silly supi

"Hello?"

The cat's ears twitch.

Then, with all the dignity of a tiny king inspecting his territory, it stands up, walks directly over your shoes, and begins rubbing against your ankles.

"Oh," you say, immediately folding. "You're friendly."

The cat lets out a short meow.

It sounds less like a greeting and more like a sigh.

You crouch down carefully, setting your groceries on the floor, and reach out a hand. The cat sniffs your fingers before accepting a scratch beneath its chin, closing its eyes briefly as if granting approval.

"Do you belong to someone?"

The cat opens one eye. You swear it looks offended. Before you can investigate further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hallway. A moment later, a man rounds the corner.

A very tall man.

A very tall man who looks as though he's been running through the entire apartment complex for the last twenty minutes. His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, his hoodie is half-zipped, and he looks simultaneously exhausted and relieved when he spots the cat.

"There you are!"

The cat immediately walks behind your legs. The man stops. The cat stops. You glance between them. The cat presses itself against your ankle. The man sighs. The cat somehow manages to look smug.

"...I'm guessing this is yours?"

"Unfortunately," the man says.

The cat meows loudly.

"See? This is exactly what I mean."

You laugh before you can stop yourself. The stranger's expression brightens instantly, as if he hadn't expected anyone to find this situation amusing.

"I'm Jun," he says, holding out a hand. "From 8B."

You shake it. The cat bites his shoelace. Jun doesn't even look surprised.

"I'm Y/N."

"Nice to meet you."

The cat bites harder. Jun pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Please stop embarrassing me in front of my neighbours."

The cat releases the shoelace only to immediately sit on top of it. You laugh again. Jun looks delighted by this reaction. The cat looks annoyed by both of you. 

And that, unfortunately, is how it starts.

—

Three days later, the cat escapes again. 

Five days after that, it somehow ends up outside the building entirely.

A week later, you discover it sitting inside the communal laundry room watching a washing machine spin with the concentration of someone studying advanced physics.

At this point, you and Jun have exchanged numbers entirely for cat-related emergencies. Your conversation history consists primarily of photographs. Most of them are from Jun. Most of them are evidence.

[JUN] Found him inside my kitchen cabinet.

[JUN] *image attached*

[JUN] How did he get there?

[YOU] You own the cabinet.

[JUN] That's not the point.

[JUN] I was using that cabinet.

[YOU] Clearly he disagreed.

The responses usually arrive immediately. Jun, you discover, texts exactly the way he talks—enthusiastically, slightly randomly, and with enough exclamation marks to suggest every thought is exciting. 

You also discover that he is alarmingly easy to like.

Not because he's famous, although you'd recognised him eventually after spending an embarrassing amount of time wondering why he looked familiar. Not because he's handsome, although that certainly doesn't help.

Mostly it's because Jun is kind. He remembers things. The name of your favourite convenience store drink. The fact that you hate mornings. The bakery near your office that sells those strawberry pastries you mentioned once in passing.

Small details seem to stick in his mind as naturally as breathing. Unfortunately, he applies this same energy to the cat. The cat, meanwhile, seems determined to make his life difficult.

—

You are in the middle of watering your plants when your phone rings. 

Jun. 

You answer immediately.

"Hello?"

"He's gone."

You glance at the clock. It's eight in the morning.

"Good morning to you too."

"He's gone."

"Have you checked under the couch?"

"Yes."

"The bed?"

"Yes."

"The cabinets?"

"Every cabinet."

You hear rustling.

Then silence.

Then a muffled curse.

"Jun?"

"He was in the laundry basket."

You pause.

"...Was?"

"He escaped again."

You close your eyes.

"How does one cat keep defeating you?"

"That's what I've been asking."

The answer arrives ten minutes later when a scratching sound comes from outside your apartment. You open the door. The cat strolls inside. Not into the hallway. Into your apartment. Like it lives there.

"You have got to be kidding me.”

The cat jumps onto your sofa. You call Jun.

"I found him."

The groan that follows sounds deeply personal.

—

The cat's official name is Dumpling. The cat hates this name. You know this because every time Jun says it, the animal visibly reacts. Not dramatically. Just enough. A flick of an ear. A narrowed stare. An expression that somehow communicates disappointment.

"You know," you tell Jun one evening, "I don't think he likes his name."

Jun looks scandalised.

"Dumpling is adorable."

The cat turns its back on him. You point.

"See?"

"He's being dramatic."

The cat knocks a pen off the coffee table. Jun gasps. The cat knocks another one down.

"I raised you better than this."

You nearly choke on your tea.

"You've had him for three weeks."

"That's enough time to learn manners."

The cat jumps onto the back of the sofa. Jun sighs heavily.

"Maybe he's entering his rebellious phase."

"Maybe?"

The cat stares directly at him while deliberately pushing a coaster off the edge of the table.

The silence that follows is incredible.

"Okay," Jun admits. "Maybe definitely."

—

You spend more time in Jun's apartment than you mean to. It starts innocently enough. A movie recommendation. An extra portion of dinner.

Help assembling a cat tree after Jun accidentally orders one with instructions written entirely in a language neither of you can read.

The cat supervises from the couch. Correction. The cat judges from the couch.

"Pass me the screwdriver?"

You hand it over. Jun smiles. The expression catches you off guard every single time.

Warm. Open. The kind of smile that makes a room feel brighter.

You look away before he notices.

Across the room, the cat watches the interaction with unsettling focus.

"Why is he staring at us like that?" you ask.

Jun glances over.

"Dumpling?"

The cat doesn't move.

"Yeah."

"He always does that."

"That's concerning."

"I think he's just curious."

The cat continues staring. You are unconvinced.

—

The strange thing is that the cat almost feels human sometimes. Not in a creepy way.

Just...

Odd.

He understands too much. Not commands. Not tricks. Conversations.

You mention a specific toy once and find him playing with it the next day.

You complain about a difficult coworker and the cat appears beside you with suspiciously good timing.

Sometimes it feels as though he's listening. Actually listening. When you mention this to Jun, he beams.

"I know."

"That wasn't supposed to be a positive observation."

"He's smart."

The cat puffs up proudly. You point immediately.

"See? That. Why did he react to that?"

Jun follows your gaze. The cat instantly stops. The three of you stare at one another.

No one says anything.

Eventually Jun shrugs.

"Dumpling is just special."

The cat looks pleased. You look concerned.

—

The moment everything changes happens on a rainy Thursday evening. You aren't supposed to be at Jun's apartment. That's important.

You're only there because he'd left his umbrella at your place after movie night and you happened to notice the weather getting worse.

The walk takes less than thirty seconds. You knock once. No answer. You knock again.

Still nothing.

Maybe he's showering. You try the handle. The door opens.

"Jun?"

You step inside. The apartment is quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear movement.

"Jun?"

A voice answers. But not Jun's.

"Wait."

You freeze. The voice sounds unfamiliar. Young. Panicked.

"Don't come in here."

Your stomach drops.

There is a stranger in Jun's apartment. You move toward the kitchen anyway. The stranger appears around the corner at exactly the same moment.

Orange hair. Wide eyes. An oversized hoodie. For one impossible second, they stare at you. Then their expression shifts from surprise to absolute horror.

"You weren't supposed to see that."

"What?"

The stranger points at you.

"No, no, no, no—"

You blink. The stranger vanishes. Not runs. Not ducks away. Vanishes.

A flash of movement. A burst of orange and white. And suddenly, sitting in the exact same spot on the kitchen floor—

—is Dumpling.

The cat stares up at you. You stare down at the cat. Neither of you moves. Then, very slowly, the cat closes its eyes.

As if already accepting its fate. And somewhere in the distance, you hear Jun's voice calling from the hallway outside.

"Y/N? Are you here?"

—

The first thing you do is scream. Not loudly, and definitely not dramatically (it was only a cutesy scream, you swear.)

More like the sound a person makes when their brain has completely stopped functioning and is desperately trying to restart itself.

The cat flinches. You point. The cat stares back. You continue pointing. The cat continues staring.

The front door opens.

"Y/N?" Jun calls. "Sorry, I had to grab a package from downstairs—"

The cat launches itself across the kitchen floor. You have never seen something move that fast in your life. One moment it's sitting in front of you. The next it has disappeared beneath the dining table. Jun rounds the corner.

"There you are."

You whip around. Jun pauses.

"You look pale."

You look at Jun. Then the table. Then Jun again. The cat remains hidden. You wonder if this is what having a breakdown feels like.

"Y/N?"

The cat's tail appears briefly from beneath a chair. Then disappears. 

You inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.

"Everything okay?" Jun asks.

No. Nothing is okay. Five minutes ago you watched his cat become a person.

"Yeah."

Jun blinks.

"Really?"

"No."

"Okay."

You appreciate the honesty.

Unfortunately, you cannot explain the situation because explaining the situation would involve saying, Jun, your cat is a human being and I watched him transform in your kitchen.

You are fairly certain that conversation would not go well.

"Work stress," you blurt.

Jun immediately looks concerned. The guilt nearly kills you.

"Do you want tea?"

You almost laugh. Because of course that's his solution. Tea. The world could literally be ending and Jun would probably offer snacks.

"Sure."

While Jun busies himself making tea, you slowly lower your gaze toward the underside of the table. Two golden eyes stare back. The cat has the audacity to look embarrassed.

—

You leave twenty minutes later. Not because you want to. Because if you remain in that apartment for one more second, you might accidentally start asking questions.

Such as:

Why is your cat human?

Why was your cat wearing clothes?

Where did the clothes come from?

And perhaps most importantly:

Why did your cat seem more worried about being caught than transforming itself?

The answers arrive at eleven thirty-seven that night.

In the form of scratching.

You stare at your apartment door. The scratching continues. Three scratches. Pause. Three more scratches. Pause. Three more.

"That is either a cat or a serial killer."

The scratching grows more impatient. You open the door. The cat immediately walks inside. Not unusual.

What is unusual is the folded piece of paper tied around his collar. You stare. The cat stares.

Slowly, you remove the note. There are four words written on it. WE NEED TO TALK. You look down. The cat nods. Actually nods. You close the door.

"This is somehow worse."

—

Half an hour later, you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor while the cat sits opposite you.

Neither of you speaks. Mostly because one of you physically cannot. The cat seems annoyed by this limitation. Eventually he hops onto your coffee table. A notebook slides toward you. You blink. The cat taps it with one paw. Then taps the pen.

"Oh."

The cat taps again.

"Right."

You open the notebook. The cat immediately begins writing.

His handwriting is surprisingly neat. 

YOU SAW THAT.

You stare.

"Unfortunately."

The cat writes again.

I CAN EXPLAIN.

"I would love that."

A pause. The cat writes:

IT SOUNDS STUPID.

"Try me."

Another pause. Then:

I AM CURSED.

You stare at the words. The words stare back. The cat waits.

"...That's it?"

The cat narrows his eyes.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S IT.

"I mean," you say carefully, "if someone had asked me yesterday what explanation I'd expect for a human turning into a cat, curse would've been pretty high on the list."

The cat seems genuinely offended by this.

—

The explanation takes nearly an hour. Partly because writing everything down is slow. Partly because the cat keeps stopping to glare whenever you laugh.

Apparently, several years ago, he had been travelling through a small village and accidentally destroyed an elderly woman's herb garden. Not maliciously. Just catastrophically. 

There had been a bicycle. A slope. A misunderstanding. Several chickens.

The story somehow becomes less believable every time he tells it. The woman, who may or may not have been a witch, cursed him. Since then, he has spent most of his life stuck as a cat.

Sometimes he transforms back. Sometimes he doesn't. Strong emotions tend to trigger changes. Unfortunately, emotions happen constantly.

Which means so do transformations.

"And Jun doesn't know?"

The cat writes:

ABSOLUTELY NOT.

"Why?"

The answer appears immediately.

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY.

You consider this. Fair point.

"How long have you been living with him?"

THREE MONTHS.

"Three months?"

The cat nods.

"He just found you?"

Another nod.

"That's insane."

The cat points at himself. Exactly.

—

The following week becomes a disaster. Not because of the curse. Because now you're involved.

Monday afternoon, Jun texts you.

[JUN] Question.

[YOU] That depends.

[JUN] Can cats learn how to unlock doors?

You immediately sit upright.

