally, I am all alone in the shop, with only my brain for company. Daesan Literary Prize. Until the previous month, I had no idea it was even a real thing, and when Seungkwan had called me up to deliver the news of my winning, I thought it was a prank call delivered to the publishing house. But it wasn’t, and now I am—well, what am I? a writer? An accomplished one? Someone who makes a fair bit of living from her craft?

Doubtful.

“Why are you based in Busan?” Seungkwan had asked me, when we met for the first time, an open question, that I had failed to answer, just stammered my way through a bunch of excuses that didn’t make sense to either of us, but at least he had accepted it, had not pressed further, had not asked the question, why do you avoid Seoul?

The boba shop is on the edge of the wharf, and I make my way to the sea, salty air whipping onto my face, realising, after a long time, ah, I miss my mom. It’s in times like these that I miss the days of my youth, when all I had were dreams clogging my senses, when I thought about nothing but becoming famous, being known for my writing. And when I’ve finally managed to achieve even a little bit of that goal, I hid away in the middle of a city where no one knew my name, or at least, even if they did, had the sense to look the other way. Seungkwan doesn’t press, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t go beyond his limits. Even if he could, he never once asked me about the reason behind leaving.

My phone rings, “Hello?”

The familiar voice of my sister floats in through the speaker, “are you okay?”

Are you okay? There is an answer to this, but I’m not sure if I should be telling anyone about it, really, are you okay? Who am I to say I’m not, beg for love and attention and all the other things that come with the experience of being loved and cared for, to be an important person in anyone’s life?

“I’m fine,” I reply, kicking away a stray pebble, “just walking on the beach. It’s a Sunday.”

“You love that damn beach too much,” my sister grumbles, “even ran away from the city you were born and raised in, just to see the beach. Have you had your fill of it now? Aren’t you sick of seeing the same thing over and over again?”

“The sea changes every day, you know,” I laugh, “I come here every day to find a different person waiting for me, the same way that you have your family, I have the beach for myself.”

“I wish you would at least think about it, you know,” my sister sighs on the other end, “I just feel as though you’ve been running for years.”

“One has to stop at some point, right?” I laugh, “I’m fine, eonnie. I like it here, actually. The sea is—it’s comforting.”

“Do you want me to tell you about New Years?” she asks, still cautious, “or do you want to skip it this year?”

“I’ll come, don’t worry. Mom and dad will miss me if I didn’t show up at least once,” I laugh, “hey, at least we get mandatory leave those four days.”

“I thought you would have other plans.”

“Seungkwan invited me to go to Jeju for the New Years, so I’ll probably do that the day after New Years,” I say, “I don’t know, might cancel that. Would like to stay with my parents for the holiday, you know?”

“Mom and dad would be overjoyed if you went to a friend’s house for New Years,” she replies, “ah fuck, the kids are acting up again. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Bye.” She hangs up, and I stand there, in the middle of the beach, the sea a comfortable distance away from me, and wait a while.

I hate Seoul. Hate the bustle of it, hate how people move quicker than they need to, but who knows? Maybe they do need to move that quick, maybe they all have places to be, things to do, more important than the life of a twenty-something who does not know exactly where her dreams began and where her reality ended.

Most importantly, I hate how I miss it.

In the dying light of the sun, I kick away pebbles, hoping to find a different outcome for all this want inside of me, and come up with nothing.

—

Jihoon is scared. He’d been staring at the work computer in his room for an hour the past night, and all he ended up realising was wow, I’m fucked. He’s staring at the amount of drafts he has in his computer, titled neatly, with the day and time of composition (as if that really mattered, but Jihoon was a stickler) and really, he can’t sustain himself with recycled beats and old compositions he’d made in the earlier days of his contract with the company. He’s been unable to really make anything anymore, has essentially kept staring at the screen, unable to even make a single tune. It’s a far cry from the Woozi of his previous years, who had a new song to be presented for scrutiny at the company meetings every single week. Jeonghan might take offence, but he is not the one who has to craft songs, only has to present them, and he can wait a few more days.

Jihoon knows he’s good at making songs, he’s been called a genius far too many times for the term to not go to his head. Three years ago, just before his contract ended, he was awarded Producer of the Year and Songwriter of the Year, a distinction reserved for three people before him. He'd written around thirty songs that year, more than anyone else, and had his hands in the production process for at least twenty more. Writing songs came easy to him then, as easy as breathing. He could sit with a draft in the morning and be done by lunchtime.

And then breathing became difficult, so all he could do was clutch his chest and run.

Jihoon shakes his head, standing at the doorway to his apartment building, he has to get groceries for the restaurant today; the produce will be coming in a bit later than usual. Which means delays in the prep, which means delays in getting orders out. It’s funny, how he’s become accustomed to thinking like a restaurant owner, even though he had no idea about this stuff when he first started out, washing dishes in the back of a Parisian bistro, telling the whole world to fuck off just because he could. All of that was the bravado of a twenty-year old, someone who had enormous power thrust into their hands before they even realised the gravitas of it, and most of the time, people watch on in a sick sense of pleasure, hoping to see the other person drown.

And well, he was a good swimmer, but swimmers drowned too.

By the time he ends up finishing his prep for the day, there is only about ten minutes left for the lunch regulars to begin walking in, and he makes a face, realising, not for the first time, that running a restaurant, even if it’s a homey little diner on the edge of the Busan wharf, is a lot of work.

Soonyoung walks in halfway through the afternoon, rubbing his eyes as if he’s just woken up. He picks out his designated apron from the rack, and Jihoon averts his eyes because he cannot bring himself to be the one to tell him that the tiger-print is an atrocious one. In many ways, he’s grateful to Soonyoung, who works at the diner without asking for payment, just grateful to be able to hide away from the reporters in Seoul that seem to constantly be on his ass for something or the other. Soonyoung had entered the company when they were at the last stages of The Seventeen Project, something that was being touted as the 'next big thing' in k-pop since BTS. Jihoon was also dabbling in producing, sick and tired of the failure and the scrutiny. He had initially felt sad for Soonyoung, given how he was walking into a company that was on its dying breaths, desperate to try anything to get by. They all knew, the HR knew, the producers knew, hell, even the trainees knew. Production had seemed like a safer alternative at that time, and he was eager to do anything for a paycheck. Turns out, Soonyoung, or Hoshi, as he called himself, was the goose that laid golden eggs. Or was it Jihoon who was the goose? Either way, Hoshi’s popularity meant more work for Jihoon, more money for the company to be poured into the other struggling groups. When one succeeds, everyone gets a piece of the pie. Years later, and he was begging for his contract to end.

The shift is a slow one, meaning he has more time to think about his impending doom, where he is hunted down the sands of the beach by a group of company executives, headed by Jeonghan, who, inexplicably, has a contract termination notice for his diner in his hands. Jihoon knows it’s an unrealistic dream, but it does not keep it from shuddering in fear whenever his mind conjures up that image.

“One seafood stew,” Soonyoung sets down a ticket in front of him, jerking out of his thoughts, “should I say last call?”

Jihoon checks his wristwatch, already past midnight. He wants to keep the diner open a while more, but he still has to go home and decide on what to send Jeonghan for the upcoming deadline, something that he has been avoiding to the point that Jeonghan had to make the damn trip to tell him to fix his mistakes. He has to do something, or the tentative bit of goodwill that he has, will all go down the drain. At least he can talk to the others over the phone every once in a while, he won’t be able to do that either anymore.

“Last call,” he shouts over the counter, and the customers begin to stand up and leave, “Soonyoung, clean as much as you can, then leave the rest to me.”

“Ah, well, you see,” Soonyoung says, half-apologetic, because Jihoon knows how much he loves performing, “I’m going back to Namyangju tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Your vacation finished early?” he asks, keeping it light, “you stayed back longer this time.”

“Ah, you know, vacation is never really a vacation with these people,” Soonyoung laughs, “but, I’ll still be in touch, if you want me to.”

“Of course I want to remain in touch,” Jihoon laughs, “drive safe on the road back home, huh?”

“Sure, sure,” Soonyoung walks out of the door, “keep the apron for me, would you?”

“Fuck no.”

Soonyoung leaves, and Jihoon is alone, back in a void of his own making. He could just clean up before leaving, but Soonyoung is apparently a much more diligent worker than he had ever thought he would be, because he’s left a spotless kitchen and nothing for Jihoon to take care of, nothing that he can do in order to make himself feel useful. So, he sits at a corner table, looking out onto the beach. He’s been raised in this city for all his life, and yet he’s never really seen the city. He’s never even been on a Blue Line tour, for god’s sake.

With a sigh, he stands up, dusting off a table top. I’ve still got to go back home and work on a draft, useless as it might be. All these responsibilities are probably not good for him; his mother (and his doctor, but he fears his mother more) has warned multiple times against him overdoing it, but Jihoon is part of a group of people who just don’t know when to give up.

The bell rings, and even before he can stand up to look at the person walking into the store after hours, a voice rings out, “are you still open?”

Jihoon turns around, and he truly, really, fully intends to say “no, I’m afraid we are closed for the day,” but instead says, “why do you ask?” because the person in front of him, with the faint scent of cigarette smoke on her, looks straight out of a novel—hair windswept, eyes shining with unshed tears, the heroine of all his dreams brought to life.

If she was a song, she would be—

—

Social media is a disease. I keep repeating that to myself, walking along the wharf. I’m happy now, social media is a disease. I should have never really gone on Facebook after work ended, instead I should have done some overtime work to at least assure myself of remaining in the same company for another year. Unfortunately, I had the bright idea to go online, where by some cruel twist of fate, there they were, happy, married couples who wanted to show themselves off to the world because they can, and they don’t have anyone else to think of when they post happy pictures or whatever.

As I stared at the photos of the gorgeous destination wedding, because of course, who can stop themselves from doing horrible things, all I can think of is university, years ago, perhaps the last time I felt any real sort of happiness.

Don’t contact me ever again.

Hope you heal from whatever you are going through.

The subtext was clear, and try as I might, I could not get anyone to tell me outright, you’re a bitch. You’re a bitter, insecure bitch, and I hope you never find happiness again. Then again, that would not have come off very nice over text.

I lean against a shop, lighting up a cigarette, but the words don’t leave my mind. Hope you heal. How many times does one have to be on the opposing ends of people leaving them to realise that maybe, just maybe, they are the problem themselves? Your ex-partner was a piece of shit and you tolerated all his actions. That makes you even more of a terrible person in my opinion, even if you left him, because at the end of the day, you are a bitter person.

The worst part is I agree with it, all the accusations that are basically condemnations, I agree with them all. I smoke too much, I’m insecure, I don’t have the courage to even talk to anyone properly.

“Ah, fuck,” I mutter, because of course the tears are coming right now, hard and fast when there is no one around to even see it because if no one sees my tears, are they even real? I’m tired, hungry, and overstimulated from the workday, and all I want is a place where I can settle down and think nothing until I get something to eat. Except it’s after midnight, and every shop in a fifty-metre distance from me is wrapping up their workday, closing down shutters and leaving to go back home.

There’s only one shop open on the beach, and I walk towards it, harsh ocean winds ruffling my hair. The bell makes a noise when I step in, announcing my presence to the only other person inside the space, the owner of the store.

“Are you still open?” I ask, and he turns back to look at me, and in the warm yellow glow of the shop light, the man seems like he’s been waiting for me all along, with his kind face, and the soft way he tells me, why do you ask? Instead of just declining outright. Am I overthinking again? Probably.

I take a deep breath. “I just—I saw you were open, and I didn’t feel like having a meal from a convenience store again.”

He laughs at that, “no, no we really don’t, because convenience store meals are the scourge of every working person’s stomach lining, aren’t they?”

I say nothing in response, and he turns back to the kitchen, “We only have the seafood stew left, if that’s okay?”

“Seafood stew is fine, actually,” I take a seat at the bar, staring at the man who’s preparing my meal. A philosophy professor in university had once told me, that one of the ways to get to know anyone, is to look at them from behind once. People have their defences up when you look them in the eye, and they tend to hide themselves away from you. Every time you look them in the eye, they have their ways to deflect, no matter how truthful they are. Everyone has some sort of secret they want to keep, even from themselves. When you look at someone from behind, everything becomes visible—the way their shoulders drop when they walk away from you, the telltale signs that give away their hurt and their anger.

Looking at this man, with his starched white shirt, probably ironed carefully in the morning, preparing a meal for me, I can think of only one thing.

Ah, this man. He looks so lonely.

I’m not unfamiliar with loneliness, given the general trajectory of my life, but this man, he seems to have made the loneliness his own. It’s almost as if he does not want to move away from the dark cloud that hangs around him, as if he’s made himself comfortable in the blanket of his own self, to the point that I don’t think he even registers that he has people around him.

Or maybe, it isn’t your fucking problem, a voice tells me, one that sounds uncannily like my tormentors, because what else could top off this truly delightful moment? If it's not your problem, then don’t go around poking your nose in other people’s business. You’ve done enough; let it go.

The problem is, I’m not good at letting go, and haven't ever been good at it, even as a child. Screaming and crying over old books being given away or sold; keeping record of every moment in my life until it became too much for my diary. Letting go of people was easy; letting go of myself was difficult.

And yet, you’ve managed to run away from your old life, to a place you barely know. Haven’t you been practicing the art of letting go?

“Seafood stew,” the man says, placing a steaming stone bowl in front of me, “here you go.”

“Wait, aren’t you about to close?” I ask, a wave of guilt coming over me suddenly, “ah, shit, I’ll make sure to eat it fast.”

“Unless you want to end up in the ER tonight, take your time,” he replies, “Although, since you asked so nicely, I’ll let you know one thing: you’re also eating my dinner, in case you wanted to, maybe, tip me some more.”

I stare at him, half in disbelief, half in wonder, until he begins to laugh, “don’t worry, the house dinner is secure, so you don’t really have to give up half your food.”

“Half my food? How aren’t you sure I didn’t want to give the whole thing up?”

He laughs again, pointing to the bag sitting beside me, forgotten altogether in the process of sitting down, ordering, and whatever else that entailed, “you’re an office worker, on their way back from working, roughly six hours overtime, and you look like you haven’t had a single bite of food since the morning. Of course you were not going to give up the whole meal, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Hence, half.”

“Hence, half of the meal,” he smiles, “and here I’m being generous.”

I narrow my eyes, but take a spoon and dig in anyway. It’s a seaside diner, I tell myself, there’s no way you’re going to find a Heston Blumenthal hiding in the sands. It’s humble fare, the kind you like.

The first bite, and I want to kick myself for being this wrong. It’s a homely dish, no doubt, but the workmanship behind the dish is exquisite. It's simple, clean, the aftertaste of it not too overpowering. It’s a reminder of Busan, the sea present within the three spices he had used—chilli powder, soy sauce, and soybean paste. It's subtle, briny, and delicious. I used to consider myself a gourmet, because at one point in time, I used to be rich enough to eat at good restaurants (and I enjoyed it), but after this dish has announced its presence on my tongue, I don’t think I can really say that I’ve had anything as good as this.

“You look like you’re enjoying it,” the man says, smiling, “is the stew that good, or are you just starved?”

“Both,” I muse, “it has been a long day.”

“That makes two of us,” he grins, “care to unburden yourself?”

I narrow my eyes. As good as this dish is, I doubt I want to tell my life story to this man, who I have known for all of half an hour. For all I know, he could be a serial killer, using this diner as a front to get intel on his next victim. Also, why the hell would anyone listen to the story of a person who has been abandoned by her entire social circle? How much loss can be contextualised? At what point do I have to come to terms with the fact that maybe, just maybe, I am the problem?

“Don’t worry, I’m not a serial killer,” he laughs, and adds on, to my horrified expression, “I realised that maybe asking for your life story without knowing you properly, might be a bad idea.”

“A self-aware man, I see.”

“A rarity these days, no doubt.”

I sigh, choosing not to reply, and busy myself with eating, keenly aware of him observing my every move. It’s awkward, but not entirely unwelcome. Despite watching my fair share of true crime documentaries, I don’t stand up and storm out of the diner, instead I stare right at him, realizing, however belatedly, he has beautiful eyes.

“Unburdening can be hard, I’ve come to realise.” He says, after a pause.

“Why? Is running a diner that hard?” I laugh, “you have the sea right in front of you.”

“The sea is not always benevolent,” he replies, “sometimes, the diner is tiring.”

I hum, “I understand. Adulthood seems to be a series of exhausting events, one after the other, with pockets of small happinesses scattered in the middle.”

“Happiness seems to be hard to come by,” he nods, “I keep forgetting why it was that I opened up a shop here, of all places. It’s on days like these, that I need a violent reminder.”

“Do you want me to shake you by the collar?” He laughs at that, and I feel a sense of pride, because I made him laugh. When was the last time I did that? “Happiness might be difficult to come by on most days, but it's not impossible to find, as you can see.”

“What do you mean?”

I take a deep breath, “I live my days on small, certain happinesses. Moments throughout the day, when I can think to myself, "ah, this existence is not too bad.”

“Moments like?”

I hold out my hand, “when I get my favourite chocolate milk from the store in the morning, I’m happy. When my mother calls me just because she missed me, I’m happy then too. Right now, I’m eating delicious stew. All this makes me happy, in small moments. One day, I think that these small moments of happiness will build up enough for me to live the rest of my life in relative comfort.”

“And this will be enough for you?”

“Well, it all depends on the kind of person you are,” I reply, shrugging, “and the kind of situation one is in; most people try to find as much happiness as they can, even in situations that would have broken their spirits otherwise. It’s just important to, you know, have hope.”

“You sound suspiciously like one of those late 2010’s Keep Calm and Go On posters,” he narrows his eyes, and I snort, “cannot believe I’m on the receiving end of hope-core propaganda.”

“Funny you should mention hope-core,” I wipe my nose with a tissue, “I learnt the meaning of the word from the intern at the office, just this morning, actually.”

“Ah, so you’re fully qualified to give me advice,” he grins, “Soonyoung was the one to explain that to me.”

“He sounds like he’s got his finger on the pulse of today’s youth,” I nod, “or at least, that is what my boss would have said, if he had heard those words. Seeing as he is not here, I will take this opportunity to act as a stand-in.”

He laughs, “Your boss seems great.”

“He’s—surprisingly nice, given how he has to put up with all my tantrums and issues.” I shrug, and he places a glass of tea in front of me, “as an employee, I think I am also obligated to tell you that I have the best boss in the world.”

“You don’t really have to say that,” he says, now wiping down the counter, “Soonyoung probably does not have a single good thing to say about me, but I still keep him employed here. Most bosses don’t really care what kind of people you are, as long as you get the work done.”

I sigh, yeah, there’s the actual problem. I’m behind on work, and everyone else has to pay the price because of me.

It must show on my face, my feelings, because as much as I would like to brag about my poker skills, it’s evident, my discomfort. This man does not prod, instead, offers me another tissue with a smile. He doesn’t push, and I don’t reveal anything. It’s bad manners, really, to be spilling all your secrets to someone you’ve barely met, and within the first half-hour too.

The seafood stew is finished by this point, and I stand up, pushing a ten-thousand won bill towards him, and he fixes me with a look. I shrug, holding it out, “For the haemul-tang,” I say, smiling, “and for listening to my woes.”

“If I took money from the girl who gave me bad millennial advice, I’d be ruining the sanctity of this kitchen,” he says, so seriously I cannot even bring myself to laugh, “come by another time when I have more to offer than the leftovers of the day, and then I’ll take your money. Not before that.”

I make a face, “nothing in life is free, is it? Because now, I have to come back to your diner once more, in order to get my money’s worth.”

“I’ll make sure to serve you my best dish, that day.” he says, and I laugh, because apparently this man doesn’t only make good seafood stew, he also makes other dishes that are, presumably, just as good, “what is it?”

He smiles, conspiratorial, “well, you’ll have to come by again to find out.”

“And if I simply abscond? What if I never come back again?” I stare at him, lit warmly under the lights, soft, yellow, almost ethereal. This was the kind of encounter people fantasised about, wrote about, thought about incessantly. This was what dreams were made of. He’s smiling at me now, because for all the bad things in the world, sometimes, you do get to meet a stranger and even strangely, you both connect on some level that neither of you really understand. If I could, I can stride forward to the bar, and ask him for his number, something I do not really think he will be averse to. I could just do it, establish a connection with someone. And it would not even take a lot of effort, just a conversation. A few lines of words, spoken easily, lightly, as though it did not matter. I could do this. There was no reason I had to remain lonely in this city, when I could have a singular friend to talk to, on nights like these.

Do you even deserve this?

I take a step back, and the back of my knee collides painfully with a chair. I wince, and before he can come to my aid, grab my jacket and bag. “I’ll come by again—” are the only words I manage to say, before opening the door and stumbling out onto the street. God, its fucking cold. If I could just reverse the flow of time, I would never go into that damn restaurant, never would have struck up a conversation with anyone, least of all that man. Someone whose name I don’t even know, someone who (hopefully) will no longer be here when I take a walk on the beach tomorrow.

Before coming to this city, I had not really thought of myself as someone who was cut out to make large decisions. In fact, I thought of myself as perfectly average, right in the middle of the pecking order, someone whose existence brought neither great joy, nor great suffering. The middle ground between two warring sides, and apparently fooling no one. Busan had not even been on the radar before, had not even been in any of the plans I liked to draw up when I was a child, ranging from “World -famous chef” to “President of the United States of America” (yes, I know, that one was a mistake. I wasn’t aware we needed to be old men to be considered for that role). Nowhere in those crudely written crayon drawings had I put the words “Small-time editor for a company in Busan”. I suspect if I put it in one of those sheets, my elementary school teacher would have called my parents, because there was no way that the girl with the best grades in the school would imagine becoming a lowly office worker in a mid-tier city.

Unfortunately, I woke up one morning, four years ago, and decided that Seoul was simply too oppressive for me, and I needed to leave. It was nothing as dramatic as running away in the middle of the night, which was a pivotal point in one of the stories shared by my batchmates on a class outing. Imagine being subjected to a half-drunk woman rambling about the time she was almost robbed at knifepoint, and framing it as a heartwarming story of youthful problems, as something everyone did, at least once in their lives. “How else did you cope with the stress of the exam?” Because apparently, getting into one of the most prestigious universities in the country implies you had to have been in the throes of extreme irrationality as a teenager, or else it does not count. No, my act of leaving was as boring and adultlike as possible, practical and dry, to the point where people did not really understand why I left. That ruse lasted a while, of course, until the rumours began to grow so insistent that no one, not even my mother, that most oblivious of women, made the trip to Busan and insisted on staying with me for a whole week. She didn’t believe them, of course, and asked me only once, on the final day, I’m hearing things about you, you know. Are they correct? I don’t believe them, but I’m asking you again.

They’re not correct, mom, I had said, feeling only slightly sad at lying this blatantly, I do not know what you are talking about, and I know that is not correct.

And my mother had believed me, but a false rumour is only marginally worse than a half-true rumour. And even if they were not true, why did you run? Why did I run, when it meant that everyone could point their fingers at me and say you ran, therefore you are guilty. On what count, we do not know. But you are guilty. And you will remain guilty, for the rest of your life.

I light up another cigarette, walking rapidly away from the diner. The chill in the air has become worse, with the winds sharp enough for me to huddle into my coat as I make the short distance home, five minutes away, but I smoke two cigarettes before I even step foot into the building, and a third is halfway to my mouth as I punch the code in the lock.

You’re gonna die of that one day, man. At least put the cancer sticks away.

I flick the lighter even before I reach for the lights.

—

She smelled strongly of cigarettes, Jihoon noticed, out of everything she did, it was the cigarette smoke that stood out to him, heavy and surprisingly, slightly comforting. She was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger, but—the spicy smell of Dunhill cigarettes, a cross between clove and mint ones, that, that was a scent he was familiar with, years of suffocating boardrooms and producing studios that seemed to be made for the express purpose of forcing him to bend to the will of the executive members. The faint tobacco smell was a reminder of the years he spent in that company, giving up on his youth to chase his dreams. They’d all stopped smoking after a while—him, Jeonghan, Wonwoo, Minghao. Or at least, he thought they had. He can’t be sure anymore.

He'd been at his work table for hours in the morning, with little to no work done, but his hands reach for the headphones of their own accord, now, and he starts humming a tune under his breath. It’s a wistful tune, one that would have Jeonghan breathing down his neck, but for once in a while, Jihoon finds himself incapable of caring. Sure, he has to make an upbeat boy group song, and what he’s doing is an indie ballad. But also, he’s been steadily running out of his saved drafts, and Jeonghan would have become aware of it, one day or the other.

He's got only a rudimentary beat done, but it's more work than what he has had in months. It’s a soft progression, reminiscent of the indie songs of the late 80’s, and Jihoon wonders if he should compose a city-pop song for the new female soloist from the company. He could get away with it too, sending over unauthorised songs. Anything will work, as long as the company gets their check.

Jihoon, did you hear? You’ve been nominated for Producer of the Year.

Jihoon, make sure you’re present at the meeting tomorrow.

Jihoon, I’m sorry but you’re not a good fit for the debut team.

Jihoon, make sure you get that track finished by next week.

He leans back into the chair, heaving a sigh. It was destined to crash and burn from the start, wasn’t it? Late nights, strict deadlines, short breaks. Jihoon was on top of the world, but it took mighty little to get him to come crashing down. All of a sudden, he was in a strange city, with no one to talk to him, but more importantly, no one to answer to. How pathetic was my life, if I only managed to taste freedom at the age of twenty-six?

But today, she was there, standing in front of him, and Jihoon had felt, for the first time in a long while, a strange sense of déjà vu—or was the feeling merely camaraderie? That they knew each other, or some level, even if they had never met each other before. She reminded him of a time when he knew nothing but work, cigarette smoke enveloping her like a crowd of despair. And she’d seemed sad, too. Sad enough to not look at him when she spoke.

He'd never managed to get her name; she had come into the diner, into his life, and disappeared with nothing but the faint trace of her habits behind her. He’s never really wanted to know someone this desperately. He could ask someone for help, but his parents would probably ask him to sit back and do nothing at all.

She’d said one thing that had stuck out to him. One day, I think that these small moments of happiness will build up enough for me to live the rest of my life in relative comfort. Even in his moments of despair and depression, he had had support. His parents were there, rallying behind him, keeping their mouths shut about his whereabouts because they knew that Jihoon was not well. He’s one of the lucky ones, the people who had both money and a good family to fall back on, a fact that he says his prayers daily for. All he had to do was tell them I’m not doing well, dad, and they had opened their arms to shield him from the rest of the world while he recuperated. Small amounts of happiness, she’d said. What were his small doses of happiness? To be able to get dinner with his parents every two days? His father, a stoic man who didn’t take off the watch Jihoon had given him—his first present—for a whole month, and his mother, the woman who had been the one to put him in his first piano class, the person who kick started his career, essentially, to be able to be a good son to them, to be a filial person, is that happiness? He thought he was happy, at one point, when he was cranking out a song in two hours and being lauded for it, when he had the high life, going from country to country every year, aspirational discretionary income stored in a platinum account.

Are you doing well? You look—

I’m fine.

He’d repeated the words so many times that he had started believing them. I’m fine. I can do it. This doesn’t bother me; words that made no sense to him, yet happened to come out of his mouth on a daily basis, and what was funnier was that everyone seemed to believe his obvious lies.

He has things to do for the next day; keep track of purchases and go to the market to get things wholesale, banal duties that keep him sane, except Jihoon cannot focus on anything but her right now. You’re going insane, Jeonghan would say, except Jeonghan isn’t here to save his ass right now, is he? It’s just Jihoon at the moment, going slightly insane, apparently.

He’s going to find her tomorrow; more accurately, he has to. She owes him the price of her seafood stew.