[YOU] Why?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

[JUN] No reason.

[JUN] Hypothetically.

[JUN] If my cat opened the bathroom door while I was showering.

[YOU] HE WHAT.

[JUN] Hypothetically.

You receive a photograph. The cat is sitting outside a bathroom door. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. You put your phone down.

The cat, currently sleeping on your couch, opens one eye.

"You need to stop doing crimes."

The cat closes his eye again.

—

Tuesday is worse. You stop by Jun's apartment after work. The door opens.

Jun smiles immediately when he sees you. Something warm settles in your chest.

Dangerous. Very dangerous.

"Perfect timing."

You blink.

"Why?"

"Dumpling's hiding."

You look down. The cat, currently in human form, is standing behind the kitchen counter.

His eyes widen. Your eyes widen. Neither of you says anything.

Jun continues.

"I haven't seen him for an hour."

The human-cat begins gesturing wildly.

"That's weird."

"Right?"

The gestures become increasingly desperate.

You cough. Loudly.

The human-cat dives beneath the counter. A second later, an orange tail appears. Jun notices instantly.

"There he is!"

The cat emerges. Now fully feline. You do not ask questions. For the sake of your own sanity.

—

The problem is that keeping secrets creates opportunities for friendship. You hadn't intended to become friends with the cat.

It simply happened. Mostly because he's surprisingly easy to talk to. When he isn't stealing food.

Or causing problems. Or nearly exposing supernatural secrets.

One evening he appears on your windowsill carrying another notebook. You let him inside.

"What happened now?"

The notebook opens.

JUN BOUGHT ME A SWEATER.

You laugh.

The cat looks deeply unhappy.

HE HAS ONE TOO.

"That's adorable."

I LOOK RIDICULOUS.

"You look adorable."

The cat glares. You continue smiling. The cat eventually writes:

YOU ARE BOTH IMPOSSIBLE.

—

The truly unfortunate part is that the more time you spend around Jun, the harder everything becomes.

Because he's thoughtful. Because he's funny. Because he still texts you photographs every day. Because he always seems happy to see you.

And because your life has somehow become intertwined with his in ways neither of you planned.

Movie nights become routine. Shared dinners become normal. Sometimes you'll realise hours have passed without either of you noticing.

The cat notices. Unfortunately.

One evening you're sitting on Jun's couch watching a movie when his head slowly drops onto your shoulder.

At first you think it's accidental. Then you hear his breathing deepen. He's asleep.

Your entire body freezes. The room suddenly feels very warm. Across from you, the cat sits on the armchair.

Watching. Judging. Witnessing.

You glare. The cat stares back.

Slowly, he picks up a notebook from the side table. Writes something. Then turns it around.

OH YOU HAVE IT BADDDD.

You nearly throw a cushion at him. The cat looks delighted.

—

Later that night, after you've returned home and the apartment has fallen quiet, a folded note appears beneath your door.

You already know who it's from. The handwriting confirms it.

THANK YOU.

You smile despite yourself. Then flip the paper over. Additional text has been squeezed into the corner.

PLEASE DON'T TELL JUN.

You shake your head. A second line sits beneath it.

HE WOULD WORRY.

And somehow, more than the magic, more than the curse, more than the impossible situation you've found yourself trapped in—

That is the thing that makes your chest ache.

Because he's right. Jun would worry. About everyone. About everything. And maybe that's exactly why neither of you can bring yourselves to tell him. Not yet. Not when he smiles every time he sees the two of you waiting for him at home.

—

The first member to meet the cat is Soonyoung. This is unfortunate for everyone involved. 

Especially the cat.

"HE LOOKS LIKE A TIGER."

The declaration arrives less than ten seconds after Soonyoung steps through Jun's front door. The cat, currently loafing on the sofa, visibly flinches.

You witness it. The cat witnesses it. Unfortunately, Soonyoung witnesses absolutely nothing. Jun lights up immediately.

"I told you he was cute."

"Cute?" Soonyoung repeats. "Jun, this isn't a cat."

The cat narrows his eyes. Soonyoung points dramatically.

"That is a tiger trapped in a smaller body."

The cat turns away.

"You hurt his feelings," you say.

"I spoke the truth."

"You compared him to a completely different species."

"So?" Soonyoung asks. "I'd be honoured."

The cat appears unconvinced.

—

The second problem is that Jun has started inviting you over so frequently that you've stopped knocking. At some point during the past month, the line between neighbour and friend had quietly disappeared.

You have your own mug in his kitchen. You know where he keeps spare blankets. You can navigate his apartment in the dark. Nobody ever discusses it.

It simply becomes normal. Dangerously normal.

The cat notices immediately. You know this because every time you arrive, he watches the interaction with increasingly concerning levels of interest.

Not judgment. Observation. Like he's conducting research. Like he's documenting evidence.

One afternoon, you arrive carrying takeout and find the cat sitting on the kitchen counter beside a notebook. The notebook is open. Several pages are filled with writing.

The moment he notices you looking, he slams it shut. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.

"What are you writing?"

NOTHING.

"You're literally writing."

NOTHING IMPORTANT.

"You realise I can read."

The cat hugs the notebook against his chest.

You immediately become suspicious.

—

The situation worsens when the rest of Jun's friends begin appearing. Joshua arrives first. Then Minghao. Then Seungkwan. 

The apartment somehow doubles in volume.

You are halfway through helping Jun prepare snacks when voices spill in from the hallway.

"Oh, Y/N's already here."

Your stomach performs an embarrassing little flip. Not because of Seungkwan. Because of the way Jun smiles. 

Bright. Immediate. Unconsciously happy.

"Yeah," Jun says. "They got here earlier."

The cat, perched on the back of the sofa, immediately looks between both of you. You pretend not to notice. The cat continues noticing.

—

The evening begins normally.

Or as normally as possible when several members are crammed into one apartment arguing over board game rules.

The problems start approximately thirty minutes later. Specifically when Seungkwan begins paying attention.

"Wait."

Everybody ignores him.

"Wait."

Joshua continues setting up the game.

"Wait."

Minghao sighs.

"What?"

Seungkwan points.

At the cat. The cat freezes.

"That cat is weird."

The room falls silent. You nearly choke. The cat stops breathing. Jun blinks.

"Dumpling?"

"Yeah."

"What about him?"

Seungkwan squints. The cat squints back.

"He's looking at me."

Jun laughs.

"That's what cats do."

"No."

Seungkwan points harder.

"He's looking at me like he knows my tax information."

The cat immediately looks away. You cover your mouth. Minghao's shoulders start shaking. Joshua physically leaves the room because he's laughing too hard.

"See?" Seungkwan says triumphantly. "THAT."

"What?"

"That guilty look."

The cat leaps off the sofa and disappears into the bedroom. Seungkwan gasps.

"HE KNOWS."

—

The cat spends the next week avoiding Seungkwan. This only makes things worse. Apparently, if a person believes a cat is suspicious, the correct response is not to act suspicious.

Unfortunately, nobody explains this to the cat. The result is catastrophic. Every time Seungkwan enters a room, the cat leaves. Every time Seungkwan sits down, the cat relocates. Every time Seungkwan tries to pet him, the cat stares into the distance like he's remembering a war.

"It's personal," Seungkwan concludes.

"It's not personal," Jun says.

"It feels personal."

The cat immediately jumps off the couch. Seungkwan points.

"SEE?"

—

Minghao notices first. Not the curse. Not the transformations.

You.

Specifically, the way Jun looks at you. Which is significantly worse. The discovery occurs during movie night.

The apartment is quiet. The lights are dim. Everybody is focused on the screen except Minghao.

Minghao is focused on Jun. Jun is focused on you. The cat is focused on everyone. Minghao slowly turns toward Joshua.

Joshua follows his gaze. Then pauses. Then smiles.

"Oh."

The cat immediately notices. His eyes widen. Minghao notices the cat noticing. Now three people are aware of something.

You remain blissfully ignorant. Jun remains even more oblivious.

—

A group chat appears two days later. You discover its existence entirely by accident. Specifically because Jun leaves his phone unlocked while helping carry groceries. A notification appears.

[seungkwan] he smiled again

[minghao] i know

[joshua] it's getting embarrassing

[seungkwan] should we tell them

[joshua] absolutely not

[minghao] this is free entertainment

You immediately lock the screen.

Your face feels approximately one thousand degrees. Across the kitchen, the cat watches everything.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He gives you a thumbs up.

You nearly drop the groceries.

—

The truly alarming thing is that Jun keeps getting more comfortable around you.

Not intentionally. Not consciously.

It happens in small moments.

He hands you the first portion of food automatically. Saves your favourite seat. Texts you whenever something funny happens. Includes you in plans before asking if you're free.

As though your presence has become expected. As though you're already part of his life.

One evening you arrive after a particularly exhausting day. You don't even have time to say hello before Jun notices.

"Tough day?"

You blink.

"How did you know?"

"You look tired."

The answer is simple. Casual. Immediate. Something in your chest aches.

"Work was awful."

Jun frowns. The expression looks genuinely offended on your behalf.

"Want dinner?"

"That's your solution to everything."

"Dinner helps."

"It really doesn't."

Jun considers this.

"Okay."

A pause.

"Dinner and dessert?"

You laugh despite yourself. Across the room, the cat quietly writes something down.

—

The disaster happens on a Friday. Naturally. Disasters always happen on Fridays. 

You arrive at Jun's apartment carrying coffee.

The door is unlocked. You let yourself inside.

"Jun?"

No response. The apartment appears empty. You walk toward the kitchen. Then stop. Human.

The cat is human. Very human.

Very surprised. Very standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a spoon.

The spoon falls. Neither of you moves. The cat closes his eyes.

"Oh no."

The front door opens.

"Oh no," the cat repeats.

Jun's voice echoes from the hallway.

"Y/N?"

Panic erupts instantly. The cat grabs your shoulders. You grab his shoulders. Neither of you has a plan.

"Hide."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Helpful."

Footsteps approach. The cat spins in a circle. You spin with him. Somewhere in the distance, Jun gets closer.

"Guys?"

"Window?"

"We're on the eighth floor."

"Right."

The cat gestures wildly. You gesture back. Neither of you contributes anything useful.

Finally, the cat dives behind the kitchen island. A second later, orange fur replaces human limbs.

You stare. The transformation still feels impossible.

Jun enters. The cat immediately appears from behind the counter.

Looking innocent. Looking normal. Looking completely unbothered.

Jun smiles.

"There you are."

The cat meows. You stare. The cat stares back.

Slowly. Very slowly. A tiny smirk appears.

The little menace is enjoying this.

—

That night, a folded page appears beneath your apartment door. You already know what it is. You unfold it. The familiar handwriting fills the page.

—

[CASE NOTES]

Current Threat Assessment:

Seungkwan suspicious.

Minghao observant.

Joshua entertained.

Jun oblivious.

Additional Notes:

Y/N and Jun spent thirty-two minutes talking in the kitchen today.

Neither realised everyone else had already left.

Concerning.

—

A final line has been squeezed into the bottom corner. At first glance, the handwriting appears rushed. Almost hesitant.

I think Jun likes you.

You stare at the sentence. Then immediately flip the page over. Nothing else is written there.

When you look back, the words haven't changed. The cat's handwriting remains stubbornly visible.

I think Jun likes you.

For some reason, that possibility feels far more terrifying than any curse.

—

The cat begins sabotaging your love life on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, he begins by sabotaging Jun's.

You don't realise this immediately. Mostly because the disaster starts small.

A missing shirt. A mysteriously hidden wallet. A phone that somehow ends up inside the linen cupboard.

Individually, none of these events are particularly suspicious. Together, however, they create a pattern.

Specifically, the pattern of a cat committing crimes.

"Have you seen my jacket?"

Jun is standing in the middle of his apartment looking genuinely confused. You glance up from the sofa.

"No?"

"I left it right here."

The cat, sitting three feet away, immediately looks out the window. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.

Jun continues searching. The cat continues pretending to be innocent. Nobody is convinced.

—

The explanation arrives later that evening. Specifically after you corner the cat in your apartment and refuse to let him leave until he talks.

Human form this time. Mostly because he can actually explain himself.

"You're hiding things."

"I'm not hiding things."

"You hid his phone inside a cereal box."

The cat looks offended.