—

I wake up before my alarm rings, apparently trained better than a soldier. The morning is crisp, calm, and bright, and as I make myself a coffee before stepping out of the house, I’m hit with a pleasant breeze through one of my many windows. Seungkwan has left me a message in my inbox, sent at three in the morning.

“Remember, you’re supposed to send in your first article by next week. We’ve worked really hard for this serialisation, so don’t miss the deadline, although I’m sure you won’t, because you understand my problems, anyway, remember the deadlines, please.”

I’d almost forgotten about this. The serialisation was a big deal for Seungkwan, since my mainstream success meant the same for him, as my editor. He was the one who worked for the pitch; sending in letters to the chief of the department, begging them to give me a chance. The fact that it was only approved after I’d received an award, doesn’t take anything away from his hard work.

The call to Seungkwan goes through immediately, and his sleep-deprived voice floats through the phone line, “What’s up?”

“What’s the deadline for the serialisation?”

“No mincing words, I see,” he mutters, “next week.”

I sigh. Next week. I’ll have to come up with an idea and a way to execute it, all within a week. “At least tell me if there’s a brief.”

“Brief?” he’s immediately wide awake, “don’t tell me—you haven’t even written anything yet?”

“Besides the point. Just tell me if there’s a brief.”

“That’s the whole point! If you have no idea what to write, man, I don’t know how to say this, but I might lose my job.”

Now it’s my turn to be speechless, because what the fuck does he mean, “What?”

Seungkwan sighs, “look, I really didn’t want to tell you this, but I did bet my job on your column. Sure, the award was a good push, but the Editor still didn’t want to give it to you. Our best writer used to write this column, and now—”

“Now he’s dead,” I reply, “yes, I’m aware, Seungkwan, that my opportunities depend on the timely passing of literary greats.”

“Good god, and now I’m late for work. Just remember you have until next week for the deadline. And write something  fun, new age, one that the readers will relate to. We’re already losing subscribers to the magazine as is.”

Part three: the chase. 

[Seongju, twelve years ago.]

They had told her to not come here. She had fought about thirty people in her department, before losing her temper and forcibly assigning herself to the large, sole high school in Seongju City. It was an impulsive decision, but the people were really nice, even if the Gyeongsang accent took some time to get used to. She wasn’t even required to do anything in her final year, having submitted her final thesis, and surely, her parents would have approved if she took the rest of the year off, but working here would mean a larger sample size for her thesis, and well, she needed the fresh country air. 

“Wait, what are you working on?” The principal had asked her, on the day she had arrived from Seoul, her accent perfect, not a hair out of place, in a small compact car, “it’s not every day we have a graduate student from Yonsei coming here to work amongst us.”

She had smiled, “I’m working on the crime rates amongst youth in rural settings. This is from my professor. He’s called ahead, I hope?”

Professor Lee had written her a glowing letter of recommendation, but even beyond that, he was a relation of the current school principal. The man immediately perks up upon hearing Professor Lee’s name, “you’re the student he was telling me about!” he laughs, “he’s told me so much about you, Miss, er—”

“Kang,” she replies, thinking about whether to give her first name, “Kang y/n.”

“Miss Kang!” the principal claps his hands, “well, you’re free to interview our students, but you’ll need to talk to the guidance counselor first. Even then, the student might not trust you enough to get close with them, so be careful, please.”

She shakes her head, “I’m fine with that, of course. Which way is the guidance counselor's office?”

And that was that, apparently. The rural air was fresh, and invigorating, which meant that she regained her failing health in a span of mere weeks. The place she stayed at, the upper floor of a house that belonged to an elderly melon farmer, had both the amenities she wanted; cheap rent, and within biking distance from the high school. All in all, it was an ideal living situation. 

Until of course, the murders started happening. 

At first, of course, they never thought about it being the work of a serial offender. They took it as a one-time offense, a heinous one, no doubt, but one that would not be replicated again, not within the town’s living memory. It wasn't until the third murder, that they started to get antsy, worrying about their daughters who would come back home after working at nearby Daegu. The townspeople got more and more scared, and by the end of three months, it was difficult to walk alone at night. 

“Professor,” One of the residents had said, “don’t you feel scared walking around alone? At night?”

She had shaken her head. There was no fear for her, at least not for now. The distance from the high school to the temporary rental was a scant three miles. It took her less than half an hour to cover that distance on a bicycle. The man who picked off women at random while they came back from work posed no danger to her, who had the power of a machine on her side. 

The school was in an uproar, of course, one that reached fever pitch when the news came out that the man was sexually assaulting the women before killing them with their own clothing. It was macabre, but she was looking at it through a different lens. She’s perhaps a bit more objective about this, but the residents here have known little other than abject terror in the face of an unknowable threat.

“So creepy,” a girl muttered, shivering, seated on the opposite side of the desk, “do you think he’s a creepy man, Prof?”

“I don’t know enough about this man to make any assumptions, Mi-ae,” she had smiled, “and don’t call me Professor. I’m Miss Kang.”

Mi-ae had shrugged, “but the principal told us that you were about to be a professor, so we should all call you professor anyway.” Then, leaning forward, Mi-ae adopts a conspiratorial tone, “hey, prof, do you like anyone?”

She stares at the girl over her glasses, “Mi-ae, this is not the time for you to be bothered with things like romance. You need to get a good score on the—”

“On the CSAT,” Mi-ae grumbles, “that’s all anyone talks to me about, you know. The CSAT, and how my grades aren’t good enough to get into a university in Seoul or whatever. I don’t know if I’m even good enough to take the CSAT in the first place, let alone go to Seoul. I’d much rather stay here.”

She shakes her head, laughing at Mi-ae’s antics, “Seoul is a big city, Mi-ae. Sometimes you’ll hate it, sometimes you might love it, but it’s just a place. Just like this one.”

“Still, everyone I know is here.” Mi-ae replies, mulishly, “anyway, do you like someone?”

“Like? I like you,” she cocks her head, “what else are you talking about?”

Mi-ae groans, “not like that, professor! I meant if you like someone. You know, like romantically.”

“Romantically?” she pauses to think about it. It’s been years since she’s thought about liking someone romantically, but the thought, in itself, is not unappealing, it’s just that she doesn’t see the point of it. “I don’t like anyone, Mi-ae,” she replies, long-suffering, “now, we need to finish the questionnaire so I can use it for my research.”

“Ugh, you’re always going on about research.” Mi-ae pouts, and then perks up, “you know, Choi from the science track, has an older cousin. He’s a policeman now, but he went to the Police academy. So he started out as a lieutenant. He’s posted here, but he’s from Daegu, so he knows the area well. He’s really nice!”

She raises an eyebrow, “Mi-ae, why are you telling me this?”

“So that you can go shack up with him, of course!” Mi-ae grins, “he’s too old for me, but he’s only slightly older than you, so you’ll be a perfect fit! Even Choi’s grandmother was telling her friends the other day, about how you’d be a great choice for the man. They’ve never seen a girl from Seoul stay here for so long before, you know.”

“And where might I find this man?” she’d said this just to humour the girl in front of her for some time, but Mi-ae grins wide, “you can go down to the station! Or I can ask Choi to have him pick her up from school tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, you have the after-school study session, right?” she asks, and Mi-ae nods, aware of what she means. The man who was going on a rampage had not yet targeted school students, but it was only a matter of time before he started doing just that. All the girls had been growing increasingly troubled, and even as a mere graduate student herself, she could see how much it hurt them, to be so wary of everyone they met on the village roads. Youth was a time to be carefree, to be selfish. They should not have to worry about who the next victim would be. 

It was all so, so unfair. 

“I’ll be here at the school, as will all the other teachers,” she smiles, “if you are alone, one of the teachers will walk you back home, Mi-ae. No need to worry.”

The girl regards her with a degree of skepticism, “why are you worried about us so much, prof? You said it yourself—you’re not a teacher here. You don’t need to go to this extent for us.”

Mi-ae’s face was open, and the sullen look in her eyes conveyed only one emotion, something she was particularly used to seeing in her own eyes, once upon a time, “did you think I was going to leave you all behind and go back to Seoul?”

“Choi’s grandma told her friends she wanted you to marry Choi’s cousin, and Kim’s grandma said that you would be leaving for Seoul anyway. Then, Choi’s grandma told her that she should set you up with Choi’s cousin, so that you can stay in the village.”

She raises an eyebrow, “and what did the others have to say about this plan?”

Mi-ae shrugs, “everyone seemed pretty much in agreement, but Kim’s grandma told them you probably had a boyfriend back in Seoul. Everyone has seen you make calls at the phone booth at night. Kim’s grandma told them you were calling your boyfriend, but Choi’s grandma said that it was probably your parents.”

She shakes her head, trying not to laugh, “and what are your thoughts about this, Mi-ae?”

The girl narrows her eyes, “should you be talking about this? You’re a psychologist, I thought they didn’t talk about their private lives and all.”

“I’m not a practicing psychologist, Mi-ae,” she replies, handing the girl another worksheet, “I’m only a student for now, so I can ask you these questions.”

Mi-ae doesn’t look very convinced, but she doesn’t fight her on this, “I don’t know, I do quite like you, but no one should be dating Choi’s cousin. He’s a policeman all right, but he’s just so boring,” She yawns, “one time, we went over to her house to watch television, and he scolded us all, because we should be focusing more on our studies and not on silly television dramas.”

Her eyebrow remains raised. In this one matter, she’s inclined to agree with the faceless man, “and you decided you don’t like him?”

“Yeah, he’s really annoying,” Mi-ae shrugs, “anyway, I’m going to give you this worksheet by tomorrow morning, if that’s okay.”

“Take your time,” she waves a hand, “I’m using this for extra data anyway.”

“You sure work hard, prof,” Mi-ae stands at the doorway, “do you mind me asking you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you really think what’s happening here is because of the wrath of the gods?” Mi-ae asks, standing at the door, “I keep hearing people say that we’ve angered the gods, but I don’t know which gods, and I really don’t know what to do.” 

“Well, for once. You don’t have to think about it, Mi-ae,” she smiles, “the adults will worry about this, not you guys. Spend your life as children, and stop thinking about the bad things in the world outside.”

Mi-ae sighs, “you’re always so nice, professor. You should stick around. The people would like it if you stayed around here.”

She shakes her head, “I can’t do that, but I can promise that I will return—” she wants to say something more, but stops short. Outside, there’s a rising hubbub, and Mi-ae gives an excited little squeal, running to the wide windows, beckoning, “oh hey, there’s Choi’s cousin!”

She ignores Mi-ae’s calls for her to come to the window to goggle at the man, and swings her bag over her shoulder, “Mi-ae, I need to lock up right now, do you want to walk with me?”

Outside, the crowd has seemingly increased, and the man looks very uncomfortable, even from a distance. Choi is nowhere to be seen, which explains why he was still braving the ogles of teenage girls and female teachers alike. Even boys throw their fair share of appreciative glances towards him, but the women are most definitely leering. 

"Where's Choi?” she asks Mi-ae, who shrugs, “you don’t know where she is?”

“Probably making out with Kim Daewon behind the science laboratory,” Mi-ae says, far too cavalier for someone who’s just confessed her friend’s deepest secrets to her professor (professor adjacent?) and points to the man, “let’s hang out for a minute with Min oppa!”

“Ah, he likes being called by his given name, huh?” she nods, but they’re halfway through the crowd already, and Mi-ae is enthusiastically waving at the man, so she sighs, before following suit. Mi-ae is still a child, and by some misfortune, she’s the only responsible adult around here. 

The man, Min oppa, her mind supplies helpfully, looks like he would rather be anywhere but here, shuffling away from the main gate in a desperate attempt to avoid the gazes of teenage girls and young women, but his eyes light up when he sees Mi-ae walking towards him. 

“Min oppa, this is Miss Kang,” Mi-ae gestures towards her, “she’s a professor at the school. I told her about you.”

She sees him; the man—Min oppa—observes the two women warily, already inching away from them. He probably thinks Mi-ae is trying to set her up with him, just like everyone else and their mothers. She shakes her head, “let’s go, Mi-ae, I think he’s feeling uncomfortable with me right now.”

Mi-ae narrows her eyes, “but professor, I thought you wanted to wait until Choi came here?”

She grins, still avoiding the man’s eyes, “I don’t think he wants to talk to me that much, Mi-ae. Maybe next time.”

“Next time?” Mi-ae looks frustrated, and sidles up to her, “professor, he’s Choi's cousin! The one I told you about! He’s the one who Choi’s grandmother wants to set you up with!”

“Maybe next time, get him in a setting when there are less than a hundred girls ogling him, Mi-ae,” she whispers, walking away, to her bicycle, “have fun!”

As she cycles away from the school building, she can feel the gazes of Mi-ae and Min oppa, following her until she disappears down a bend in the road. 

—

Two days later, there’s another dead body, this time someone close to her. Someone she knows. The news spreads like wildfire throughout the sleepy town. Within an hour, there is a group of people gathered at the embankment, trying to figure out the identity of the murder victim. She hears it from Choi’s grandmother at seven in the morning, and thinks for a moment. 

She had followed the students on her bicycle last night. Self-study sessions typically ran late, and even if Seongju county high school did not have study sessions that ran well after midnight like those schools in Seoul (like the one she had attended), the countryside had its own dangers. It was pitch dark when the students were let out, and she’d followed them on her bicycle, acting as a grown-up even when she didn’t feel very much like one. Hell, if she thinks about it, her peers were probably busy drinking their weekends away like normal young adults, not stuck in a village while a serial killer goes on a rampage. 

And to make things worse, she had been on supervising duty because Miss Kim Miyeong, the homeroom teacher, had a family emergency at Daegu, so she had to leave as soon as regular classes ended. She liked supervising, but today, Mi-ae had gossiped to Choi about her meeting Choi’s cousin, which meant that Choi had spent the better part of the study session poking Mi-ae with her elbow and giggling at her general direction. She’d even asked, “Professor, I heard you met my cousin yesterday?” in a voice that was loud enough to get the attention of every girl in the classroom, which meant she had to corral a class full of giggling teenagers about her newfound love story with Choi’s cousin. He was a policeman in Daegu, which meant he was partly responsible for some goings on in Seongju. This also meant he was already under a lot of stress, and teenage gossip would only add onto it. 

“Cut it out,” she had warned, trying her best to imitate Miss Kim, “you’re here to study, not speculate about my love life.”

“Oh so you have a love life?” Mi-ae had asked, sly, only to be shut up by a glare. 

Afterwards, while the other kids rode back on their bicycles or just walked in groups, Mi-ae and Choi had been picked up and escorted by her cousin the policeman, who stood awkwardly at the gates, his hands shoved into his pockets. She threw him a look as he waited for Mi-ae and Choi to arrive, their bags slung over their shoulders, and announced loudly, “Miss Choi’s cousin here, has volunteered to walk the students till the village convention centre!”

He stares at her, horrified, and she smiles breezily, swinging one leg over her bicycle, “let’s go, kids!”

And that was that. They had walked and biked all the way to the village convention centre, and she had cycled back to her temporary home. All the way back, she could feel the eyes of Choi’s cousin on her, probing, like he was assessing the reasons behind her presence in the village. 

And in the morning, someone was dead. 

She cycles to the embankment, frantic pedalling taking over for her general morning fatigue and peers at the growing crowd, held back by constables. The hubbub of gossip rises above the morning air, and she can see a body being placed into a bag and carried out. A group of detectives stand around the embankment, talking amongst themselves, a few of them talking to the onlookers and taking notes.

Choi’s cousin, Detective Min, is also there, wearing plainclothes, with a notebook in hand. He’s talking to a group of older men, taking notes, when he catches a glimpse of her, standing beside her bicycle. She does not want to talk to him, but he’s got other ideas, given how fast he’s making a way through the crowd. 

She wants to cycle away from the scene, hoping he would give up, but he’s faster than her reflexes, having caught up to her cycle in three seconds while she was contemplating running from the scene. He stands in front of her, blocking her path, and raises an eyebrow, “did you see any suspicious activity here last night?”

She thinks for a minute. The previous night, she had cycled to the village convention centre behind all the students who were taking the same path, and once the kids had dispersed safely, had cycled back to her home all by herself. It was dangerous, sure, but she had enough belief in herself that the killer would not be stupid enough to kill the daughter of influential Seoul intellectuals. Whoever they were, they were cunning enough to pick and choose their victims. She would rank pretty low on the probable list of victims, in that sense. 

“No, nothing of note,” she says, leaning back to look at the detective. He looked frazzled in the morning air. Even with the slight chill, he had a flush on his skin that probably came from exertion, “do you really think that man was following the kids?”

He shrugs, evidently unwilling to give away any secrets, “you saw no one at all?”

She ignores that question, “this is the tenth victim of his, just so you know. The town is living in a constant state of fear. No one talks to anyone. No one trusts anyone anymore. Even the kids are becoming scared. What the hell are you doing?”

He sighs, “we’re trying to do our jobs here, ma’am. Please answer the question.”

She rolls her eyes. Talk about doggedness. “I followed the students on my bicycle after the study session ended. There was no one suspicious hanging around the students.”

“Right.” He notes it all down, “and would you happen to know where Miss Kim Miyeong was yesterday?”

“Kim Miyeong?” she asks, “Teacher Kim?” 

There’s a slight pause. She stares at him, eyes wide. Detective Min pauses for a moment, clearly uncomfortable. They lock eyes for a heartbeat before she realises why he’s asking her this question. It’s Kim Miyeong. She’s the tenth victim. Kim Mi-yeong, sexually assaulted and murdered, found on the side of the road in a ditch. The tenth victim.  

She stares at Detective Min, horrified, “Kim Miyeong was supposed to come back from Daegu this morning. She told the school that she had to leave urgently for Daegu after classes ended, which is why I had to supervise the study session last night.” She pauses, hand covering her mouth, trying not to think about Kim Miyeong, the cheerful young teacher who smiled at her everyday, “she told us she would come by the last bus, which meant that she would have been here by midnight at the latest.”

He looks at her, dutifully noting this down in his diary, “and who else was there when she told you of this?”

She thinks back to the staffroom when Miss Kim was packing her bag to go to Daegu for an emergency, “the Principal and the vice-principal were there, and the math teacher too. She was in a hurry to go to Daegu, but she didn’t tell us why. None of us pried too much, either.”

He frowns, “and what is your work at the school, Miss Kang? You are not a teacher, I presume?”

She rolls her eyes, “you know what I do.”

The glare he throws at her is impressive, “you need to state all of this for the record.”

She squints, “shouldn’t you be interrogating me officially for that?”

He sighs, resigned, “I don’t want to drag you into county business when you’re clearly just caught up in it. This way is easier.”

She thinks. He’s not wrong. If she’s officially interrogated, or summoned in front of a court of law, it complicates everything. She’s the one in a precarious position. 

“So this is for my own benefit?” She narrows an eyebrow, “why didn’t you just say so?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“Not really, so you’re right on that,” she replies, trying not to sneak a look at the police van that was preparing to depart. Teacher Kim’s body was in there, lifeless and in a black bag. I should have asked her to come back early, given how scared people were. I should have asked to accompany her to Daegu, instead of staying behind to watch over her class. They would have managed well on their own. If there was someone with her, then Teacher Kim would not have been carried to the police lab in a body bag today.

“You’re spiraling,” he says, tapping her on the shoulder with his notebook, “you barely knew her. Why are you getting so cut up about it?”

She doesn’t answer, just looks away. The scenery is peaceful, the sky is a bright blue in the morning light, and yet, here they are, trying to make sense out of the brutal murder of a person she knew. 

“I have nothing more to tell you, Officer Min,” she finally replies, staring straight at him, “if you’re done with the interrogation, I am going to excuse myself.”

He doesn’t stop her, just looks conflicted. Fair enough, she thinks, pedalling as fast as she can, your guilt is not mine to bear. 

—

That night, a storm raged. 

It was nine at night, when she parked her bicycle in the courtyard of the Choi family house, half-soaked from the rain. As she sheds her raincoat in the foyer, the old woman, Choi’s grandmother, and her son, come barreling out of the house, grabbing a hold of her, “Teacher!”

She raises her eyebrows. What the hell was going on here? “What happened?” she asks, “is it urgent? I’ve just managed to come back from the school, so—”

"Teacher," Choi's father, a man in his early fifties, holds her hands, begging, “Ae-sun and Mi-ae both went out in the afternoon, but they haven’t returned.”

A cold sweat runs down her spine. Haven’t returned? “What do you mean?” she asks, pulling on her raincoat again, “both of them are gone?”

“Mi-ae and her went to Daegu in the afternoon, saying they wanted to have some fun at the karaoke bar,” her father weeps, barely holding on, “and they were supposed to return an hour ago.”

“An hour ago?” she asks, hoping she’s heard him wrong because of the raging storms, “and you didn’t call anyone? You should have had the whole village out here looking for them!”

“The villagers are all busy tending to their own houses in the middle of this storm,” Choi’s father sobs, “I couldn’t find anyone who would be willing to go out there in the middle of this rain to search for them.”

She sighs, walking out of the house, “Come with me, sir. We need to inform Mi-ae’s family too, to make sure they know the gravity of the situation.”

The two of them begin their search in the fields near their house first, calling for the two girls over and over again, without any results. She wants to yell at the man for allowing the two girls to go out without any supervision while their whole county remained frozen in fear, but the man seemed too distressed to even be capable of coherent thought. I’ll scold him for this properly, she reasons with herself, not now. Now, we need to find Ae-sun and Mi-ae. 

“We need to separate and search over a wider area,” she tells him, when the search of the fields gives no results, “we can’t contact them, and it’s getting more dangerous by the minute.”

He nods, a bit dazed, and to her, it seems like he’s about to burst into tears, “what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Shut the fuck up!” she snaps at him, “we need to find the two girls right now, that’s the priority. Anything else can be dealt with later.”

“Okay, Miss.” The man resumes his search, calling out for his children over and over again, but after coming up with nothing for the past hour, she’s starting to get worried. Where the hell were the girls?

Stumbling onto the main road, she calls out for Mi-ae and Ae-sun, only to be rewarded with silence. Sullen, stretching silence that never seemed to end. All around the two of them, the storm raged, but in their hearts, there was silence. If we can’t find Mi-ae and Ae-sun—there will be two more bodies weighing on my conscience. Two more lives that will be taken in front of me, while I look on and do nothing. 

“Mi-ae!” she screams, eyes blurry from the rain getting in them. She can’t see anything anymore, not with the rain fogging up her glasses, but she plods on, Mi-ae’s father right behind her. The sky splits apart in two with thunderclaps, and she shudders to imagine what would have happened if the two girls were ambushed by the madman. 

Professor; Mi-ae had said, you’re very cool. I like you. She needed to preserve them, as much as she could, and she needed to find them. The body of Teacher Kim flashes behind her eyelids, lying lifeless on the embankment for the world to see. No dignity, not even in death. She drags Mi-ae’s father by his arms to the embankment, trying to find the girls there. Or if something had happened, at least their injured bodies. Maybe this time the killer hadn’t managed to do everything properly. Maybe he was sloppy and the girls were alive. Maybe—

“Professor?” The voice of Mi-ae, timid and small, comes from the embankment, under a large concrete pipe. The two of them hurry, tripping over their feet in their haste to get to the girls. 

“What the hell were you doing here?” She shakes Mi-ae by the arm, “we were worried sick!”

“There was someone there,” Mi-ae whimpers, pointing to nothing in particular, “I never saw him, but there was someone.”

“A man?” she asks, hoisting them both to their feet, “never mind. Let’s get you back to your homes.”

Both Ae-sun and Mi-ae are half-drowned and scared to death, and she bundles them both up with the help of Choi’s father, helping them walk towards the Choi family home. 

A hundred yards away from the house, there’s another figure on the road, clad in a black raincoat, hauling a bicycle along. She looks at Choi’s father, “Mr Choi, do you know this person?”

The man shakes his head, too busy with the girls, but she cannot shake the uncanny feeling that this man is important to whatever has been going on in the village. The man still approaches them, so she sneaks in a look at Ae-sun and Mi-ae, hoping to find a flicker of recognition in their eyes. If they recognise him, she’s going to hold him down and call for the police. 

The man raises a hand when they’re within a couple feet from him, “excuse me, do you know the way to the bus stand?”

“The bus stand?” she cannot hear him well over the torrential rains, so she has to yell at him, “what?”

“The bus stand,” he repeats, face obscured by the hood of his raincoat, voice still infuriatingly calm, “the way to the bus stand, miss.”

“In this weather?” she yells, “that way!” 

As he moves to walk away, she looks at Choi and Mi-ae, both of whom are busy huddling close to Choi’s father for warmth, no fear of recognition on their faces. They don’t know this man. 

Still, as the man walks past her, she looks back at him, and he looks at her. There’s a stray thunderclap, and for a single, bizarre moment, the entire countryside is illuminated, and she can see his features, cruel and dark, stark against the backdrop of an unnaturally handsome face. She doesn’t know him, but he smiles when he sees her. 

Check, mate. 

—

She wakes up the following morning, and cycles as fast as she can, to the local police outpost. The small building, usually manned by three aged police officers, is now a hubbub of tension. There is an older constable standing outside, looking highly disgruntled, and he glares at her as she approaches. 

“That bicycle work after the rains?” He asks, as she dismounts, “you’ve got mud all over your pants, little lady.”

She smiles, “who’s inside?”

The man scowls, “higher-ups from Daegu. Coming in here with their fancy equipment, talking about how we botched the investigation. They’ve even gotten some people from Seoul, fancy people who call themselves, wait, what do you call them?”

“Profilers?” she laughs, “they’re called profilers. Can I go inside?”

He makes a gesture, and she doesn’t waste time, just walks into the station to grab hold of the first police officer who will listen to her. The higher-ups who have arrived from Daegu all look at her like they’re seeing someone with two heads on their shoulders, and she asks one of the other, younger constables, very sweetly, “May I speak to a detective?”

“A detective?” the man looks confused, “did something get stolen, teacher?”

“Not really,” she smiles, grateful for the people who know her as a teacher, “I just need to speak with a police officer. For something.”

“You’re not going to find a police officer on duty right now, they’re all busy with the investigation,” the constable shakes his head at her, “they’re calling it the Seongju County Murders.”

“Great name,” she says, a tad impatient, “just ask if there’s a detective or a police officer here who can help me.”

“I’ll help,” a voice says, and she doesn’t even need to see who it is. Choi’s cousin. She looks at the man, “you’re setting up camp here?”

“Heard you saved my cousin last night,” he replies, sidestepping her question, “I mean, distant cousin, but cousin nonetheless.”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“That?” he raises an eyebrow at her, but brings her to a corner table anyway, “what about that?”

“I think I saw the man last night.” She whispers, “he was dressed in a raincoat, and asked us for directions. I was with Choi’s father, and the two girls. The man even had a bicycle.”

Officer Min has a smile on his handsome face, a faint curve of his lips that makes it very apparent that he is laughing at her, “Teacher Kang, there are about a hundred tipoffs like yours coming into this office. Every day. And this man had on a raincoat. That is not grounds for arrest. Of any kind.”

“He had a bicycle,” she thinks back to what the man was hauling on the road, “I think it was a stolen one. Maybe one of the other victims had their bicycle stolen, and he’s still hauling it around. Serial killers do that, you know.”

He snorts, “and what gives you the authority to term this as the work of a serial killer?”

She rolls her eyes, “will you listen to me?”

“I’m listening, I’m listening!” He’s laughing openly at her, and even some of the constables who were eavesdropping on their conversation, were laughing at her. She feels sick. She’s so fucking annoyed, “and what did this man do?”

She sighs, swallowing the irritation, “he asked me for directions.”

“Directions. How sinister.”

“You’re never going to take me seriously, so I’m going to leave this palace,” she says angrily, “he’s stolen something, you know. And I know he’s going to be back again.”

With this, she leaves. Even before she steps out of the station, she can hear the loud cackles of the policemen following her out. 