"It was a strategic location."

"You are impossible."

"So I've been told."

He drops onto your couch dramatically. You wait. The cat waits. Eventually, he sighs.

"It's because of the date."

You blink.

"What date?"

The look he gives you suggests you're the stupidest person alive.

"The blind date."

Oh. Right.

A few days earlier, one of Jun's friends had apparently decided he needed help finding romance. The resulting blind date had been arranged for this weekend.

Jun had agreed.

Mostly because he was too nice to refuse. The cat had hated the idea immediately.

Apparently.

"You've been sabotaging a blind date?"

"I've been delaying a blind date."

"That's worse."

"It's different."

"It isn't."

The cat folds his arms. You stare at each other. Eventually, he looks away first. And suddenly, for the first time since you've met him, he looks genuinely upset.

Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Just... sad. The change catches you off guard.

"What is it?"

The cat doesn't answer immediately. His gaze settles somewhere near the window. The city lights glow softly beyond the glass. For a long moment, the apartment feels strangely quiet.

Then—

"If the curse breaks, I'll leave."

The words land heavily between you. You freeze. The cat continues staring outside.

"I was always supposed to leave."

You don't know what to say. Because the thing is—

You've never actually thought about it. Not really. The curse has become part of daily life. 

The transformations. The notes. The absurdity. The cat himself.

Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped feeling temporary. Stopped feeling like a problem that needed solving. Instead, he'd become...

Family.

The realisation hits harder than expected.

"I don't want to leave."

His voice is quiet.

"So don't."

The cat laughs. Not happily.

"You think curses work like rental agreements?"

"You're being dramatic."

"I learned from Jun."

You can't even argue with that.

—

The problem is that the conversation stays with you.

For days. Long after the cat leaves. Long after movie night. Long after Jun walks you home and lingers outside your apartment door for a few seconds longer than necessary.

The thought keeps returning. If the curse breaks. If the curse ends.

Then what? The cat leaves. Life changes. Everything changes. The idea feels wrong.

Uncomfortable.

Like imagining a missing piece in a picture you've grown used to. And perhaps that's why, a week later, you finally ask the question that's been bothering you.

"What actually breaks the curse?"

The cat pauses. He'd been halfway through stealing food from your kitchen. Now he simply stares.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I know what the old woman said."

"Which was?"

The cat sighs.

"'You'll return to yourself when you're accepted as yourself.'"

You blink.

"That's it?"

"That's literally it."

"That's incredibly vague."

"I KNOW."

The frustration in his voice sounds years old.

—

The answer arrives from somewhere completely unexpected. Seungkwan. Because, apparently, life enjoys irony.

It happens during one of the increasingly common group dinners at Jun's apartment.

Everyone is present. Food covers every available surface. Conversations overlap. The cat is currently asleep on Jun's lap. Which would be adorable if you didn't know he was actually a person.

"So," Seungkwan says suddenly.

You immediately become suspicious.

"So?" Jun asks.

"I've solved the mystery."

Nobody likes the way he says that.

"What mystery?" Joshua asks.

Seungkwan points dramatically. At Jun. Then at you. Then at the cat.

"The three of you."

Silence. The cat opens one eye.

"What about us?" you ask carefully.

Seungkwan leans back. Looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You all act like a family."

The room falls silent. Completely silent. The cat stops moving. Jun blinks. Minghao immediately looks interested. Joshua looks delighted. Seungkwan continues.

"It's weird."

"Thank you?" Jun says.

"No, seriously."

Seungkwan gestures vaguely.

"You."

Pointing at Jun.

"Cook."

Then you.

"You clean."

Then the cat.

"That one commits crimes."

The cat looks offended.

"That's a family."

Nobody says anything. Because somehow—

As ridiculous as the statement is—

It doesn't feel wrong.

—

That night, after everyone leaves, Jun walks you home. The journey takes less than a minute. Neither of you seems particularly eager to end it. The hallway is quiet.

The building mostly asleep. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. You glance over.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Jun."

He smiles. A little sheepish.

"A family, huh?"

Your chest immediately betrays you. The worst part is that he doesn't sound embarrassed. Or uncomfortable. Instead, he sounds...

Happy.

Like the idea itself makes him happy.

"Seungkwan says a lot of things."

"He does."

You reach your apartment door. Neither of you moves. The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.

The kind that makes you suddenly aware of every little thing. The warmth of the hallway lights. The softness in Jun's expression. The fact that he's standing much closer than usual.

For one impossible second, you think he might say something. Instead, he smiles.

"Goodnight."

The disappointment is immediate. And embarrassing.

"Goodnight."

Jun turns. Walks away. Then pauses.

Just before reaching his own apartment. He glances back. Smiles again. Then disappears inside.

Your heart remains absolutely useless.

—

The next morning, a note appears beneath your door. The handwriting is familiar. You unfold it.

—

[CASE FILE #004]

Subject: Curse Investigation

Status: Ongoing.

Recent Findings:

Jun considers Y/N family.

Y/N considers Jun family.

I consider both idiots.

—

You laugh despite yourself. There is more. The writing below is messier. Less organised.

Like it was added later.

I think I finally understand.

You frown. Understand what?

The final paragraph answers.

For years, I thought breaking the curse meant becoming human again.

Maybe that was never the point.

Maybe the point was finding somewhere I didn't have to hide.

The words hit unexpectedly hard. Because for the first time, they don't feel like notes.

Or reports. Or evidence. They feel like a goodbye. And somehow, deep down, you know something is changing.

The curse is getting weaker. The cat knows it. Maybe even understands it. And for the first time since all this began—

You think he might finally be close to going home. The problem is that home isn't a place anymore.

It's Jun. It's you.

And none of you know what happens when the magic finally lets go.

—

The truth comes out because the cat finally gets tired.

Not physically. Emotionally.

Years of hiding have a way of wearing a person down, and despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat is still a person.

It happens on an ordinary Sunday. Which somehow makes it worse. There is no dramatic thunderstorm. No magical prophecy. No ancient witch appearing out of nowhere to explain things.

Just takeout containers, a half-finished movie, and Jun complaining because someone keeps stealing food off his plate.

"I'm serious," Jun says.

The cat, currently curled beside him on the couch, pointedly avoids eye contact.

"Every time I look away, something disappears."

You nearly choke on your drink. The cat looks offended. Jun narrows his eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.

And then—

Without warning—

The room fills with golden light. 

Everybody freezes. The cat freezes. You freeze. Jun freezes.

For one impossible moment, the entire apartment falls silent. The light swirls around the cat.

Brighter. Warmer. Familiar.

The same glow you've witnessed dozens of times before.

Except this time it doesn't stop.

"Oh."

The cat's voice returns first. Human. Entirely human.

Sitting where the cat had been seconds earlier. The takeout container slides off his lap.

Nobody reacts. Nobody breathes.

Jun stares. The cat stares back.

And after months of preparation, after endless contingency plans and increasingly ridiculous emergency scenarios, the only thing the cat manages to say is:

"...This isn't ideal."

—

The silence lasts approximately four seconds. Then Jun speaks.

"Oh."

Another pause.

"Oh."

The cat winces. You consider hiding. Jun continues staring. The cat continues existing.

You continue questioning every life decision that led to this moment.

Then, unexpectedly—

Jun stands up. Walks forward. And pokes the cat's forehead. The cat blinks. Jun blinks. The cat blinks again.

"You're real."

The cat stares.

"That is your first question?"

"What was I supposed to ask?"

"I don't know!"

The cat throws his hands into the air.

"Maybe why your pet is secretly a human?"

"That was definitely my second question."

"Jun."

"I'm getting there."

The cat looks ready to scream. You honestly can't blame him. For several long moments, Jun simply stands there processing. Then his expression changes.

Softens. The panic never comes. The anger never comes. Instead—

"You've been dealing with this alone?"

The cat freezes. The question hangs in the air. Everything suddenly feels very quiet. Because out of every possible reaction, somehow that is the one none of you expected. The cat's shoulders slump. Just slightly.

"Yeah."

Jun's expression crumples immediately.

"Oh."

And somehow that single syllable contains more heartbreak than any dramatic speech could.

—

The explanation takes hours. Mostly because Jun keeps interrupting. Not with accusations. Questions. Thousands of questions.

Have you been eating enough?

Where did you sleep before?

Were you scared?

Why didn't you tell me?

Did the veterinarian know?

The answer to that last one is apparently no. Thankfully. 

The cat buries his face in his hands.

"I knew this would happen."

"What?"

"You worrying."

Jun looks genuinely confused.

"Of course I'm worried."

The cat laughs helplessly. And for the first time since you've met him, you realise just how exhausted he's been. How much effort it must have taken to keep carrying this alone.

Jun notices too. Because of course he does.

Without hesitation, he moves beside him on the couch. Close enough that their shoulders touch. Close enough that neither of them has to pretend anymore.

"You idiot."

The words are fond. The cat immediately starts crying.

—

The curse breaks completely three days later.

Not with magic. Not really. Not with fireworks or dramatic declarations. Just certainty.

The cat wakes up human. And stays human.

Morning becomes afternoon. Afternoon becomes evening. Nothing changes.

No tail. No whiskers. No transformation. The curse is gone.

Just like that.

The moment should feel triumphant. Instead, everybody ends up strangely emotional. Including you. Especially Jun. The apartment feels different.

Not empty. Just unfamiliar. Like a favourite song rearranged into a new key. Better.

But still strange. The cat notices immediately.

"You're mourning me."

"No we're not."

"You absolutely are."

"We literally saw you this morning."

"Then stop looking at me like I've died."

Jun points a chopstick at him.

"You used to fit inside a tote bag."

"That's not a normal thing to miss."

"It is for me."

The cat groans. You laugh. For the first time in days, everything feels normal again.

—

The confession happens because Seungkwan finally loses patience. As expected.

Everyone has gathered for dinner. The former cat now occupies an actual chair. A development that continues to disturb Jun. Halfway through dessert, Seungkwan slams both hands on the table.

"ENOUGH."

Everybody jumps.

"What?" Joshua asks.

"No."

Seungkwan points. At Jun. Then at you. Then back at Jun.

"This has gone on long enough."

The room immediately erupts. Minghao starts laughing. Joshua covers his face. The former cat sighs dramatically. Jun looks confused. You look terrified.

"What's happening?"

"You like each other."

Seungkwan says it with the confidence of someone announcing the weather. Silence. Then:

"What?"

Jun and you speak simultaneously. The entire table groans. The former cat drops his forehead onto the table.

"You are unbearable."

"No," Seungkwan says. "I've suffered enough."

"Seungkwan—"

"No."

He points at Jun.

"Do you like Y/N?"

Jun opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at you. Then looks away. His ears turn red. The entire room explodes.

"Oh my god."

"I KNEW IT."

"Finally."

"THANK YOU."

Jun hides his face. You consider moving countries. The former cat looks seconds away from standing up and applauding.

—

Somehow, eventually, everyone leaves. Except Jun. And you.

The apartment grows quiet. The dishes remain forgotten. The city lights glow beyond the windows. For several moments, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. Embarrassed.

"I think they planned that."

"They definitely planned that."

"Yeah."

Silence returns. Not awkward. Just fragile.

The kind where everything important sits between two people waiting to be acknowledged. 

Jun rubs the back of his neck. Looks down. Then up again. And suddenly he looks more nervous than you've ever seen him.

"I do, by the way."

Your breath catches.

"What?"

He smiles. Small. Warm. Entirely sincere.

"I do like you."

The words are simple. Which somehow makes them hit harder. No dramatic speech. No rehearsed confession. Just honesty.

The kind that's impossible to hide from.

"I think I've liked you for a while."

The smile spreads before you can stop it. Jun's eyes soften immediately. The sight nearly destroys you.

"Good."

His voice comes out quiet. Hopeful.

"Good?"

"Because I like you too."

For a second, neither of you moves. Then Jun laughs. The relieved, disbelieving kind. And somehow that's what finally pushes you both forward.

The kiss is gentle. Warm. A little awkward. 

Perfect.

When you pull apart, Jun immediately starts smiling again. Like he physically cannot stop. You suspect you look exactly the same.

—

The next morning, a final note appears beneath your apartment door. The handwriting is instantly familiar. You unfold it.