“What happened inside, miss?” The old constable asks, as she stomps out of the station, “You don’t look so well.”

She makes a decision on a whim, “I wanted to report a stolen bicycle, but they were all too busy to take my report. Kim Mi-yeong’s bicycle was stolen last night, and I think someone robbed her dead body.”

Of course, this is a lie. Teacher Kim never really rode her bicycle, and she’s not even sure if the bicycle she saw the previous night was hers, but she doesn’t see the wrong in this lie. Kim Mi-yeong was killed in one of the most gruesome ways possible, and she wants revenge. 

“A bicycle was stolen?” the man is taking down notes, “okay, teacher, we’re going to be on it!”

She nods before riding away on her cycle. Half a month later, she leaves Seongju, but the murders have stopped much before that. 

—

[Seoul, present day.]

She wakes up with a gasp, and sees the odd scenario in front of her. Detective Choi Yeonjun is sitting in a corner of the room, fast asleep, while half the room is filled with floral arrangements from various people. She feels a sneeze coming along, likely triggered by the massive amounts of pollen in the room. 

“Detective Choi,” she calls out weakly, wincing at how raw her throat feels, “wake up.”

“Huh?” Choi Yeonjun wakes up with a start, “Professor! You’re awake!”

“Unfortunately, my voice—,” she gives a hacking cough, “is not the best right now. I’ll need to be on voice rest, I presume.”

“Voice rest?” he squeaks, “professor, you had a panic attack so bad they got you here in an ambulance!”

“Panic attack?” she thinks back to her last recorded memory. The rising fever, the splitting headaches. The letter. The scrap of bloodied fabric that belonged to Teacher Kim. Who else would it be, if not for him?

“I know who he is,” she whispers, but Choi Yeonjun doesn’t catch it, “the man.”

Yeonjun stands up to say something more, but it’s at this moment, the door opens, and Min Yoongi rushes into the room. She stares at him. He looks like shit. His hair is matted and greasy, and he’s got dark circles underneath his eyes that indicate at least a week of staying up late. And most of all, he’s got this dark, haunted look in his eyes, that she’s only seen once before, in a nature documentary. She cannot remember what it was about. 

“You’re finally awake?” He breathes, holding onto her hand. His voice is scratched and rough, and she thinks it is sad that he is like this, “you’ve been out cold for the past week. The doctors kept saying that you were too weak, that your system had given out, but I really thought you were dead, Professor.”

The words are delivered with the same, semi-mocking tone that she’s come to expect from the man, but she cannot find any actual malice in them. “Unfortunately for you, I’m still fit enough to return to the investigation,” she jokes, and stops when she sees his face grow dark. 

“What, too dark?” She makes a joke again, and Yoongi doesn’t even react to what she's saying, which is how she knows it’s important. “What’s going on?”

Yoongi sighs, before drawing the blinds close, and nodding to Yeonjun, who scampers out of the room, apparently having gotten the signal. He moves closer to her, and she moves a little back. Yoongi doesn’t bother, just moves even closer. She groans, “what happened?”

“Look, Professor,” Yoongi says, voice thick, “there are some things I need to tell you.”

She wants to say, when did you start being so nice to me? But she cannot bring herself to do that, not when Yoongi is looking at her like that, with his face haggard and roughened. He looks half broken, and she’s going insane, she really is, because even before she can stop herself, she brings a hand to hold his face, in a gesture that makes him widen his eyes and look at her like he cannot believe his eyes. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she jokes, hoping he would take it lightly, “don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Not until this investigation is over, of course. After that, I’m going straight back to my house, and back to academia.”

“You’re not going back to your home,” Yoongi says, “not until the investigation is over, and even then, it would be a massive security risk. The entire police department, hell, even the prosecution service, thinks that you should be moved to somewhere safe.”

She leans back into her pillows, “I need to call Professor Lee. He’ll know what to do.”

Yoongi frowns, “Professor Lee? That’s who you want to call? Not your parents?”

She looks at him, and her expression says, oh you sweet summer child. “Have my parents visited the hospital?”

“No,” he looks confused. 

“Were they informed of my situation?” She asks again, this time a little more insistent. 

“Well, yes, of course, you registered them as your emergency contact—”

“Go talk to Seokjin about it,” she sighs, “I need to think about some things.”

“Think? About what?”

She glares at him, “I’m going to perform a very fucked-up shamanistic ritual in my room right now, happy?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, “glad to see you’re back in your usual form, but the orders are from the higher-ups, you know. The Police Superintendent himself has taken an interest in this case.”

“So, I cannot go back to my home?” She feels angry now, “a fucking idiot killer made me unable to go back to my own home, Inspector Min Yoongi. The man took away my right to live under my own roof, and now, for the foreseeable future, I am homeless.”

Yoongi does not know what to say to her. He’s always lived a sort of charmed life, with his parents who were very proud of what their youngest son had achieved, and an older brother that seemed to think the world of him, but he doesn’t know her feelings. He doesn’t realise why she’s getting this angry, hands shaking, eyes flashing, over the prospect of having to move. Surely she wouldn’t have trouble doing so? Her parents were wealthy Seoul intellectuals, and she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would have particular difficulty in finding a new place, even with the astronomical cost of living in Seoul. 

“Leave me alone,” she says, tone final, “let me think.” 

Yoongi honors her wishes, walking out of the room, but before he steps over the threshold, he takes a look back at her, sitting preternaturally still in the hospital bed, and he bites down on the desire to tell her everything about what happened a week ago. Don’t even think about it, Seokjin had warned him as they made their frantic way into the hospital, Yoongi in half a state, she does not need to be reminded of this shitty night ever again. Just tell her the basics of what had happened, and then leave it to her. Don’t tell her that she lost half her mind and the bastard got to her. The words before we could, are implied heavily in that phrase, and Yoongi knows it, knows why Seokjin had told him that. 

The police superintendent and the Head of her Department, an old man that Yoongi knew as Professor Lee, had decided that she should be put on leave until they finished investigating this mess. Yoongi had sighed when he heard this, but let go of it soon. If he had been on the receiving end of that threatening letter, he would have done far, far worse. 

And what a letter it was. Every time Yoongi thinks about the letter, he’s filled with a burst of rage that borders on unhinged; I'll take my fill of you, over and over again, until all that remains in your mind is my name. The bastard was threatening to sexually assault her, until she was forced to give birth to his children. Yoongi knew this was the norm for sexual predators, but this seemed bizarre, even for someone so depraved as him. 

Seokjin is waiting for him outside the gates of the hospital, “did you see her?”

“She seemed angry,” Yoongi nods, “I had to tell her that the department and her university have told her not to go back to the house.”

Seokjin whistles, “no way. Did she take it well?”

“Not really. She got very angry about it.” Yoongi thinks for a moment, then looks back at Seokjin, “why is that, though?”

“Why is what?” 

“Why did she get that angry when I told her she couldn’t live in herhouse?” Yoongi explains himself, “she looked very angry. Although I can’t really understand it when women get angry, but she got angry.”

“Well, Yoongi,” Seokjin claps him on the shoulder, offering a tight smile, “when you’re someone who has been living estranged from your family for so long, the prospect of going back to living with them becomes a little bit daunting, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Yoongi confesses, “my parents have always been there for me.”

“And that’s great for you, but her parents didn’t even visit while she was being hospitalised,” Seokjin begins walking towards the smoking zone, and Yoongi can see a pack of Marlboro Reds peeking out from his pockets, “they called me once, and that was it. Said they were too busy in academic conferences, in other countries.”

Yoongi pauses, accepting the offered cigarette from him, “do you think he’s targeting her?”

“Definitely,” Seokjin shrugs, but his posture remains very, very drawn, “he told her as such. Somehow, she knows who he is, and it’s important for him to not leave a single witness alive. The other parts, the assault, are all tertiary.”

“So, he’s not going to do anything to her?”

“Oh no, that bit is true,” Seokjin scoffs, “he’s fully intending to follow through on his promise, but I don’t think he’s exaggerating on that count.”

Yoongi nods, stubbing out his cigarette, “has the analysis come back?”

“The other letter he sent us was typed out, as is this one, but there are similarities in phrases and how he writes, that makes us pretty sure that this was the same man that killed the three girls,” Seokjin holds out his phone, “here’s the report.”

“Who made this one?” Yoongi asks, reading through it. Similarities in phrasing suggest the two letters might have been written by the same man. “This is not her writing.”

“Yeah, what did you expect? She was going to write a report while lying unconscious in a hospital bed?” Seokjin narrows his eyes at him, “this was written by Professor Lee. He was the original profiler on the Seongju case, if you remember.”

Yoongi thinks back to those days in Seongju, when he had been on special dispatch from Daegu. He doesn’t want to remember the events, but with everything that has happened in the past week, he has to think about it. His cousin, Choi Ae-sun, and her friend Mi-ae. The teachers they talked about. Teacher Kim, dead on the side of a ditch. Teacher Kang, the young woman who had asked him to look for a stolen bicycle. 

“Wait, she was in Seongju,” he murmurs, and Seokjin rolls his eyes, “what?”

“It took you this long to remember her?” the man laughs, “well, she wasn’t Kang Pro back then, so I get why you’d forget about her.”

“No, wait,” Yoongi thinks back to that one morning, just after they had found the body of Teacher Kim, “she came and told us that she saw him. Said that he had a stolen bicycle.”

“And?” Seokjin frowns, “she told me about it, but what did you guys do about it?”

“Nothing,” Yoongi shakes his head, “we were getting a hundred anonymous messages about the killer, in those days. Everyone who had a grudge against anyone was reporting them to the police, hoping we’d make a mistake and charge them with the crimes.”

“Figures, but the murders stopped after that, right?”

“Right,” Yoongi thinks back, “there were a string of armed robberies in and around Daegu in that month. We caught a few guys for it, and—”

“The murders stopped.” Seokjin finishes for him, “oh, look, there is the dynamic duo. Is it their thirtieth time coming to visit her?”

Yoongi leans backward to see who Seokjin is referring to, and it is Jeongguk and Jimin, still in some sort of semi-office wear, running towards the hospital gates. 

“Jimin! Jeongguk!” Seokjin waves them both to the smoking zone, “why are you running like that?”

“We got called to see noona,” Jeongguk pants, “Choi Yeonjun called us in.”

“And we came here as fast as we could,” Jimin finishes for him, “still in my court clothes, as you can see.”

Yoongi squints. Both of them are out of their proper robes, but they’re still wearing the pins that indicate who they are, and he sighs, “don’t make too much of a fuss inside. She’s just woken up.”

“We won’t,” Jeongguk grins, but the expression on their faces tells Yoongi that he is intending to do exactly that, “we just have a little present for her.”

“A present?” Seokjin sighs, “come on, man, you can’t be encouraging a patient to smoke. She’s just woken up after being unconscious for a whole week. Smoke in her lungs will kill  her at this point.”

“Well, not cigarettes, but we got her some chocolates,” Jimin looks offended, “I’m surprised you would accuse us of that.”

“I’ll accuse you of a lot more,” Seokjin warns, “come on, only the chocolates. Nothing more. She’s a patient, not your best friend.”

“But she is our best friend,” Jimin whines, “or at least, our most favoured noona.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever, man.” Seokjin checks his watch, “visiting hours are going to be over in half an hour. Go, make the most of it.”

Yoongi watches as the two idiots scamper away, and he looks at Seokjin, “do they have a crush on her or something?”

“Who, Jeongguk and Jimin? Nah, they’re massive flirts, and she doesn’t care about them that way.” Seokjin shrugs, before staring at Yoongi, “you got a thing for her?”

Yoongi blinks. “What?”

“No, it’s plausible,” Seokjin squints towards him, “you’ve been acting weird ever since whatever happened last week, and I didn’t think about it, but now I know. You have a thing for her.”

“I don’t have a thing for her, Seokjin, please,” Yoongi sighs, pinching his brow, “I’m just worried about her.”

“About what? She’s fine. And even if Jeongguk or Jimin like her, it’s none of your business, Yoongi.”

“Piss off,” Yoongi grumbles, but he doesn’t really believe in what he’s saying. Sure, Jeongguk or Jimin might like her, and he’s about ninety percent sure that Yeonjun has a humongous crush on her, but it’s none of his business. He just needs to catch the criminal, and then, she’s going to be out of his life for good. He’s never going to have to deal with fucking profilers again. 

“The Police Commissioner was supposed to give a speech about the return of the Seongju Murderer,” he says, changing the subject, “when was it?”

“Since when do you care about the speeches of the Police Commissioner?” Seokjin rolls his eyes, “he gave a speech an hour ago, talking about the ‘unity’ of the country, and presenting a united front to catch ‘the worst mass murderer this country has ever seen.’”

“He said that?”

“He said that. Funny, all this talk of unity and working hard to catch a serial killer when underground forums are rife with assholes who genuinely think the man was doing a good job.” Seokjin holds out his phone to Yoongi again, and he can see the forum the man has switched his browser to; it’s a normal website, not even on the dark web. And it’s full of men wishing they had the balls to do whatever the Seongju Killer did, thinking of him as a visionary, calling him a messiah for the men’s rights activists, and more things that Yoongi does not want to read. 

“What the hell kind of stuff is this?” He makes a face, returning the phone, “I don’t want to read anything like that ever again.”

“The state of our society,” Seokjin sighs, “even if we catch this killer, who’s to say someone won’t get inspired by whatever he’s done, and do it to other people in the future?”

“I truly don’t know,” Yoongi sighs, holding his head in his hands. What the hell? It seemed like common sense to be against the work of a known predator, but the fact that there were people celebrating his crimes—

“I’m going to go back to the station,” he says, “we need to find out who the hell was among the people we caught during those months in Seongju. The man responsible for all this must have been within the people we caught.”

“Call me when you get anything, yeah?”

Yoongi nods, and before he gets into his car, gives a call to Choi Yeonjun. They need to get to work, even if their efforts were rendered futile, and it would be, given the amount of fans the bloody killer’s gotten over the months of this investigation. It doesn’t matter. They’re going to catch him. And Yoongi will have the pleasure of putting him in handcuffs and throwing him into a jail for the rest of eternity. 

—

Jeongguk and Jimin are both like koalas. She’s spent the last half an hour contriving to get them off her back, but Jimin had apparently decided that her hands were too weak to be able to consume food, so he insisted on hand-feeding her the chocolate they had brought along. She would have liked it too, if it weren’t for the exaggerated winks that accompanied each bite. Jimin was a menace. 

“Okay, time’s up,” a very frazzled-looking intern walks into the room, “no more visitors.”

“You heard them, right?” She shoves at Jeongguk, who doesn’t even budge, “go away, Jeongguk. I need to rest.”

“You need to have some sleep right now, patient,” the intern says, not unkind, “and visiting hours are over.”

The girl leaves, and Jeongguk holds her hand, “noona, you need to rest. Spending all this time on the investigation, it’s not healthy.”

“The doctors have all told me it’s fine, Jeongguk,” she smiles, “but I promise to remain a bit more careful, if only to help you sleep better at night.”

“Just him?” Jimin pouts from her other side, looking disturbingly like a baby chick, “what about my peace of mind?”

“You’re both annoying,” she laughs, “now go!”

Once the two of them have left, she’s alone with her thoughts. Yeonjun, ever the helpful guy, has left behind a notebook for her to write in. She knew the man, just didn’t know his actual name. He’s got to have been someone from Seongju, and as she had thought, someone who had been arrested for something all those years ago, and who now was coming back to get his revenge. 

Was DNA testing still a thing twelve years ago? She knows it was a more recent addition to police work, but there being no DNA testing twelve years ago, means there are no extant samples of the man’s DNA, and worse, if he had been imprisoned for something not related to sexual crimes, there would be no need for them to have his DNA on file. 

She checks her phone, and there is a message from Professor Lee, informing her of the department’s decision to put her on indefinite medical leave. Fucking hell. They were all probably shitting themselves, now that the man had somehow been able to send her a letter to her department, but this seemed a bit excessive, even for their tastes. She sighs, moving on to the next notification, one from her brother, who had sent her a link with a conference held by the police commissioner, in which he had confessed the fact that the current murders in Seoul were linked to those in Seongju twelve years ago. Her brother had accompanied it with the question, Is this true?

“I cannot deal with this.” She groans, turning over on her side, ignoring the rest of the messages (no doubt sent by a host of colleagues who all felt deeply sorry for her) and she thinks. It’s almost laughably simple, the man’s anger towards her. She had seen his face. Even if it was for a single moment in a thunderstorm, she had seen his face, and that made her a target. As to what end were his anxieties regarding her knowledge justified, she didn’t know. 

She had effectively become a sitting duck for him. 

And now, they were forcing her to remove herself from the investigation, and telling her to go hide out at her parents’ place, under the guise of ‘keeping her safe’, when all it meant was that the man could now go and hunt her down as well as he pleased. 

There has got to be another way. 

—

Yoongi hates the filing system. How on earth had we managed to survive for this long, he thinks, looking at the veritable mountain of papers in front of him, “who here was in charge of filing all this properly?”

“The funds for maintenance have not been released by the city government for more than two years now,” Yeonjun pipes up from a corner, where he is inundated by papers, “you should come here and check it too, Senior.”

“Not now, I need to think.” Yoongi doesn’t want to say it, of course, but he is currently incapacitated with the growing dread that he was in some way, responsible for whatever the man was doing now. Professor Kang had tried to warn us, all those years ago, he thinks back to that one morning, she had tried to warn us, and we had laughed it off. Why? Because we were getting close to a hundred tip-offs every day, and we simply thought she was there to submit some idiotic case against her neighbour whose lemon tree was encroaching in her yard. She didn’t even live in Seongju, for fucks’ sake. 

Yoongi keeps thinking about his deduction, “Yeonjun,” he calls out, “what do you think about the Seongju murder cases, twelve years ago?”

Yeonjun stares at him, “I was in high school, probably? Or graduating middle school.”

Yoongi ignores the absolute gut punch of those words, because Yeonjun was in middle school twelve years ago? Or was it high school? Still, he puts on a straight face, “great, anything else?”

Yeonjun thinks about it, “uh, well, I remember there was a media frenzy surrounding it. Nothing more. They began in the middle of spring, and by the end of summer, it had stopped.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Yoongi claps his hands, “okay, I’m giving you an hour. Go pack an overnight bag.”

“Where are we going?” Yeonjun asks. 

“We are going to Daegu,” Yoongi replies, shoving in papers into a file folder with all the grace of a crazed elephant. “Get your stuff and get ready to go to Daegu with me.”

“Okay, I’m looking up trains right now.”

“Trains?” Yoongi narrows his eyes at Yeonjun, “trains make no sense, and KTX is a nightmare on a normal day. We’re going by car. Pack your bags.”

“A car will take over three hours, sunbae.”

“And a train will take more dollars out of our already shitty allowance,” Yoongi counters, sighing, fine, just go ask Namjoon if they can give us enough funds to go to Daegu via train.”

Absolutely not, Namjoon says, and that is how the two of them end up with some of their belongings crammed in the back of Yoongi’s trashed Kia sedan, Yoongi driving as fast as he can towards Daegu. The Daegu police superintendent had promised that they would provide them with lodgings and cooperation for this investigation, but Yoongi knows no one does anything without an exchange in mind, and he does not want to imagine what the exchange rate would be, for someone like the Daegu Police Superintendent. 

“Chief Kim should have just let us buy the KTX tickets,” Yeonjun whines for the umpteenth time in an hour, “it’s going to take us so long, just to drive. Not even accounting for every other stop we might need to make.”

“I have enough gas in this one to last us till we get here,” Yoongi grumbles, “and if you ask for a snack break, so help me god, I will leave you by the side of the road. You can hitchhike your way back to Seoul.”

“I don’t even like snacks that much,” Yeonjun laughs, very nervously munching on his third packet of shrimp chips. Yoongi sighs. He’s on a serious job thing, and Yeonjun is here, gulping down the entire snack aisle of the last convenience store they passed. 

“Sunbae,” Yeonjun says, once he’s done with the shrimp chips (Yoongi has had one, much to his dismay), “why are you in such a hurry to go to Daegu? We could have gotten there tomorrow, you know. We’ve already waited this long, and another day doesn’t seem like a dangerous prospect. We have all the evidence we need to connect the two serial murder cases, and we could have gone to Daegu, well, not like this.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. Why am I doing this? He’s failed to answer that question, but every time he closes his eyes, he’s back in her living room, trying his best to keep her from hurting herself. Her skin had been burning to the touch, and Yoongi still remembers how her eyes had looked, unfocused and glassy, as she had tried to look for an opponent who had already set his sights on her. The worst bit about this whole affair was that no one remembered what he looked like, but he apparently did. 

“You’ve read the letter the man sent to Professor Kang, right?” Yoongi asks, watching Yeonjun drink a whole can of soda in a single go, “just ease down on the eating, my god. I don’t know how many rest stops we have on the way, and if you have to shit on the side of the road, I’m leaving you.”

That gets Yeonjun to stop, and he looks at Yoongi like he’s done him a personal affront, “rude, sunbae. Also, yes, I have read the letter. What an absolutely sick creep.”

“Yes, well, the sick creep now has full knowledge of where Professor Kang lives, as well as her university address. We need to move as fast as possible.”

“Her university address? He was stalking her for that long?” Yonjun has to think about it for a minute, “but wait, if he was stalking her since the second round of murders began, and he already found out about her home and university address, does it mean that the man was somewhere else earlier?”

“Her last report was similar to what I had thought about the man’s whereabouts for the past twelve years. He was probably in prison, or he was abroad.” Yoongi sighs, “I don’t know how we missed that bit.”

 “Probably? He was most definitely in prison.” Yoongi hears Yeonjun scoff, “so, we need to get access to all the old files, and find out who was arrested for a crime twelve years ago.”

“Twelve years is a long time to go to prison for,” Yeonjun thinks for a moment, “do you think it was something like aggravated assault? Or attempted murder?”

“Maybe both, if he did not have any priors. If he had prior arrests, it could have been something much smaller,” Yoongi checks his phone, “let me call Seokjin.”

The call goes through, and the man picks up within seconds, as if he’d been waiting for Yoongi to call him. Yoongi opens his mouth to say something, but Seokjin beats him to the punch, saying, “Namjoon called, saying that you wanted the department to get you emergency KTX tickets.”

“Well, they disagreed, so we’re on our way to Daegu right now,” Yoongi grumbles, “and stop gossiping with Namjoon all the time, for fucks’s sake.”

“I do not spend all my free time gossiping with Namjoon,” Seokjin complains, “and you two didn’t even tell me before you went running off to Daegu. What’s all that about?”

“Me going to Daegu?” Yoongi asks. 

“Yes, you running off to Daegu, stringing Yeonjun along for the ride. Is this all because she’s in the hospital right now?” Seokjin’s emphasis when he refers to her is not lost on Yoongi, and he steadily ignores how Yeonjun’s grin just widens as the kid realises what Seokjin is talking about, “really, Yoongi, you could be a little less obvious about it. I know she’s intelligent, gorgeous and all that, but playing fast and loose with your emotions might not be the best—”

“While she’s in the hospital,” Yoongi cuts Seokjin off by loudly pressing the car horn to no one in particular, “while she’s in the hospital, have the sketch artist sit with her for a session. We might be able to get a proper identification sketch from her description of the man.”

“A sketch? It’s been twelve years.”

“It was a traumatic memory, so I’m sure she remembers how his fucking face looked like back then,” Yoongi lights a cigarette, holding it between his lips as he floors the accelerator, “and get the good sketch artist, please. Not the weird guy you always insist on saddling me with.”

“Who, Kim Taehyung? Fine, if you don’t want to have a Seoul University of Arts graduate sketch for your suspect, then fine, I’ll send someone else over to the hospital. Although I don’t know why you don’t like him sketching.”

“He has weird tastes, and I fear that his tastes bleed into how he draws the suspects,” Yoongi grumbles, “he’s just annoying is what he is. No, don’t send Taehyung to her, he’s going to make a post-impressionist painting instead of a realistic one, and then we’re all gonna be fucked, because who the fuck wants to see a Picassoesque rendition of a serial killer? No one.”

“You’re rambling, Yoongi. And Taehyung is the only sketch artist we have available on such short notice.”

“Just send someone else. I’m hanging up, bye.” Yoongi stubs out the cigarette into his cup-holder (he’s going to have to clean that bit up later), and he cuts the call, only to be confronted by Yeonjun’s wide-eyed gaze, “oh, not you too.”

“No, sunbae,” Yeonjun giggles, “I was just thinking.”

Yoongi sighs, suppressing the groan that is stuck in his throat, “and what are you thinking about?”

“No, I mean, you did tell me you hated her,” Yeonjun laughs, “and you did call her a hack on national television. As far as declarations of hatred go, that is perhaps one of the most obvious ones.”

“What would be the most obvious way to say ‘I hate you?’”

“Tattooing it across your forehead,” Yeonjun says smoothly. 

“The speed at which you answered that question made me think that you already had that response ready, which is not very nice.” Yoongi mutters, reaching for another cigarette. He lights it with alarming efficiency. 

“Well, you did tell me you did not want profilers on this case, and now you’re driving dangerously close to the speed limit in order to get to Daegu as soon as possible.”

“I want to get this case over with, Yeonjun.” 

“You’re not fooling anyone with that sentiment, sunbae, we know your feelings towards her have changed over the past month that we've been working with her. At least now you can admit that there is a little bit more than hatred there, you know?”

“I don’t want to talk about this with you right now, brat,” Yoongi says this, but he knows he’s not fooling anyone, not even himself. Whatever he had thought about her and of the profiling business, has changed slightly over the past month. And as for her—he really does not want to admit this to anyone. He really does not. 

But he might be attracted to her. 

“You’re dawdling,” Yeonjun laughs, “come on, sunbae. Everyone has been talking about your heroic rescue the other week.”

“Heroic rescue?”

“You did run to her house because you knew she was unwell.”

“I did that because Seokjin asked me to. Now shut it.”

Yoongi wants to antagonise Yeonjun some more, and he deliberately drives at the speed limit once they hit the freeway. He doesn’t want to think about her and her face or her neck anymore. He just needs to get this investigation done, and then he’ll be rid of Professor Kang, and he can then go back to his usual existence. 

—

“The files are here, Senior Inspector, but might I ask, why was there an urgent request from the Seoul Headquarters for cooperation on this case.” The Daegu Police Super asks, rubbing his hands together, and Yoongi decides he hates the guy. Too loud, too annoying. Professor Kang would have laughed at this one. He resists the urge to slap himself for that last thought. 

“While we cannot divulge all of the information, there have been enough facts to come out during the investigation that tell us that the Seongju County Killer might have been sent to prison twelve years ago, on unrelated charges.” Yeonjun says for him, and Yoongi finds himself slipping into the usual mask of bored investigator who doesn’t want to talk to idiots, and it works like a charm when the Police Chief takes a look at their names and credentials and suddenly becomes very, very, accommodating to their requests. 

“Is this because they think you’re going to cuss them out?” Yeonjun asks, when they’re seated at two separate tables, looking through years of archived files, “is that your reputation in the service?”

They’ve been given a small room, with full access to the archives, and both Yoongi and Yeonjun have been informed that they can take whichever file and folder they need. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Yoongi mutters, “but yes, that’s why. They don’t want to get on my bad side, because I’m apparently one of the worst-tempered cops to ever come out of the force.”

“But you’re very good with interrogations,” Yeonjun muses, “ah, that’s right, it’s not about the suspects, it’s about other cops.”

“Very nice of you to realise after working with me for months now,” Yoongi replies, “anyway, Professor Kang did come to us when the murders were originally taking place, in Seongju.” 

“Professor Kang? Was she on the case at that time?” Yeonjun tries to think back, but fails, “but she wasn’t even a professor then, was she?”