—

[CASE FILE: CLOSED]

Former Alias: Dumpling.Current Status: Human.Curse Status: Broken.Additional Findings:The old woman was right. Being human again wasn't the solution. Being loved was.

—

Your chest tightens. A final paragraph sits beneath it. Shorter. Messier. Like it wasn't rewritten a hundred times.

Thank you for seeing me. Even when I was a cat.

You stare at the page for a long moment. Then smile. A knock sounds at your door. You already know who it is.

When you open it, Jun stands there holding breakfast. And flowers. And the most hopeful expression you've ever seen.

"Hi."

You laugh immediately.

"Hi."

"Would you maybe want to go on an actual date?"

The flowers shake slightly. Nervous. Endearing. Very Jun. You take them from his hands. His smile brightens instantly.

And just like that, standing in the hallway where all of this began, surrounded by neighbours and ordinary apartment walls and absolutely no magic whatsoever, you realise something.

The curse was never the story. Home was.

"Hello?"

The cat's ears twitch.

Then, with all the dignity of a tiny king inspecting his territory, it stands up, walks directly over your shoes, and begins rubbing against your ankles.

"Oh," you say, immediately folding. "You're friendly."

The cat lets out a short meow.

It sounds less like a greeting and more like a sigh.

You crouch down carefully, setting your groceries on the floor, and reach out a hand. The cat sniffs your fingers before accepting a scratch beneath its chin, closing its eyes briefly as if granting approval.

"Do you belong to someone?"

The cat opens one eye. You swear it looks offended. Before you can investigate further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hallway. A moment later, a man rounds the corner.

A very tall man.

A very tall man who looks as though he's been running through the entire apartment complex for the last twenty minutes. His dark hair is sticking up in several directions, his hoodie is half-zipped, and he looks simultaneously exhausted and relieved when he spots the cat.

"There you are!"

The cat immediately walks behind your legs. The man stops. The cat stops. You glance between them. The cat presses itself against your ankle. The man sighs. The cat somehow manages to look smug.

"...I'm guessing this is yours?"

"Unfortunately," the man says.

The cat meows loudly.

"See? This is exactly what I mean."

You laugh before you can stop yourself. The stranger's expression brightens instantly, as if he hadn't expected anyone to find this situation amusing.

"I'm Jun," he says, holding out a hand. "From 8B."

You shake it. The cat bites his shoelace. Jun doesn't even look surprised.

"I'm Y/N."

"Nice to meet you."

The cat bites harder. Jun pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Please stop embarrassing me in front of my neighbours."

The cat releases the shoelace only to immediately sit on top of it. You laugh again. Jun looks delighted by this reaction. The cat looks annoyed by both of you. 

And that, unfortunately, is how it starts.

—

Three days later, the cat escapes again. 

Five days after that, it somehow ends up outside the building entirely.

A week later, you discover it sitting inside the communal laundry room watching a washing machine spin with the concentration of someone studying advanced physics.

At this point, you and Jun have exchanged numbers entirely for cat-related emergencies. Your conversation history consists primarily of photographs. Most of them are from Jun. Most of them are evidence.

[JUN] Found him inside my kitchen cabinet.

[JUN] *image attached*

[JUN] How did he get there?

[YOU] You own the cabinet.

[JUN] That's not the point.

[JUN] I was using that cabinet.

[YOU] Clearly he disagreed.

The responses usually arrive immediately. Jun, you discover, texts exactly the way he talks—enthusiastically, slightly randomly, and with enough exclamation marks to suggest every thought is exciting. 

You also discover that he is alarmingly easy to like.

Not because he's famous, although you'd recognised him eventually after spending an embarrassing amount of time wondering why he looked familiar. Not because he's handsome, although that certainly doesn't help.

Mostly it's because Jun is kind. He remembers things. The name of your favourite convenience store drink. The fact that you hate mornings. The bakery near your office that sells those strawberry pastries you mentioned once in passing.

Small details seem to stick in his mind as naturally as breathing. Unfortunately, he applies this same energy to the cat. The cat, meanwhile, seems determined to make his life difficult.

—

You are in the middle of watering your plants when your phone rings. 

Jun. 

You answer immediately.

"Hello?"

"He's gone."

You glance at the clock. It's eight in the morning.

"Good morning to you too."

"He's gone."

"Have you checked under the couch?"

"Yes."

"The bed?"

"Yes."

"The cabinets?"

"Every cabinet."

You hear rustling.

Then silence.

Then a muffled curse.

"Jun?"

"He was in the laundry basket."

You pause.

"...Was?"

"He escaped again."

You close your eyes.

"How does one cat keep defeating you?"

"That's what I've been asking."

The answer arrives ten minutes later when a scratching sound comes from outside your apartment. You open the door. The cat strolls inside. Not into the hallway. Into your apartment. Like it lives there.

"You have got to be kidding me.”

The cat jumps onto your sofa. You call Jun.

"I found him."

The groan that follows sounds deeply personal.

—

The cat's official name is Dumpling. The cat hates this name. You know this because every time Jun says it, the animal visibly reacts. Not dramatically. Just enough. A flick of an ear. A narrowed stare. An expression that somehow communicates disappointment.

"You know," you tell Jun one evening, "I don't think he likes his name."

Jun looks scandalised.

"Dumpling is adorable."

The cat turns its back on him. You point.

"See?"

"He's being dramatic."

The cat knocks a pen off the coffee table. Jun gasps. The cat knocks another one down.

"I raised you better than this."

You nearly choke on your tea.

"You've had him for three weeks."

"That's enough time to learn manners."

The cat jumps onto the back of the sofa. Jun sighs heavily.

"Maybe he's entering his rebellious phase."

"Maybe?"

The cat stares directly at him while deliberately pushing a coaster off the edge of the table.

The silence that follows is incredible.

"Okay," Jun admits. "Maybe definitely."

—

You spend more time in Jun's apartment than you mean to. It starts innocently enough. A movie recommendation. An extra portion of dinner.

Help assembling a cat tree after Jun accidentally orders one with instructions written entirely in a language neither of you can read.

The cat supervises from the couch. Correction. The cat judges from the couch.

"Pass me the screwdriver?"

You hand it over. Jun smiles. The expression catches you off guard every single time.

Warm. Open. The kind of smile that makes a room feel brighter.

You look away before he notices.

Across the room, the cat watches the interaction with unsettling focus.

"Why is he staring at us like that?" you ask.

Jun glances over.

"Dumpling?"

The cat doesn't move.

"Yeah."

"He always does that."

"That's concerning."

"I think he's just curious."

The cat continues staring. You are unconvinced.

—

The strange thing is that the cat almost feels human sometimes. Not in a creepy way.

Just...

Odd.

He understands too much. Not commands. Not tricks. Conversations.

You mention a specific toy once and find him playing with it the next day.

You complain about a difficult coworker and the cat appears beside you with suspiciously good timing.

Sometimes it feels as though he's listening. Actually listening. When you mention this to Jun, he beams.

"I know."

"That wasn't supposed to be a positive observation."

"He's smart."

The cat puffs up proudly. You point immediately.

"See? That. Why did he react to that?"

Jun follows your gaze. The cat instantly stops. The three of you stare at one another.

No one says anything.

Eventually Jun shrugs.

"Dumpling is just special."

The cat looks pleased. You look concerned.

—

The moment everything changes happens on a rainy Thursday evening. You aren't supposed to be at Jun's apartment. That's important.

You're only there because he'd left his umbrella at your place after movie night and you happened to notice the weather getting worse.

The walk takes less than thirty seconds. You knock once. No answer. You knock again.

Still nothing.

Maybe he's showering. You try the handle. The door opens.

"Jun?"

You step inside. The apartment is quiet. Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear movement.

"Jun?"

A voice answers. But not Jun's.

"Wait."

You freeze. The voice sounds unfamiliar. Young. Panicked.

"Don't come in here."

Your stomach drops.

There is a stranger in Jun's apartment. You move toward the kitchen anyway. The stranger appears around the corner at exactly the same moment.

Orange hair. Wide eyes. An oversized hoodie. For one impossible second, they stare at you. Then their expression shifts from surprise to absolute horror.

"You weren't supposed to see that."

"What?"

The stranger points at you.

"No, no, no, no—"

You blink. The stranger vanishes. Not runs. Not ducks away. Vanishes.

A flash of movement. A burst of orange and white. And suddenly, sitting in the exact same spot on the kitchen floor—

—is Dumpling.

The cat stares up at you. You stare down at the cat. Neither of you moves. Then, very slowly, the cat closes its eyes.

As if already accepting its fate. And somewhere in the distance, you hear Jun's voice calling from the hallway outside.

"Y/N? Are you here?"

—

The first thing you do is scream. Not loudly, and definitely not dramatically (it was only a cutesy scream, you swear.)

More like the sound a person makes when their brain has completely stopped functioning and is desperately trying to restart itself.

The cat flinches. You point. The cat stares back. You continue pointing. The cat continues staring.

The front door opens.

"Y/N?" Jun calls. "Sorry, I had to grab a package from downstairs—"

The cat launches itself across the kitchen floor. You have never seen something move that fast in your life. One moment it's sitting in front of you. The next it has disappeared beneath the dining table. Jun rounds the corner.

"There you are."

You whip around. Jun pauses.

"You look pale."

You look at Jun. Then the table. Then Jun again. The cat remains hidden. You wonder if this is what having a breakdown feels like.

"Y/N?"

The cat's tail appears briefly from beneath a chair. Then disappears. 

You inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.

"Everything okay?" Jun asks.

No. Nothing is okay. Five minutes ago you watched his cat become a person.

"Yeah."

Jun blinks.

"Really?"

"No."

"Okay."

You appreciate the honesty.

Unfortunately, you cannot explain the situation because explaining the situation would involve saying, Jun, your cat is a human being and I watched him transform in your kitchen.

You are fairly certain that conversation would not go well.

"Work stress," you blurt.

Jun immediately looks concerned. The guilt nearly kills you.

"Do you want tea?"

You almost laugh. Because of course that's his solution. Tea. The world could literally be ending and Jun would probably offer snacks.

"Sure."

While Jun busies himself making tea, you slowly lower your gaze toward the underside of the table. Two golden eyes stare back. The cat has the audacity to look embarrassed.

—

You leave twenty minutes later. Not because you want to. Because if you remain in that apartment for one more second, you might accidentally start asking questions.

Such as:

Why is your cat human?

Why was your cat wearing clothes?

Where did the clothes come from?

And perhaps most importantly:

Why did your cat seem more worried about being caught than transforming itself?

The answers arrive at eleven thirty-seven that night.

In the form of scratching.

You stare at your apartment door. The scratching continues. Three scratches. Pause. Three more scratches. Pause. Three more.

"That is either a cat or a serial killer."

The scratching grows more impatient. You open the door. The cat immediately walks inside. Not unusual.

What is unusual is the folded piece of paper tied around his collar. You stare. The cat stares.

Slowly, you remove the note. There are four words written on it. WE NEED TO TALK. You look down. The cat nods. Actually nods. You close the door.

"This is somehow worse."

—

Half an hour later, you are sitting cross-legged on your living room floor while the cat sits opposite you.

Neither of you speaks. Mostly because one of you physically cannot. The cat seems annoyed by this limitation. Eventually he hops onto your coffee table. A notebook slides toward you. You blink. The cat taps it with one paw. Then taps the pen.

"Oh."

The cat taps again.

"Right."

You open the notebook. The cat immediately begins writing.

His handwriting is surprisingly neat. 

YOU SAW THAT.

You stare.

"Unfortunately."

The cat writes again.

I CAN EXPLAIN.

"I would love that."

A pause. The cat writes:

IT SOUNDS STUPID.

"Try me."

Another pause. Then:

I AM CURSED.

You stare at the words. The words stare back. The cat waits.

"...That's it?"

The cat narrows his eyes.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S IT.

"I mean," you say carefully, "if someone had asked me yesterday what explanation I'd expect for a human turning into a cat, curse would've been pretty high on the list."

The cat seems genuinely offended by this.

—

The explanation takes nearly an hour. Partly because writing everything down is slow. Partly because the cat keeps stopping to glare whenever you laugh.

Apparently, several years ago, he had been travelling through a small village and accidentally destroyed an elderly woman's herb garden. Not maliciously. Just catastrophically. 