“No, she was in Seongju working with a local school,” Yoongi sighs, “I interviewed her because she was a close associate of the last murdered woman.”

“Kim Mi-yeong, the teacher?”

“That’s the one. Professor Kang, back then, was working as a student counselor, and she was also an assistant homeroom teacher for Miss Kim Mi-yeong’s class. She was one of the last people to see Kim Mi-yeong alive before she was killed.”

“Well, that’s fine, but I still don’t understand why she had come to you. Was it with a tip?”

Yoongi hangs his head in shame. In truth, if he had just listened to her all those years ago, instead of making fun of her or whatever it was that they did, they would not have had three more bodies on their hands. In truth, the responsibility for these last three murders rests with Yoongi himself. He was the one who should have taken her testimony, and instead, he had just laughed at her and called it a day. “She had seen someone with a bicycle the previous night, and came to the station to tell us about it.”

“And you just ignored her report?” Yeonjun screeches, so loud that Yoongi can practically hear the windows in the station rattle ominously, “you do realise, the level of fuck-ups we’re seeing here, sunbae?”

“You don’t need to remind me about it,” Yoongi grunts, “I keep thinking about it every time we have to investigate this monster. We fucked up, okay? And there’s nothing I can do about it now, so we have to leave it.”

“Is that all?” Yoenjun holds up a file, “I found Kim Mi-yeong’s original file. Geez, the man was a monster.”

“I know, I was there on the scene,” Yoongi sighs, “I think that was my first assignment as a detective. Fresh out of the Police University.”

“And they gave you the Seongju Killer?” Yeonjun looks impressed, “must have had a great record while in university, huh?”

“No, you idiot, there was no ‘Seongju Killer’ when I was assigned to Daegu. They just gave it to me because Daegu is my hometown, and I wanted to stay closer to my parents. The murders started happening way later.”

“And what, you were told to move to Seongju?”

“Not really, we all had to work with the Task Force they made. I think even Professor Lee was there, although I didn’t interact with him much.” Yoongi sighs, “after Kim Mi-yeong, there were a series of robberies, and we had to arrest a bunch of people for it. What I am hoping for is for the Seongju Killer to have been there, so we get his priors, and we get his fingerprints.”

“The Seongju Killer left no fingerprints.”

“That’s what you think,” Yoongi points out, “but NFS might be able to pull a partial print from all the murders this man has done. We just need to find out about the people who were arrested twelve years ago.”

—

Apparently, Jeongguk and Jimin have told everyone in the Seoul Prosecutor’s Division about her being sick, so Jung Hoseok shows up with a junior prosecutor in tow, one who wears oversized glasses and keeps looking at the ground instead of the hospital walls. She doesn’t blame the guy.

“You know the prosecution service and the police force are going to put you in witness protection, right?” Hoseok doesn’t waste a single moment, getting to business as soon as he steps into the room. She rubs at her eyes. Being in the hospital, with no one to talk to and only her phone for company, has given her a headache. Still, she looks at the man, looking outrageously handsome and entirely out of place for the hospital, dressed in a tailored suit with an expensive watch on his wrist. She feels like he would not be out of place on a runway. 

“Wow, you look like that, and you’re talking to me?” She replies, putting her glasses on, “how not nice of you, Prosecutor.”

Hoseok laughs, rolling his eyes at her, “you look really ugly, though. And what’s with the enhanced security? I was checked thrice by the sullen-looking guard outside this room. And they know who I am.”

“Ugh, don’t tell me. I’ve already been told this by at least three people,” she groans, “and yes, I know that they’re putting me in witness protection. I hate it.”

“No one likes the idea of being in witness protection, Professor, but we have to do it, otherwise there are high chances of retaliation against you,” Hoseok sighs, “I’m so tired.”

“Tell me about that. I hate being cooped up in here,” she laughs, gesturing at the bouquets, “I think the whole police force came here to give me bouquets.”

“Not just the police force, even my boss, the head of Seoul Central Prosecution Service, was talking about your contributions.” Hoseok pulls a face, “god, why do they keep talking about you as though you’re dead?”

“Because I might as well be,” she sighs, “have you read the letter?”

“No, I haven’t, the police don’t share evidence this early,” he shakes his head, looking at the young man, still looking at the floor, “just go and get us some drinks from the vending machine outside. What will you have, Professor?”

“Just get me a cup of coffee,” she tells the young prosecutor, who then escapes, looking very thankful, “when was this guy attached to you?”

Hoseok sighs. “He’s not a bad junior, you know. He’s just very, very shy.”

“Almost painful.”

“Well, there you have it,” Hoseok laughs, “have they told you where you’re going to be kept?”

“No idea yet, but they’re sending a portrait artist over to help me do a sketch.” She takes a sip of water, looking at Hoseok while she says this. Hoseok looks pensive, immersed in thought about the things that she’s just told him, “have you heard about him?”

“I don’t have the time to know everyone on the police force, darling,” Hoseok makes a face. His junior makes an appearance while she’s mid-laugh, setting down their drinks and running out of the room as fast as his legs would carry him, “who is it?”

“Kim Taehyung.”

“The modernist painter?” Hoseok rolls his eyes, “you do realise, he paints weird shit that no one realises what they are? And they’re making him paint a sketch?”

“They’re making him do a sketch of the perpetrator for me,” she grins, “why, you wanna stay here to observe or something?”

“No, I probably should not. Work will give me so much grief if they found out that I was in here watching you give instructions to a sketch artist.” Hoseok checks his phone, “looks like I can petition for you to not be relocated, just have extra protections.”

“Can you do that?” She leans forward, “wow, the perks of being an up-and-coming prosecutor, huh?”

“The perks of being a young, up-and-coming prosecutor are a lot, but I need to have an excellent win rate to ensure I get to enjoy these perks for a long period of time,” Hoseok kisses her cheeks, “I’m going to go ask my superior if it can be done. If it can’t, just wait, and I’ll kill Min Yoongi for you.”

“You don’t have to,” she laughs, “he’s not that bad.”

“He’s not that bad?” the other man gasps, “I’m filing a complaint. You’ve lost your mind.”

“Sir,” his junior peeks inside, his oversized glasses almost falling from his nose, “the district chief is asking for you to sit in on this meeting.”

“Ugh, duty calls,” Hoseok gives her another exaggerated smack on the cheek, “I’ll go and talk to the chief prosecutor if he will allow you to live in your original home with extra protection. Or you can, like, yell at Min Yoongi until your voice gives out.”

“Either or?”

“Either, or,” Hoseok laughs, “how frightfully droll. See you soon, love.”

He gives her another smack on the cheeks, and walks out of the room. No doubt yelling instructions at his junior outside. She shakes her head, sighing, and leans back into the hard mountain of pillows that someone (Seokjin) has set up for her. 

“Hello?” A polite knock on the door alerts her to the presence of another person in the room, and she looks up to look directly into the eyes of the new arrival. Kim Taehyung, apparently. She cocks her head to one side, gesturing for him to sit down. 

Taehyung doesn’t talk a lot, for which she is very, very grateful, because it allows her the time to sit down and think about the events that have led up to this. The letter is now in the hands of the NFS, who are no doubt spending all their energies into finding out if there are any fibres on the letter that he had sent him. 

Him. 

She hates herself for not pushing, for being the person who knew so many things, and yet, did not push for something to happen. If she had only pushed the Seongju Task force all those years ago, then there would have been three people who would not have died in vain. 

“Here, take a look,” Taehyung holds up the finished sketch. She stares at it. The same cruel turn of mouth, the same sharp features. He would have been a lot younger when she had seen him, but that was immaterial now, really. 

After Taehyung had taken his leave, she sinks into a fitful, disturbed sleep. Tomorrow, they’d discharge her from the hospital, and she still had no idea where she would go. Until the investigation is finished, Min Yoongi had told her, you’re going to be taken to a safe place until the investigation is over. Seokjin had told her the same. She doesn’t want to trust them, but with two policemen stationed outside her room at all times, the prospect of having a man from her worst nightmares, coming to see her, seems highly unlikely. 

—

He stands on the rooftop of an under-construction apartment complex next to the hospital building. From here, he has an unencumbered view of her room, and has had it for days now. She’s had so many visitors come to see her, it’s frankly unfathomable for him. 

Prison life was hard, my dear, he thinks, but I endured it all. For the sake of my goal, and because I wanted to see your face one more time. 

Both Choi Ae-sun and Kim Mi-ae had left their backwater hick of a town and settled abroad, places where he could not have gone, even if he wanted to. And he really didn’t feel the need to go hunt those two down. They were idiotic schoolgirls when he had decided to follow them, snivelling kids who had their heads full of silly cotton-pink dreams, kids who burst into tears at the slightest provocation. He still remembers the two of them running away from him, even though he hadn’t even approached them. I was just walking with that cycle behind them. Nothing more. And they still got spooked. 

But her? She had stood her ground, even in the middle of a rainstorm, and looked at him for long enough to commit all his features to memory. If he had been anyone else, he would have blushed at the memory of her piercing gaze. All it took was a moment, and she knew who he was. Didn’t know his name, but she knew his face. 

—

She would be so good. He thinks of all the hypothetical situations, of having Professor Kang underneath him, driving into her the point that he, a man, was ultimately better than her, a woman. She was brilliant, really, but nothing compared to him. He would chain her to his bedroom window, and force her to carry his children. It wasn’t even a shameful idea, because he knew she would be ideal for it. 

Fuck. He can see her sleeping, tossing and turning in that tiny hospital bed. Was she dreaming of me? Probably. He was getting excited now, watching her. He would like to take her as she was sleeping, put his seed inside of her as she lay, unaware of what he had done. 

The man takes his cock in his hands, now proudly erect, and begins to jerk himself off. He likes this, masturbation. He likes thinking about forcing her to carry her children. The thought makes him excited. She would put up a fight, yes, but so had them all. And he was stronger than all of them. As he should be. 

He comes all over his hands, and wipes the residue off of himself. Was I getting carried away? No, he wasn’t; this was something that he had been working towards, for all those twelve years. The memory of her face and the desire to take revenge on her and her ilk had been his sole thread of life in that hell they called prison. For all these years, he had imagined the ways he would bring her to heel; under himself, chained to his bed. She would be forced to give birth to his children, and he would not care. 

The man looks through his binoculars again, focusing on her face. Even in sleep, she seemed to be anxious. 

Fuck, I’m getting hard again. 

—

“I’ve narrowed it down to three,” Yeonjun holds up three separate sheets of paper, “people who were sent to prison around the time that the Seongju Murders stopped, and people who were sent away for approximately twelve years.”

“You’ve found three?” Yoongi takes the papers from him, “that’s more than what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“A big fat zero.” Yoongi had not even thought that there would be anything for them to recover from the archives, “I thought all we’d find would be a pile of shit. This investigation has been incredibly frustrating so far.”

“Well, fortunately, this is not a pile of shit,” Yeonjun hands him the papers, “take a look at this one.”

“And now we have a lead.” Yoongi reads through the papers, “have you read these papers?”

No, I haven’t. Not as well as I’d like to, that is,” Yeonjun says, “should I read them through?”

“No, just go call the Police Chief for me, please,” Yoongi says, “or anyone from the major crimes division. I need to talk to them.”

When Yeonjun’s gone, Yoongi clears out the table that he was working on, and lays out the three sheets of paper, trying to focus on them. The man had to be from here, didn’t he? Otherwise, there would be no way for him to fly for so long under the radar. Not with the veritable swarm of police officers they had roaming in the county after the seventh victim died. He had to be someone who was from here. 

Yoongi sighs. Yeonjun was taking too long. Was he being held up by the senior officers? He thinks back to Daegu. He was born in Daegu. He was raised in Daegu. He lived here for eighteen years, and after graduating from the Police University, he went right back in here to work as a detective. Daegu? He knew Daegu. He knew the counties surrounding it, he knew the geography, the landscape, the people. 

What if the Seongju Killer was someone I knew?

Yoongi doesn’t want to think about him, but he still does; Changmin, Min-ki, In-su. What if it was one of them? Yoongi has had lost contact with the people he called friends a long time ago. Changmin had called him a fucking pig when he heard that Yoongi was going to become a policeman. Min-ki had said nothing, but In-su had told him, don’t think too much about it, Yoongi. You know all about his uncle, right? Changmin doesn’t know how to differentiate, man. He thinks the police are all the same. Yoongi had said nothing, just wanted to shove In-su backwards, yelling at him, well, my parents are fucking poor, In-su, have you ever thought about that? Have you, my parents are poor, and I have no way of paying for my university. So it’s either this, a fully paid uni, or I spend the rest of my life trying to pay out my student loans. Worse still, I don’t go to university, and become forever known as a high school grad. You want that for me, In-su? Do all of you want me to fail in life?

So Yoongi had taken the scholarship, waved good-bye to his parents and older brother, and had left. None of his friends had come to see him off, and he didn’t care. He really did not care one bit. Except for the last minute, Yoongi hadn’t cared, and then he had broken down sobbing in the bus. 

What if it was one of them? What do I do then? Yoongi thinks about it, about being the person to arrest his friends, even if they had all left him behind, and he cannot breathe. He doesn’t want to think about Changmin or Min-ki or In-su doing all those heinous acts, and he certainly doesn’t want to be the person to arrest them. 

“Inspector Min?” The police chief knocks on the door, “Detective Choi said you had something to ask of  us.”

“Yes,” Yoongi stands up, "I need information on three ex-convicts.”

“Ex-convicts?” the man looks surprised, “you need to look at ex-convicts?”

Yoongi sighs, looking at Yeonjun, hoping he’ll take notice of his discomfort. “Well, yes,” Yeonjun smiles, “I think what my superior here wants to say is that is there someone senior that we can consult regarding the multiple arrests made twelve years ago, during a series of break-ins?”

Yoongi nods. I was one of the people on the case, and yet I remember nothing of it. I’m a poor excuse for a detective, aren’t I?

“Oh, the string of robbery cases?” The man smiles, “sure enough, one of the detectives on the case back then still works here. You can talk to him.”