There had been a bicycle. A slope. A misunderstanding. Several chickens.

The story somehow becomes less believable every time he tells it. The woman, who may or may not have been a witch, cursed him. Since then, he has spent most of his life stuck as a cat.

Sometimes he transforms back. Sometimes he doesn't. Strong emotions tend to trigger changes. Unfortunately, emotions happen constantly.

Which means so do transformations.

"And Jun doesn't know?"

The cat writes:

ABSOLUTELY NOT.

"Why?"

The answer appears immediately.

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY.

You consider this. Fair point.

"How long have you been living with him?"

THREE MONTHS.

"Three months?"

The cat nods.

"He just found you?"

Another nod.

"That's insane."

The cat points at himself. Exactly.

—

The following week becomes a disaster. Not because of the curse. Because now you're involved.

Monday afternoon, Jun texts you.

[JUN] Question.

[YOU] That depends.

[JUN] Can cats learn how to unlock doors?

You immediately sit upright.

[YOU] Why?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

[JUN] No reason.

[JUN] Hypothetically.

[JUN] If my cat opened the bathroom door while I was showering.

[YOU] HE WHAT.

[JUN] Hypothetically.

You receive a photograph. The cat is sitting outside a bathroom door. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. You put your phone down.

The cat, currently sleeping on your couch, opens one eye.

"You need to stop doing crimes."

The cat closes his eye again.

—

Tuesday is worse. You stop by Jun's apartment after work. The door opens.

Jun smiles immediately when he sees you. Something warm settles in your chest.

Dangerous. Very dangerous.

"Perfect timing."

You blink.

"Why?"

"Dumpling's hiding."

You look down. The cat, currently in human form, is standing behind the kitchen counter.

His eyes widen. Your eyes widen. Neither of you says anything.

Jun continues.

"I haven't seen him for an hour."

The human-cat begins gesturing wildly.

"That's weird."

"Right?"

The gestures become increasingly desperate.

You cough. Loudly.

The human-cat dives beneath the counter. A second later, an orange tail appears. Jun notices instantly.

"There he is!"

The cat emerges. Now fully feline. You do not ask questions. For the sake of your own sanity.

—

The problem is that keeping secrets creates opportunities for friendship. You hadn't intended to become friends with the cat.

It simply happened. Mostly because he's surprisingly easy to talk to. When he isn't stealing food.

Or causing problems. Or nearly exposing supernatural secrets.

One evening he appears on your windowsill carrying another notebook. You let him inside.

"What happened now?"

The notebook opens.

JUN BOUGHT ME A SWEATER.

You laugh.

The cat looks deeply unhappy.

HE HAS ONE TOO.

"That's adorable."

I LOOK RIDICULOUS.

"You look adorable."

The cat glares. You continue smiling. The cat eventually writes:

YOU ARE BOTH IMPOSSIBLE.

—

The truly unfortunate part is that the more time you spend around Jun, the harder everything becomes.

Because he's thoughtful. Because he's funny. Because he still texts you photographs every day. Because he always seems happy to see you.

And because your life has somehow become intertwined with his in ways neither of you planned.

Movie nights become routine. Shared dinners become normal. Sometimes you'll realise hours have passed without either of you noticing.

The cat notices. Unfortunately.

One evening you're sitting on Jun's couch watching a movie when his head slowly drops onto your shoulder.

At first you think it's accidental. Then you hear his breathing deepen. He's asleep.

Your entire body freezes. The room suddenly feels very warm. Across from you, the cat sits on the armchair.

Watching. Judging. Witnessing.

You glare. The cat stares back.

Slowly, he picks up a notebook from the side table. Writes something. Then turns it around.

OH YOU HAVE IT BADDDD.

You nearly throw a cushion at him. The cat looks delighted.

—

Later that night, after you've returned home and the apartment has fallen quiet, a folded note appears beneath your door.

You already know who it's from. The handwriting confirms it.

THANK YOU.

You smile despite yourself. Then flip the paper over. Additional text has been squeezed into the corner.

PLEASE DON'T TELL JUN.

You shake your head. A second line sits beneath it.

HE WOULD WORRY.

And somehow, more than the magic, more than the curse, more than the impossible situation you've found yourself trapped in—

That is the thing that makes your chest ache.

Because he's right. Jun would worry. About everyone. About everything. And maybe that's exactly why neither of you can bring yourselves to tell him. Not yet. Not when he smiles every time he sees the two of you waiting for him at home.

—

The first member to meet the cat is Soonyoung. This is unfortunate for everyone involved. 

Especially the cat.

"HE LOOKS LIKE A TIGER."

The declaration arrives less than ten seconds after Soonyoung steps through Jun's front door. The cat, currently loafing on the sofa, visibly flinches.

You witness it. The cat witnesses it. Unfortunately, Soonyoung witnesses absolutely nothing. Jun lights up immediately.

"I told you he was cute."

"Cute?" Soonyoung repeats. "Jun, this isn't a cat."

The cat narrows his eyes. Soonyoung points dramatically.

"That is a tiger trapped in a smaller body."

The cat turns away.

"You hurt his feelings," you say.

"I spoke the truth."

"You compared him to a completely different species."

"So?" Soonyoung asks. "I'd be honoured."

The cat appears unconvinced.

—

The second problem is that Jun has started inviting you over so frequently that you've stopped knocking. At some point during the past month, the line between neighbour and friend had quietly disappeared.

You have your own mug in his kitchen. You know where he keeps spare blankets. You can navigate his apartment in the dark. Nobody ever discusses it.

It simply becomes normal. Dangerously normal.

The cat notices immediately. You know this because every time you arrive, he watches the interaction with increasingly concerning levels of interest.

Not judgment. Observation. Like he's conducting research. Like he's documenting evidence.

One afternoon, you arrive carrying takeout and find the cat sitting on the kitchen counter beside a notebook. The notebook is open. Several pages are filled with writing.

The moment he notices you looking, he slams it shut. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.

"What are you writing?"

NOTHING.

"You're literally writing."

NOTHING IMPORTANT.

"You realise I can read."

The cat hugs the notebook against his chest.

You immediately become suspicious.

—

The situation worsens when the rest of Jun's friends begin appearing. Joshua arrives first. Then Minghao. Then Seungkwan. 

The apartment somehow doubles in volume.

You are halfway through helping Jun prepare snacks when voices spill in from the hallway.

"Oh, Y/N's already here."

Your stomach performs an embarrassing little flip. Not because of Seungkwan. Because of the way Jun smiles. 

Bright. Immediate. Unconsciously happy.

"Yeah," Jun says. "They got here earlier."

The cat, perched on the back of the sofa, immediately looks between both of you. You pretend not to notice. The cat continues noticing.

—

The evening begins normally.

Or as normally as possible when several members are crammed into one apartment arguing over board game rules.

The problems start approximately thirty minutes later. Specifically when Seungkwan begins paying attention.

"Wait."

Everybody ignores him.

"Wait."

Joshua continues setting up the game.

"Wait."

Minghao sighs.

"What?"

Seungkwan points.

At the cat. The cat freezes.

"That cat is weird."

The room falls silent. You nearly choke. The cat stops breathing. Jun blinks.

"Dumpling?"

"Yeah."

"What about him?"

Seungkwan squints. The cat squints back.

"He's looking at me."

Jun laughs.

"That's what cats do."

"No."

Seungkwan points harder.

"He's looking at me like he knows my tax information."

The cat immediately looks away. You cover your mouth. Minghao's shoulders start shaking. Joshua physically leaves the room because he's laughing too hard.

"See?" Seungkwan says triumphantly. "THAT."

"What?"

"That guilty look."

The cat leaps off the sofa and disappears into the bedroom. Seungkwan gasps.

"HE KNOWS."

—

The cat spends the next week avoiding Seungkwan. This only makes things worse. Apparently, if a person believes a cat is suspicious, the correct response is not to act suspicious.

Unfortunately, nobody explains this to the cat. The result is catastrophic. Every time Seungkwan enters a room, the cat leaves. Every time Seungkwan sits down, the cat relocates. Every time Seungkwan tries to pet him, the cat stares into the distance like he's remembering a war.

"It's personal," Seungkwan concludes.

"It's not personal," Jun says.

"It feels personal."

The cat immediately jumps off the couch. Seungkwan points.

"SEE?"

—

Minghao notices first. Not the curse. Not the transformations.

You.

Specifically, the way Jun looks at you. Which is significantly worse. The discovery occurs during movie night.

The apartment is quiet. The lights are dim. Everybody is focused on the screen except Minghao.

Minghao is focused on Jun. Jun is focused on you. The cat is focused on everyone. Minghao slowly turns toward Joshua.

Joshua follows his gaze. Then pauses. Then smiles.

"Oh."

The cat immediately notices. His eyes widen. Minghao notices the cat noticing. Now three people are aware of something.

You remain blissfully ignorant. Jun remains even more oblivious.

—

A group chat appears two days later. You discover its existence entirely by accident. Specifically because Jun leaves his phone unlocked while helping carry groceries. A notification appears.

[seungkwan] he smiled again

[minghao] i know

[joshua] it's getting embarrassing

[seungkwan] should we tell them

[joshua] absolutely not

[minghao] this is free entertainment

You immediately lock the screen.

Your face feels approximately one thousand degrees. Across the kitchen, the cat watches everything.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He gives you a thumbs up.

You nearly drop the groceries.

—

The truly alarming thing is that Jun keeps getting more comfortable around you.

Not intentionally. Not consciously.

It happens in small moments.

He hands you the first portion of food automatically. Saves your favourite seat. Texts you whenever something funny happens. Includes you in plans before asking if you're free.

As though your presence has become expected. As though you're already part of his life.

One evening you arrive after a particularly exhausting day. You don't even have time to say hello before Jun notices.

"Tough day?"

You blink.

"How did you know?"

"You look tired."

The answer is simple. Casual. Immediate. Something in your chest aches.

"Work was awful."

Jun frowns. The expression looks genuinely offended on your behalf.

"Want dinner?"

"That's your solution to everything."

"Dinner helps."

"It really doesn't."

Jun considers this.

"Okay."

A pause.

"Dinner and dessert?"

You laugh despite yourself. Across the room, the cat quietly writes something down.

—

The disaster happens on a Friday. Naturally. Disasters always happen on Fridays. 

You arrive at Jun's apartment carrying coffee.

The door is unlocked. You let yourself inside.

"Jun?"

No response. The apartment appears empty. You walk toward the kitchen. Then stop. Human.

The cat is human. Very human.

Very surprised. Very standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a spoon.

The spoon falls. Neither of you moves. The cat closes his eyes.

"Oh no."

The front door opens.

"Oh no," the cat repeats.

Jun's voice echoes from the hallway.

"Y/N?"

Panic erupts instantly. The cat grabs your shoulders. You grab his shoulders. Neither of you has a plan.

"Hide."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Helpful."

Footsteps approach. The cat spins in a circle. You spin with him. Somewhere in the distance, Jun gets closer.

"Guys?"

"Window?"

"We're on the eighth floor."

"Right."

The cat gestures wildly. You gesture back. Neither of you contributes anything useful.

Finally, the cat dives behind the kitchen island. A second later, orange fur replaces human limbs.

You stare. The transformation still feels impossible.

Jun enters. The cat immediately appears from behind the counter.

Looking innocent. Looking normal. Looking completely unbothered.

Jun smiles.

"There you are."

The cat meows. You stare. The cat stares back.

Slowly. Very slowly. A tiny smirk appears.

The little menace is enjoying this.

—

That night, a folded page appears beneath your apartment door. You already know what it is. You unfold it. The familiar handwriting fills the page.

—

[CASE NOTES]

Current Threat Assessment:

Seungkwan suspicious.

Minghao observant.

Joshua entertained.

Jun oblivious.

Additional Notes:

Y/N and Jun spent thirty-two minutes talking in the kitchen today.

Neither realised everyone else had already left.

Concerning.

—

A final line has been squeezed into the bottom corner. At first glance, the handwriting appears rushed. Almost hesitant.

I think Jun likes you.

You stare at the sentence. Then immediately flip the page over. Nothing else is written there.

When you look back, the words haven't changed. The cat's handwriting remains stubbornly visible.

I think Jun likes you.

For some reason, that possibility feels far more terrifying than any curse.

—

The cat begins sabotaging your love life on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, he begins by sabotaging Jun's.

You don't realise this immediately. Mostly because the disaster starts small.

A missing shirt. A mysteriously hidden wallet. A phone that somehow ends up inside the linen cupboard.

Individually, none of these events are particularly suspicious. Together, however, they create a pattern.

Specifically, the pattern of a cat committing crimes.

"Have you seen my jacket?"

Jun is standing in the middle of his apartment looking genuinely confused. You glance up from the sofa.

"No?"

"I left it right here."

The cat, sitting three feet away, immediately looks out the window. You narrow your eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.

Jun continues searching. The cat continues pretending to be innocent. Nobody is convinced.

—

The explanation arrives later that evening. Specifically after you corner the cat in your apartment and refuse to let him leave until he talks.

Human form this time. Mostly because he can actually explain himself.

"You're hiding things."

"I'm not hiding things."

"You hid his phone inside a cereal box."

The cat looks offended.

"It was a strategic location."

"You are impossible."

"So I've been told."

He drops onto your couch dramatically. You wait. The cat waits. Eventually, he sighs.

"It's because of the date."

You blink.

"What date?"

The look he gives you suggests you're the stupidest person alive.

"The blind date."

Oh. Right.

A few days earlier, one of Jun's friends had apparently decided he needed help finding romance. The resulting blind date had been arranged for this weekend.

Jun had agreed.

Mostly because he was too nice to refuse. The cat had hated the idea immediately.

Apparently.

"You've been sabotaging a blind date?"

"I've been delaying a blind date."

"That's worse."

"It's different."

"It isn't."

The cat folds his arms. You stare at each other. Eventually, he looks away first. And suddenly, for the first time since you've met him, he looks genuinely upset.

Not annoyed. Not dramatic. Just... sad. The change catches you off guard.

"What is it?"

The cat doesn't answer immediately. His gaze settles somewhere near the window. The city lights glow softly beyond the glass. For a long moment, the apartment feels strangely quiet.

Then—

"If the curse breaks, I'll leave."

The words land heavily between you. You freeze. The cat continues staring outside.

"I was always supposed to leave."

You don't know what to say. Because the thing is—

You've never actually thought about it. Not really. The curse has become part of daily life. 

The transformations. The notes. The absurdity. The cat himself.

Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped feeling temporary. Stopped feeling like a problem that needed solving. Instead, he'd become...

Family.

The realisation hits harder than expected.

"I don't want to leave."

His voice is quiet.

"So don't."

The cat laughs. Not happily.

"You think curses work like rental agreements?"

"You're being dramatic."

"I learned from Jun."

You can't even argue with that.

—

The problem is that the conversation stays with you.

For days. Long after the cat leaves. Long after movie night. Long after Jun walks you home and lingers outside your apartment door for a few seconds longer than necessary.

The thought keeps returning. If the curse breaks. If the curse ends.

Then what? The cat leaves. Life changes. Everything changes. The idea feels wrong.

Uncomfortable.

Like imagining a missing piece in a picture you've grown used to. And perhaps that's why, a week later, you finally ask the question that's been bothering you.

"What actually breaks the curse?"

The cat pauses. He'd been halfway through stealing food from your kitchen. Now he simply stares.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I know what the old woman said."

"Which was?"

The cat sighs.

"'You'll return to yourself when you're accepted as yourself.'"

You blink.

"That's it?"

"That's literally it."

"That's incredibly vague."

"I KNOW."

The frustration in his voice sounds years old.

—

The answer arrives from somewhere completely unexpected. Seungkwan. Because, apparently, life enjoys irony.

It happens during one of the increasingly common group dinners at Jun's apartment.

Everyone is present. Food covers every available surface. Conversations overlap. The cat is currently asleep on Jun's lap. Which would be adorable if you didn't know he was actually a person.

"So," Seungkwan says suddenly.

You immediately become suspicious.

"So?" Jun asks.

"I've solved the mystery."

Nobody likes the way he says that.

"What mystery?" Joshua asks.

Seungkwan points dramatically. At Jun. Then at you. Then at the cat.

"The three of you."

Silence. The cat opens one eye.

"What about us?" you ask carefully.

Seungkwan leans back. Looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You all act like a family."

The room falls silent. Completely silent. The cat stops moving. Jun blinks. Minghao immediately looks interested. Joshua looks delighted. Seungkwan continues.

"It's weird."

"Thank you?" Jun says.

"No, seriously."

Seungkwan gestures vaguely.

"You."

Pointing at Jun.

"Cook."

Then you.

"You clean."

Then the cat.

"That one commits crimes."

The cat looks offended.

"That's a family."

Nobody says anything. Because somehow—

As ridiculous as the statement is—

It doesn't feel wrong.

—

That night, after everyone leaves, Jun walks you home. The journey takes less than a minute. Neither of you seems particularly eager to end it. The hallway is quiet.

The building mostly asleep. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. You glance over.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Jun."

He smiles. A little sheepish.

"A family, huh?"

Your chest immediately betrays you. The worst part is that he doesn't sound embarrassed. Or uncomfortable. Instead, he sounds...

Happy.

Like the idea itself makes him happy.

"Seungkwan says a lot of things."

"He does."

You reach your apartment door. Neither of you moves. The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.

The kind that makes you suddenly aware of every little thing. The warmth of the hallway lights. The softness in Jun's expression. The fact that he's standing much closer than usual.

For one impossible second, you think he might say something. Instead, he smiles.

"Goodnight."

The disappointment is immediate. And embarrassing.

"Goodnight."

Jun turns. Walks away. Then pauses.

Just before reaching his own apartment. He glances back. Smiles again. Then disappears inside.

Your heart remains absolutely useless.

—

The next morning, a note appears beneath your door. The handwriting is familiar. You unfold it.

—

[CASE FILE #004]

Subject: Curse Investigation

Status: Ongoing.

Recent Findings:

Jun considers Y/N family.

Y/N considers Jun family.

I consider both idiots.

—

You laugh despite yourself. There is more. The writing below is messier. Less organised.

Like it was added later.

I think I finally understand.

You frown. Understand what?

The final paragraph answers.

For years, I thought breaking the curse meant becoming human again.

Maybe that was never the point.

Maybe the point was finding somewhere I didn't have to hide.

The words hit unexpectedly hard. Because for the first time, they don't feel like notes.

Or reports. Or evidence. They feel like a goodbye. And somehow, deep down, you know something is changing.

The curse is getting weaker. The cat knows it. Maybe even understands it. And for the first time since all this began—

You think he might finally be close to going home. The problem is that home isn't a place anymore.

It's Jun. It's you.

And none of you know what happens when the magic finally lets go.

—

The truth comes out because the cat finally gets tired.

Not physically. Emotionally.

Years of hiding have a way of wearing a person down, and despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat is still a person.

It happens on an ordinary Sunday. Which somehow makes it worse. There is no dramatic thunderstorm. No magical prophecy. No ancient witch appearing out of nowhere to explain things.

Just takeout containers, a half-finished movie, and Jun complaining because someone keeps stealing food off his plate.

"I'm serious," Jun says.

The cat, currently curled beside him on the couch, pointedly avoids eye contact.

"Every time I look away, something disappears."

You nearly choke on your drink. The cat looks offended. Jun narrows his eyes. The cat narrows his eyes back.

And then—

Without warning—

The room fills with golden light. 

Everybody freezes. The cat freezes. You freeze. Jun freezes.

For one impossible moment, the entire apartment falls silent. The light swirls around the cat.

Brighter. Warmer. Familiar.

The same glow you've witnessed dozens of times before.

Except this time it doesn't stop.

"Oh."

The cat's voice returns first. Human. Entirely human.

Sitting where the cat had been seconds earlier. The takeout container slides off his lap.

Nobody reacts. Nobody breathes.

Jun stares. The cat stares back.

And after months of preparation, after endless contingency plans and increasingly ridiculous emergency scenarios, the only thing the cat manages to say is:

"...This isn't ideal."

—

The silence lasts approximately four seconds. Then Jun speaks.

"Oh."

Another pause.

"Oh."

The cat winces. You consider hiding. Jun continues staring. The cat continues existing.

You continue questioning every life decision that led to this moment.

Then, unexpectedly—

Jun stands up. Walks forward. And pokes the cat's forehead. The cat blinks. Jun blinks. The cat blinks again.

"You're real."

The cat stares.

"That is your first question?"

"What was I supposed to ask?"

"I don't know!"

The cat throws his hands into the air.

"Maybe why your pet is secretly a human?"

"That was definitely my second question."

"Jun."

"I'm getting there."

The cat looks ready to scream. You honestly can't blame him. For several long moments, Jun simply stands there processing. Then his expression changes.

Softens. The panic never comes. The anger never comes. Instead—

"You've been dealing with this alone?"

The cat freezes. The question hangs in the air. Everything suddenly feels very quiet. Because out of every possible reaction, somehow that is the one none of you expected. The cat's shoulders slump. Just slightly.

"Yeah."

Jun's expression crumples immediately.

"Oh."

And somehow that single syllable contains more heartbreak than any dramatic speech could.

—

The explanation takes hours. Mostly because Jun keeps interrupting. Not with accusations. Questions. Thousands of questions.

Have you been eating enough?

Where did you sleep before?

Were you scared?

Why didn't you tell me?

Did the veterinarian know?

The answer to that last one is apparently no. Thankfully. 

The cat buries his face in his hands.

"I knew this would happen."

"What?"

"You worrying."

Jun looks genuinely confused.

"Of course I'm worried."

The cat laughs helplessly. And for the first time since you've met him, you realise just how exhausted he's been. How much effort it must have taken to keep carrying this alone.

Jun notices too. Because of course he does.

Without hesitation, he moves beside him on the couch. Close enough that their shoulders touch. Close enough that neither of them has to pretend anymore.

"You idiot."

The words are fond. The cat immediately starts crying.

—

The curse breaks completely three days later.

Not with magic. Not really. Not with fireworks or dramatic declarations. Just certainty.

The cat wakes up human. And stays human.

Morning becomes afternoon. Afternoon becomes evening. Nothing changes.

No tail. No whiskers. No transformation. The curse is gone.

Just like that.

The moment should feel triumphant. Instead, everybody ends up strangely emotional. Including you. Especially Jun. The apartment feels different.

Not empty. Just unfamiliar. Like a favourite song rearranged into a new key. Better.

But still strange. The cat notices immediately.

"You're mourning me."

"No we're not."

"You absolutely are."

"We literally saw you this morning."

"Then stop looking at me like I've died."

Jun points a chopstick at him.

"You used to fit inside a tote bag."

"That's not a normal thing to miss."

"It is for me."

The cat groans. You laugh. For the first time in days, everything feels normal again.

—

The confession happens because Seungkwan finally loses patience. As expected.

Everyone has gathered for dinner. The former cat now occupies an actual chair. A development that continues to disturb Jun. Halfway through dessert, Seungkwan slams both hands on the table.

"ENOUGH."

Everybody jumps.

"What?" Joshua asks.

"No."

Seungkwan points. At Jun. Then at you. Then back at Jun.

"This has gone on long enough."

The room immediately erupts. Minghao starts laughing. Joshua covers his face. The former cat sighs dramatically. Jun looks confused. You look terrified.

"What's happening?"

"You like each other."

Seungkwan says it with the confidence of someone announcing the weather. Silence. Then:

"What?"

Jun and you speak simultaneously. The entire table groans. The former cat drops his forehead onto the table.

"You are unbearable."

"No," Seungkwan says. "I've suffered enough."

"Seungkwan—"

"No."

He points at Jun.

"Do you like Y/N?"

Jun opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at you. Then looks away. His ears turn red. The entire room explodes.

"Oh my god."

"I KNEW IT."

"Finally."

"THANK YOU."

Jun hides his face. You consider moving countries. The former cat looks seconds away from standing up and applauding.

—

Somehow, eventually, everyone leaves. Except Jun. And you.

The apartment grows quiet. The dishes remain forgotten. The city lights glow beyond the windows. For several moments, neither of you speaks. Then Jun laughs softly. Embarrassed.

"I think they planned that."

"They definitely planned that."

"Yeah."

Silence returns. Not awkward. Just fragile.

The kind where everything important sits between two people waiting to be acknowledged. 