Yoongi sits back in his chair as the man disappears off to find the person responsible, Yeonjun in tow. He looks at the names: Oh Dae-su, Lee Woo-jin, Kim Seung-yong. Oh Dae-su, arrested on a random Wednesday, trying to rob a young married family. Lee Woo-jin, caught while trying to rob an old woman at knifepoint. Kim Seung-yong, part of a small-time robbery gang. The only people who were given significant enough sentences were Oh Dae-su and Lee Woo-jin. Kim Seung-yong was shut away for ten years, not twelve. 

Yoongi holds up the pictures of Oh Dae-su and Lee Woo-jin to the light, trying to imagine them after a span of twelve years. When does the sketch artist get done with his work? 

His phone pings. A text from Namjoon, who’s sent him a question, how far along?

Almost done here, Yoongi replies, do you have the sketch? From the sketch artist?

What sketch?

Never mind. I’m going to ask Seokjin. 

Yoongi sighs, texting Seokjin, give me the sketch. 

The reply comes within a minute, Seokjin’s sarcastic tone bleeding through the glowing phone screen, oh wow, being this demanding? Haven’t even bought me dinner yet, you freak. 

Yoongi rolls his eyes, Seokjin, this is not the time. Who did you send to Professor Kang to get the sketch?

Kim Taehyung. 

Oh great. Now the sketch for one of the only suspects in a countrywide manhunt is going to be a modernist nightmare. 

Don’t be rude, Yoongi. Taehyung can be surprisingly capable when he wants to be. 

When he wants to be. He never wants to be serious about anything. 

Do you want the sketch now or do you want to get it seven hours later through official channels like normal, Yoongi?

Fine. give it to me. 

Yoongi locks his phone, and looks back at the three sheets of paper. Oh Dae-su had a similar build to his father, with the same round face and wide eyes that Yoongi has associated with his father. The typical Daegu man, if it weren’t for his eyes. Those eyes looked entirely devoid of empathy, like every other convict that Yoongi has seen before. He knows this kind of man. Lee Woo-jin, on the other hand, had much sharper features, with an almost cruel turn of mouth. His eyes were much kinder, however, wide dark brown, and Yoongi thinks that Lee Woo-jin would have been popular with the ladies if he had not been a convict. 

He can hear the footsteps of at least three people running towards the small room, and Yoongi sighs. Once the investigator comes here, we can find out about the person who was caught and put on trial twelve years ago. 

His phone chimes. Seokjin sent him a message, you owe me a meal for this, you know. 

Yoongi says nothing, opening the attached picture that Seokjin had sent him. The same sharp features, the same warm brown eyes. The same cruel turn of mouth. His heart stops in his throat. He knows this man. In fact, he’s seen the face of this man only three minutes prior. He knows this man. 

Lee Woo-jin. 

His face stares at Yoongi from the page, and his heart, already in this throat, relaxes for the first time in a while. I’m no longer chasing a ghost. I know who I need to catch. 

“Sunbae,” Yeonjun says, rushing into the room, “the detective here says that the only person who was released a few months ago, was—”

“Lee Woo-jin,” Yoongi finishes his sentence, “we have the culprit. Let’s go.”

—

She’s bored. It’s been twelve hours since she’s woken up, and she’s bored. The sole guard standing outside her room won’t talk to her, instead choosing to remain mute and still like a pillar, and Seokjin hasn’t come to talk to her. She doesn’t even want Seokjin to come here. I want Min Yoongi, she realises, with no small amount of horror, I want Min Yoongi by my side right now. 

It’s idiotic, really. He’s annoying, kind of stupid when it comes to psychological research into criminal minds, and he hates her ass. Hell, he’s talked about it on national television. Called me a hack, someone who made their deductions based on theories, and not hard evidence. She should not want him there with her. 

But she wants him. It’s unfathomable, but she likes how solid Min Yoongi’s presence is; how reassured he makes everyone feel. And if he considers her as an annoyance, well, she can do nothing about it. But I’m still important to the investigation, right? I’m not an annoyance now. 

Her phone rings, and it’s Seokjin on the other end, “Professor Kang,” he says, out of breath, like he’s been doing a marathon run, “Yoongi and Yeonjun are making their way back to Seoul, so make sure you stay awake for a while.”

“Where were they gone?” She asks. Both Yoongi and Yeonjun? A new breakthrough in the case? Why wasn’t I told? 

“They went to Daegu, trying to find out about a lead.” Seokjin’s voice drops an octave, but he’s still panting into the other end, “there were people arrested for a series of robberies, just after the death of Kim Mi-yeong. Yoongi and I thought that the Seongju killer could have been one of them. He would have gone to prison for an extended period of time, and it makes sense why he was inactive for so long.”

“I knew it,” she says, “do they have a suspect? Finally?’

“Yes, finally,” Seokjin sighs, “anyway, the guard is about to be relieved, so whatever you do, don’t open the fucking door for anyone. The damn hospital is already underfunded and empty as it is, so, whatever you do, don’t open the fucking door.”

“It’s a hospital, Seokjin, it’s going to be busy no matter what time of the day, or night, it is,” she laughs, “and don’t worry, I’m not that stupid.”

“You can be insanely stupid when it comes to getting your thesis statement,” Seokjin says. In other circumstances, he would have laughed at her, but there’s no laughter in his voice, “look, Kang, they’ve left Daegu two hours ago, which means that they’re going to be there soon. Stay safe.”

“I will.” Seokjin cuts the call, and she’s sitting there. Alone. She doesn’t want to think about it. I’m alone in here, and Yoongi was right about me being a liability to any team I join. Fuck. 

The hospital’s overhead lights are harsher than usual, and every part of her room is illuminated in stark white. It gives everything a more sterile look, somehow. She’s not opposed to it. In fact, she enjoys it a lot. 

There’s slight shuffling outside her door. She checks her phone. Midnight. Was the guard being relieved this soon? Who is standing there instead of him? 

She wants to go check, to look for it herself, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sits up in bed, thinking. Robbery suspect, caught and sent to prison for twelve years. It fits the timeline. She takes a look at her phone again, looking up the people that were caught. No pictures. Of all the times to protect the suspect’s  identity, now is not the best time, Korea. 

The shuffling continues, and the light flickers, once. Twice. A shiver runs down her back. She knows this feeling. She’s had this feeling twice before, once twelve years ago, the other time being a week ago. She knows this feeling. It’s written in her bones, so intimately that she fears it’s intertwined with her soul. 

The door slides open, and he enters. She knows this face. Twelve years may have passed, but the cruel turn of mouth remains the same. 

“Hello, Professor.”

—

Yoongi floored the accelerator, and Yeonjun is hanging on for dear life as he weaves in and out of traffic at frankly, alarming speeds. He needs to get to Seoul. He needs to get to her, and he needs to catch Lee Woo-jin as soon as he can. He’s going to rest easy only after sending him to fucking prison for the rest of his fucking pathetic life. 

“Aren’t you going a bit too fast?” Yeonjun says, holding on for dear life, “Professor Kang is safe.”

“She’s been on Lee Woo-jin’s radar ever since she had the misfortune to look at his face twelve years ago,” Yoongi seethes, “I’m going to fucking break the sound barrier if I have to, Yeonjun. I don’t care.”

“This is madness!” the man yells at him, “come on, Sir, what the hell are you doing? She’s there with a police guard and she’s fine.”

“I need to be beside her right now!” Yoongi screams, “you don’t get it Yeonjun, I need to be by her side right now. I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“You’re fucking insane, sunbae,” Yeonjun sighs, “blurring lines between professional and personal because of her. At least grow some balls and confess to her after this.”

“I will.” Yoongi says, voice determined. He doesn’t tell Yeonjun the other thing that he’s been thinking about. 

I will, if I can. 

—

She is still sitting in bed, looking straight at the man who had terrorised a whole province twelve years ago, and almost plunged Seoul into terror as well, for months on end. And he had been hunting her too. Now he’s here. 

Is this how I die? She thinks for a moment, and forces herself to get rid of these thoughts. I’m not going to die here. I’m a professor. I’m an educator. I don’t care. I’m not going to die. 

“How did you manage to slip inside?”

He gestures to his outfit, identical to what the guard outside had been wearing. She wants to yell, and call for help, but he’s just going to escape. She needs to keep him engaged for as long as she can, until help comes. 

“I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Professor,” he says, taking a seat on a chair beside her bed, “I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Lee Woo-jin, Professor. But I’m sure you know my name.”

“I don’t know your name at all,” she scoffs as a reply, “and I don’t care to know, either.”

“Oh!” Instead of the expected, angered reaction, the man gives her a wide smile, “I figured you would say that, Professor. My name is, of course, Lee Woo-jin. You don’t know me, but I know you, you see. I’ve spent a lot of my time following you and your work.”

“From where?”

“Ah, well, not necessary to know,” he smiles, his cruel mouth extending thinly over his face, and she hates herself. She hates herself for being a sitting duck, for being helpless in the face of adversity. I would like for a gun right now. “But I did follow your work, you know. I spent a lot of time and energy while I was in there. Following your work. It took a lot of time. You have been exceptionally busy.”

“Thank you,” she says, not feeling very thankful, “I don’t know what to say.”

The man catches her sneaking a glance towards the door, and he smiles, “don’t worry, Professor. No one is going to come looking for you. Not anytime soon.”

“Kim Seokjin will,” she says, defiant. ‘And so will Min Yoongi.”

“Neither of them figured out who I was, even though I was standing right in front of them for all this while,” the man laughs, “no one figured out who I was.”

“I did,” she replies, relishing at how his gleeful smile falls away to reveal a blank face, “I figured you out, Lee Woo-jin. If there was anyone who figured you out, it was me.”

“And you would not have been able to do anything, if it weren’t for a stupid coincidence!” He yells, face half an inch from hers, “you had to rely on a coincidence to figure out who I was. And Kim Seokjin couldn’t figure me out, Professor.”

“So?” she asks, “why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Assault and kill all those people.” She replies, “twelve years ago, in Seongju. You remember them, right? Kim Mi-yeong, you killed her.”

“Why did I do that?” He cocks his head, “why, I needed to show them their place, obviously.”

“Show them their place?”

His mouth twists into a sneer, “nasty fucking sluts. Women are always like that, you know. Opening their legs for any and every man. They deserved what happened to them.”

“And you were what, the judge, jury, and executioner of their sentences, right?” She laughs, mentally filing away. Narcissism. Possible traits of psychopathy. Inability to view women beyond a narrow misogynistic worldview. She’ll probably not be alive to write it all down, but she hopes someone will. Maybe one of my students. If I am lucky enough. 

“Oh, yes, I was,” he laughs, “and those two idiots, too. Sluts in training.”

“You mean the schoolgirls you were following on that stormy night?”

“Yes, they were schoolgirls, but before that, they were whores in training. Going to town to look at boys and men and laughing and flirting with them,” he seethes, “I would have done them a favour. They wanted to sleep with men that badly? Well, they would have gotten their wish.”

“But they didn’t, did they?” she smiles at him, “and besides, flirting is normal for children of that age.”

“Normal?” he raises an eyebrow, “okay, tell me your thoughts on this, Professor.”

She shakes her head, “I don't think I will.”

At this moment, her phone rings, buzzing against her lap. She takes a discreet look at the screen, Min Yoongi. 

“Hah!” he laughs, almost bent over, so she extends a finger to swipe and accept the call. One more tap, and the feed from Yoongi’s side is muted. He can hear her, she cannot hear him. 

“Lee Woo-jin,” she says, and he sits up and listens, “you’ve wasted a lot of time looking for me. Why?”

“Why? Because you intrigue me, Professor,” Lee Woo-jin takes a seat, “I don’t typically care about women that much.”

“I can see it.”

“And yet, I find myself intrigued by you, you see,” he smiles, “you keep talking about how we should tackle rising crime rates and how we should go about our lives and how we should pay attention to criminal reform. You are an insufferable bitch.”

“You would not be the first person to say that to me.”

“But I would be the last,” he grins, standing up and leaning over her. From this distance, she can see the lines etched into his face, no doubt from twelve years of prison time. She knows what he means by those words. He’s saying something, but the loud buzzing in her ears have drowned his voice out entirely. She’s going to die here. He’s going to assault her, and then he’s going to kill her. She’s going to be the fucking eleventh victim. 

Before his hands can reach for her throat, she grabs a hold of the glass jug and smashes it over his head. Water and blood gush out, and shards explode all over the floor, one getting embedded in her arm. Ignoring the screaming pain in her body, she throws him off of her, still bleeding, and tries to yank the saline out of her hands. 

“You fucking bitch!” He yells, grabbing her arm, “you think you can run from me?”

“Help!” she yells out, loud enough to wake the entire hospital, “someone fucking help! He’s going to kill me—”

His heavy hand smacks her across her face, clamping down in an effort to shut her up. He’s struggling, she realises, and she bites down hard on his hand, using the leverage to land a heavy kick across his torso. Nothing happens, but his hand slips from her mouth, and she begins screaming bloody murder again. She has only a little bit of energy left, and she needs to get out of here. Where’s the nearest staircase? She doesn’t know. 

“Help!” she yells, and the door yanks open, and there are Yoongi and Yeonjun and Seokjin, guns raised. He tries to get a hold of her hair, but Seokjin kicks him across the face, and Yoongi wrenches him off of her. He holds her in his arms, shaking and bleeding, 

It’s all over very quickly after that. Seokjin and Yeonjun are wrestling with the man on the floor, and there is a small army of medical personnel, trying to stem the blood from her arm. Yoongi ignores the man entirely, holding her so tightly in his arms she doesn’t think he’s ever going to let go. She sees the man, the same man she had seen for the first time, all those years ago, on a village road, being taken by the police, raging and howling, and for the first time in a decade, she can breathe slightly easily. 

—

All men are born, all men die. No man is god. History is repeated, over and over, and every time, people; ordinary people, rise to the occasion. 

Journalists: @aeristudios @haologram @imnotshua @gyuswhore @wqnwoos @starlightkyeom @100vern @shadowkoo @shinysobi