Jun rubs the back of his neck. Looks down. Then up again. And suddenly he looks more nervous than you've ever seen him.

"I do, by the way."

Your breath catches.

"What?"

He smiles. Small. Warm. Entirely sincere.

"I do like you."

The words are simple. Which somehow makes them hit harder. No dramatic speech. No rehearsed confession. Just honesty.

The kind that's impossible to hide from.

"I think I've liked you for a while."

The smile spreads before you can stop it. Jun's eyes soften immediately. The sight nearly destroys you.

"Good."

His voice comes out quiet. Hopeful.

"Good?"

"Because I like you too."

For a second, neither of you moves. Then Jun laughs. The relieved, disbelieving kind. And somehow that's what finally pushes you both forward.

The kiss is gentle. Warm. A little awkward. 

Perfect.

When you pull apart, Jun immediately starts smiling again. Like he physically cannot stop. You suspect you look exactly the same.

—

The next morning, a final note appears beneath your apartment door. The handwriting is instantly familiar. You unfold it.

—

[CASE FILE: CLOSED]

Former Alias: Dumpling.Current Status: Human.Curse Status: Broken.Additional Findings:The old woman was right. Being human again wasn't the solution. Being loved was.

—

Your chest tightens. A final paragraph sits beneath it. Shorter. Messier. Like it wasn't rewritten a hundred times.

Thank you for seeing me. Even when I was a cat.

You stare at the page for a long moment. Then smile. A knock sounds at your door. You already know who it is.

When you open it, Jun stands there holding breakfast. And flowers. And the most hopeful expression you've ever seen.

"Hi."

You laugh immediately.

"Hi."

"Would you maybe want to go on an actual date?"

The flowers shake slightly. Nervous. Endearing. Very Jun. You take them from his hands. His smile brightens instantly.

And just like that, standing in the hallway where all of this began, surrounded by neighbours and ordinary apartment walls and absolutely no magic whatsoever, you realise something.

The curse was never the story. Home was.

You stand beside your suitcase for a moment longer than necessary, staring down the familiar street while an uncomfortable ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs.

Three days ago, you had been packing up your apartment. Two days ago, you had been sorting through legal documents and answering sympathetic phone calls.

Now, after years of saying you'll visit eventually, after years of finding excuses and postponing plans and convincing yourself there would always be another opportunity, you're back in the town you spent most of your childhood trying to leave.

Not because you wanted to return. Because your grandmother died. The thought lands heavily, even now.

Your grip tightens around the suitcase handle. The funeral had been small. Simple.

Exactly what she would've wanted.

Most of the relatives had already left again, returning to their own lives, while you stayed behind to sort through paperwork and prepare the house for sale.

Just a few weeks, you told yourself. Long enough to finish everything properly. Long enough to say goodbye.

Then you'd leave again. The plan sounds reasonable in theory. In practice, every step through town feels like walking through memories.

The route to your grandmother's house passes the elementary school where you spent countless afternoons pretending to pay attention during class. The creek behind the football field still winds lazily through town, hidden beneath the same willow trees that once provided the backdrop for summer adventures so important they had felt life-changing at the time.

You know exactly where every turn leads. You hate how much of it you remember. The house itself sits exactly where it always has. The garden is slightly overgrown. The mailbox leans to one side. The front porch creaks beneath your weight.

Home.

Not home anymore. But close enough to hurt.

—

The first few days disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities. Boxes. Documents. Phone calls. Dust-covered photo albums.

Closets packed with items your grandmother had somehow convinced herself she might need someday.

You spend hours sorting through decades of accumulated memories, discovering things you forgot existed and things you wish you could forget.

Old school reports. Birthday cards. Drawings. Photographs. Far too many photographs. By the fourth day, the house feels quieter than ever.  The silence eventually becomes unbearable.

Which is how you find yourself wandering through town with no destination in mind, hands shoved into your jacket pockets while the late afternoon sun bathes everything in warm gold.

You tell yourself you're just getting fresh air. You tell yourself you aren't searching for anything. The lie lasts approximately fifteen minutes.

Because eventually you turn a corner. And stop.

The flower shop still stands exactly where it always did. For a second, you think you've imagined it.

The familiar brick storefront. The flower boxes beneath the windows. The painted sign hanging above the entrance.

Only one thing has changed.

The name.

Your chest tightens. Not because the shop exists. Because you know who owns it now. You learned it from one of the older ladies at the funeral.

"Oh, have you seen Seungcheol yet?"

As if that were the most natural question in the world. As if years hadn't passed. As if hearing his name didn't still do something strange to your heartbeat. You haven't seen him. Not yet.

You hadn't planned to.

But suddenly there he is. Standing inside the shop. Alive. Real. Older.

The breath catches somewhere in your throat. For a moment, all you can do is stare.

He's arranging flowers near the front counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he focuses on adjusting a bouquet.

You knew he would have changed. Of course he would've changed.

The last time you saw him, he was fourteen years old and trying very hard not to cry while helping load boxes into a moving truck.

The man standing in front of you now is nothing like that boy. Except he is. The shape of his smile when he speaks to a customer. The way he absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck. The slight furrow between his brows when concentrating. Some things remain stubbornly familiar.

Then, as if sensing your stare, he looks up. And sees you.

The world doesn't stop. Nothing dramatic happens. Cars continue driving past. The shop door remains closed. The flowers continue existing. But something shifts.

You know it does because Seungcheol freezes. The bouquet slips slightly in his hands. For one stunned second, neither of you move.

Then his eyes widen. Your stomach drops. And suddenly you're ten years old again.

—

"You have to make a wish first."

"I already made one."

"That doesn't count."

"It does count."

"No, it doesn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

Ten-year-old Seungcheol had always been incredibly confident for someone who spent half his time making things up.

The two of you sat cross-legged in a field behind his grandmother's flower shop, surrounded by dandelions and sunlight.

He held one proudly between his fingers. You rolled your eyes.

"You literally just invented that rule."

"Every game has rules."

"This isn't a game."

"It is now."

You groaned dramatically. He ignored you.

"Close your eyes."

"No."

"Y/N."

"No."

"Trust me."

At ten years old, trusting Seungcheol was the easiest thing in the world. You closed your eyes.

"Now make a wish."

You sighed. Made one anyway.

"Done."

"Okay."

You opened your eyes just in time to watch him blow the dandelion apart. White seeds scattered into the wind.

"What'd you wish for?" you asked.

His expression became immediately suspicious.

"You can't tell people."

"You made that up too."

"Maybe."

"You definitely did."

"But what if it's true?"

You laughed. He grinned. The sunlight caught in his hair.

And somehow, without either of you realizing it, that afternoon became one of the memories that followed you everywhere.

—

The bell above the flower shop door rings softly when you finally step inside. The scent hits you immediately.

Fresh flowers. Soil. Greenery. Something sweet and familiar.

The same scent that used to cling to Seungcheol whenever he spent all day helping his grandmother. The same scent you haven't thought about in years.

He stands behind the counter now. Watching you. Still looking mildly shocked. You suspect you look exactly the same. For several awkward seconds, nobody says anything. Then—

"Hi."

Brilliant. Absolutely incredible. Years apart and that's the best you can manage. Seungcheol laughs. The sound eases something inside your chest instantly.

"Hi."

His voice is deeper than you remember. Everything about him feels older. Not unfamiliar. Just older.

"You came back."

The words aren't accusatory. If anything, they sound slightly disbelieving. You nod.

"Temporarily."

Something flickers across his face. Gone too quickly to identify.

"Right."

The conversation stumbles forward after that. Careful. Tentative. Questions about work. About family. About how long you've been back. 

Neither of you mentions how strange this feels. Neither of you mentions how many years disappeared between one conversation and the next.

Eventually another customer enters. Then another. The moment passes. You tell yourself that's probably for the best. Still, when you finally leave, Seungcheol walks you to the door.

"If you're bored," he says casually, "you can stop by anytime."

You blink.

"What?"

"The shop."

He gestures vaguely around himself.

"I'm usually here."

The invitation sounds simple. Normal. Yet your heart reacts as if he's offered something much bigger. You smile before you can stop yourself.

"Maybe I will."

His smile mirrors yours.

"Good."

—

The following afternoon, you return. Then again two days later. Then once more. Not intentionally.

It just keeps happening.

Sometimes you help carry deliveries. Sometimes you organize shelves. Sometimes you sit near the counter pretending to read while Seungcheol works.

The ease returns surprisingly quickly. Not completely. There are still years between you. Still things unsaid. But the foundation remains.

As if friendship had simply been waiting patiently beneath the surface. One evening, after closing time, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to answer a phone call. You volunteer to finish organizing a neglected storage room.

The space is cramped. Dusty. Filled with forgotten boxes. You sneeze twice. Immediately regret your life choices.

And then you notice the drawer. Small. Wooden. Hidden behind a stack of old gardening catalogues.

Curiosity wins.

You pull it open. Inside are dozens of folded papers.

Hundreds, maybe.

All carefully preserved.  You hesitate before reaching for the top one. The paper is yellowed with age.

The handwriting is instantly recognizable. Even after all these years.

Your breath catches.

Slowly, you unfold the note. Across the top of the page, written in uneven childhood handwriting, are four words.

Things I wish for.

And underneath:

For Grandma's roses to survive winter.

For my knee to stop hurting.

For Y/N to stop crying when they lose races because I don't like it.

At the bottom, squeezed into the corner:

I think wishes work better when you blow two dandelions instead of one.

– Seungcheol

You stare at the page. Then read it again. And again.

Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak. The sound barely registers.

Because suddenly you're ten years old.

Standing in a field.

Holding a dandelion.

Listening to a boy make up rules about wishes.

And for the first time since returning home, you wonder whether maybe some memories never left at all.

—

The problem with nostalgia is that it never arrives alone.

It comes hand-in-hand with comparison, with grief, with all the quiet questions that only appear when you're staring at the person you used to know and trying to reconcile them with the person standing in front of you now.

By the end of the second week, you have become painfully aware of that fact. You have also become painfully aware of how often you find yourself at the flower shop.  The first few visits had reasonable explanations.

You needed somewhere to walk. You needed a break from sorting through your grandmother's belongings. You needed a distraction.

The seventh visit is significantly harder to justify.

Especially when you're carrying two iced coffees and walking toward the shop before you've fully finished convincing yourself you're only dropping by for a few minutes.

The bell above the door rings. Seungcheol immediately looks up. The smile that appears on his face happens so naturally that neither of you seem to notice it.

You do. Unfortunately.

"You're late."

You stop.

"What?"

He gestures toward the wall clock.

"You usually get here fifteen minutes ago."

The realization settles over both of you simultaneously.

Because he's right. Because apparently you've established a routine. Because apparently Seungcheol has noticed.

Heat crawls up your neck.

"You timed me?"

"I didn't time you."

"You literally knew I was fifteen minutes late."

"I just noticed."

"That's timing me."

"It isn't."

"It absolutely is."

His laugh fills the shop. You hate how much you missed that sound.

—

The flower shop feels different now that you've spent enough time inside it to notice the details. The place still carries traces of his grandmother. The old cash register remains displayed on a shelf near the counter.

Framed photographs line one wall.

The ancient rocking chair in the corner somehow survived several decades despite looking permanently one bad day away from collapse.

But Seungcheol is everywhere too. The organization. The handwritten signs. The new displays. The garden outside. The entire place feels like a conversation between generations.

A continuation rather than a replacement.

His grandmother would've loved that. You think she already knew he would inherit the shop.

Everyone probably did. Everyone except Seungcheol.

—

"You know most people hate these things."

You glance up from the arrangement you're helping prepare.

"Daisies?"

"Dandelions."

He nods toward the window.

Outside, several bright yellow flowers have appeared amongst the carefully maintained garden beds.

You smile.

"They're kind of pretty."

"Exactly."

He sounds offended.

"Kind of?"

"Okay, they're pretty."

"There we go."

"You care way too much about dandelions."

"I inherited that."

His voice softens slightly.

"Grandma used to say they were the bravest flowers."

You pause.

"What does that mean?"

He carefully trims a stem.

"They grow everywhere."

A shrug.

"They survive getting stepped on."

Another cut.

"People call them weeds, but they keep blooming anyway."

You watch him for a moment. Sunlight filters through the front window. Dust drifts lazily through the air.

The shop smells faintly of lavender and soil. For a second, the years between childhood and now seem remarkably small.

"They sound stubborn."

Seungcheol grins.

"Exactly."

—

The first time someone mistakes you for his partner, you're unprepared. The culprit is an elderly customer named Mrs. Kim.

One moment she's purchasing carnations. The next she's looking between you and Seungcheol with obvious satisfaction.

"It's nice to finally meet them."

You blink.

"I'm sorry?"

Mrs. Kim waves dismissively.

"Don't worry."

Seungcheol visibly tenses. You immediately become suspicious.

"Don't worry about what?"

The woman pats your hand.

"Oh, honey, we've all heard about you."

Silence. Complete silence. You slowly turn toward Seungcheol. He refuses to make eye contact.

"Seungcheol."

"No."

"What does she mean?"

"No."

Mrs. Kim laughs. The traitor.

"You know, Y/N this and Y/N that and—"

"Mrs. Kim."

The warning in his voice only makes her smile widen. You stare. He stares determinedly at the floor.

A customer enters. The conversation mercifully dies. 

Unfortunately your curiosity survives.

—

You corner him later.

"What exactly have people heard?"

"Nothing."

"That sounds suspicious."

"It isn't."

"Seungcheol."

He groans.

"You're impossible."

"You avoided the question."

"I mentioned you sometimes."

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes."

The response is entirely too fast. You narrow your eyes.

"How many times?"

His expression immediately suggests the answer is significantly higher than either of you would like.

—

That night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the drawer again. You know you probably shouldn't be reading the notes.

They're private. Personal. Hidden for a reason. And yet. The temptation wins.

Again.

The next paper is dated in messy twelve-year-old handwriting. You unfold it carefully.

Things I wish for:

To beat Jeonghan at soccer.

To grow taller.

For Y/N to stay here forever.

Don't tell them I wrote that.

You stare. Then reread the sentence. Then reread it again.

The words somehow feel heavier each time.

For Y/N to stay here forever.

Simple. Innocent. Childish. Yet something twists painfully inside your chest.

Because you didn't stay. Because neither of you had any control over that. Because twelve-year-old Seungcheol didn't know he was writing a wish that would never come true.

—

Middle school had been awkward. Not terrible. Not dramatic. Just awkward.

The age where suddenly everyone became aware that boys and girls existed. The age where friendships acquired strange new rules nobody explained properly.

You remember sitting beside Seungcheol during lunch one afternoon. He arrived carrying two juice boxes. Immediately handed you one.

Completely normal. Entirely routine. Unfortunately half your classmates witnessed the exchange. The teasing started instantly.

"Ooooh."

"Look."

"It's Y/N and Seungcheol."

You remember wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Seungcheol had looked equally horrified. The two of you spent the rest of lunch aggressively denying accusations nobody had technically made.

Neither of you acknowledged how red your faces became.

—

You wake the next morning determined not to think about old letters. The determination lasts approximately twenty minutes.

By lunch, you're back at the flower shop. By evening, you're helping prepare arrangements for a wedding. By closing time, you're laughing so hard you nearly drop an entire bucket of peonies.

The transition feels alarmingly natural. As if this version of life has been waiting patiently for your return. As if leaving had only been an interruption.

Not an ending. 

The thought unsettles you.

—

The following week, the town begins treating your presence as permanent. The bakery owner asks whether you've found a job yet. The librarian asks if you're staying. Three separate neighbors mention available apartments.

You spend most conversations repeating the same answer.

"I'm only here temporarily."

Every single person responds the same way.

"We'll see."

The most irritating part is that nobody sounds uncertain. 

Least of all Seungcheol.

—

One afternoon, while helping water plants behind the shop, you finally ask.

"Did everyone in this town secretly agree to annoy me?"

He laughs.

"Probably."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

You splash water toward him. He dodges. Barely.

"Traitor."

"I didn't do anything."

"You never tell them I'm leaving."

His expression changes slightly. The smile remains. Something else disappears.

"Oh."

Immediately, guilt settles in your stomach. You hadn't meant—

"I mean—"

"It's okay."

The words are gentle. Too gentle. The conversation moves on.

Yet the silence lingers.

—

That evening, while closing up, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to search for inventory records. The opportunity presents itself. You tell yourself you're only checking one note.

One. That's all.

The lie fools absolutely nobody. Especially not yourself. You return to the drawer. Select another folded paper. Open it carefully.

The handwriting is older this time.

Less childish. More controlled. The date makes your chest tighten.

The year you moved away.

Things I wish for:

To have my own flower shop someday.

For Grandma to stop working so hard.

For Y/N to smile like they did before they found out they're moving.

I hate this wish.

The words blur slightly. You blink. Look away. Look back.

The paper remains unchanged.

The same ink. The same handwriting. The same impossible honesty.

For a long moment, you simply sit there.

Remembering.

—

The moving truck had arrived too early. Or maybe it only felt that way.

You remember cardboard boxes. Your mother's stressed voice. Relatives carrying furniture.

Everything happening much too fast. You remember friends saying goodbye. Teachers promising you'd make new ones. Adults insisting change was exciting. 

You remember hating every second of it.

Most of all, you remember Seungcheol. Standing beside the driveway. Hands shoved into his pockets. Trying very hard to act normal.

You'd both promised to stay in touch. You'd both promised nothing would change. At fourteen, promises like that feel unbreakable.

Reality is less cooperative. Calls become texts. Texts become occasional messages. Then birthdays. Then silence.

Not because either of you stopped caring.

Because life happened. Because growing up happened. Because distance is sometimes quieter than heartbreak.

—

A floorboard creaks overhead. You quickly fold the letter. Return it to the drawer. Close everything.

By the time Seungcheol returns, you're standing beside a shelf pretending to examine gardening supplies.

His eyes narrow immediately.

"You look suspicious."

"What?"

"You look guilty."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

You point at a random bag of fertilizer.

"Did you know this contains nitrogen?"

The silence that follows is devastating. Then Seungcheol starts laughing.

The kind of laugh that forces him to lean against a table for support. You hate him. Possibly. A little.

—

Later, after you've returned home, sleep proves impossible. Your mind keeps returning to the notes.

The wishes. The years. Everything that existed while you were gone.

Eventually curiosity wins one final time. Near midnight, you retrieve the drawer once more.

One last letter. Just one. You unfold it slowly.

The handwriting immediately looks different.

Shakier. Messier. Lonelier.

The date makes your stomach drop. A few months after you left. Nothing else is written on the page.

No numbered list. No jokes. No soccer. No flowers.

Just a single sentence.

Things I wish for:

Y/N comes back.

Just once. That's all. For a long moment, the room remains completely silent.

Outside, wind rattles softly against the windows. Inside, your chest feels painfully tight. You remember all the times you almost visited. All the summers you said maybe next year. All the holidays that slipped away. All the opportunities lost to convenience and distance and the assumption that there would always be more time.

The note trembles slightly in your hands.

And for the first time since returning home, you begin to understand that maybe you weren't the only person who spent years missing someone.

The realization follows you long after the lights go out. Long after the letter is folded away. Long after sleep finally arrives.

And somewhere across town, completely unaware of the storm currently unfolding inside your chest, Seungcheol closes his flower shop for the evening and locks the front door, still carrying pieces of a wish he made twelve years ago.

—

The worst part about reading the letters is that they make everything impossible to ignore. Not impossible in the dramatic sense. Not in the way movies portray it, where suddenly every interaction becomes charged with unbearable tension and every glance feels life-altering.

Instead, it becomes impossible to ignore the accumulation of small things. The details. The habits. The spaces someone occupies in your life without permission.

Before finding the drawer, spending every afternoon at the flower shop had felt natural.

After finding the drawer, you become painfully aware that Seungcheol automatically hands you a drink before grabbing one for himself.

That he remembers how you take your coffee. That he moves around the shop with the unconscious expectation that you'll be somewhere nearby. That every time the front door opens, his eyes immediately search for you before searching for the customer.

None of these things mean anything individually. Together, they begin to feel like something dangerous. Something you've spent years pretending not to recognize. Something that looks suspiciously like first love growing up and refusing to leave.

—

The flower festival arrives at exactly the wrong time. Or perhaps exactly the right time. You haven't decided which.

The annual event has existed for as long as you can remember, transforming the town into something bright and overwhelming for a weekend every spring. Streets fill with flower displays. Local businesses compete for awards. Families wander between stalls carrying bouquets and iced drinks.

As children, you and Seungcheol used to treat it like the most important event of the year. Now, as adults, it means two weeks of preparation and approximately zero free time. Not that you mind.

Being busy makes it easier not to think.

Unfortunately, Seungcheol keeps ruining that strategy by existing.

—

"You're staring."

You nearly drop the box you're carrying.

"What?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"You've been looking at me for ten seconds."

"I was not."

"You were."

"No."

"Y/N."

The use of your name should not feel that unfair. It does. Especially when accompanied by a smile. Especially when he knows exactly what he's doing. You point aggressively at the display you're assembling.

"I was looking at the flowers."

"Sure."

"Why would I stare at you?"

His grin widens. You immediately regret speaking. Across the room, an elderly volunteer watching preparations sighs dramatically.

"Please date already."

Both of you nearly choke.

—

The town has become unbearable. Not because the people are cruel. Quite the opposite. The people are far too invested.

Everyone appears convinced that you and Seungcheol are one conversation away from getting married. The florist across the street keeps offering relationship advice. Mrs. Kim has started winking whenever she enters the shop. Even children seem suspicious.

At one point, a ten-year-old asks if you're Seungcheol's spouse. You spend five full minutes recovering.

Seungcheol spends ten.

—

The problem is that every joke lands slightly closer to the truth than either of you are comfortable admitting.

Because somewhere between sorting flowers and revisiting childhood memories and reading letters you definitely should not be reading, something has changed.

Or maybe nothing changed. Maybe you've simply stopped running from it.

You don't know which possibility scares you more.

—

One evening, after the shop closes, rain begins unexpectedly. Heavy. Relentless.

The kind that turns roads silver beneath streetlights. You're trapped. Not that either of you seem particularly bothered.

Seungcheol locks the front door and flips the sign to CLOSED.

The two of you remain inside. Waiting. The shop feels different after hours. Quieter. More intimate.

The scent of flowers seems stronger somehow. The silence stretches comfortably between conversations. You sit together behind the counter drinking tea.

Outside, rain taps steadily against the glass. Inside, memories linger everywhere.

"You know," Seungcheol says eventually, "Grandma used to think you were going to marry me."

You nearly inhale your tea.

"What?"

His laughter echoes through the empty shop.

"I'm serious."

"Why would she think that?"

"You were ten."

"That's not an answer."

"You followed me around everywhere."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"You're making things up."

"I'm not."

"You are."

He shakes his head.

"She used to tell me all the time."

The smile softens.

"'That one loves you very much, Seungcheol.'"

Something catches unexpectedly in your chest. You look away.

The rain suddenly becomes fascinating.

—

Later that night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting on the floor beside the drawer again. You don't even pretend to resist anymore. The letters feel less like an invasion now. 

More like a conversation delayed by years. The next note is dated two years after you left.

You unfold it carefully.

Things I wish for:

To stop thinking about Y/N.

Didn't work.

For several seconds, you simply stare. Then laugh. Actually laugh.

Because somehow, despite everything, fourteen-year-old Seungcheol and sixteen-year-old Seungcheol remain unmistakably the same person.

Hopeless. Earnest. Painfully honest. You continue reading.

The next note is eighteen.

Things I wish for:

To see Y/N again.

To stop comparing everyone else to Y/N.

Didn't work either.

The smile disappears. A strange ache replaces it. You know what he's implying.

You wish you didn't.

Because suddenly every year between then and now feels tangible.

Every missed opportunity. Every person he met. Every relationship that apparently failed to become something lasting.

The thought follows you into the final letter. Age twenty-one.

Things I wish for:

Y/N.

Just Y/N.

No explanation. No joke. No elaboration. Only your name.

The page trembles slightly in your hands.

—

The next morning, you arrive at the flower shop exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Possibly spiritually.

Seungcheol notices immediately.

"Rough night?"

You consider your options. Lie. Deflect. Change the subject.

Instead:

"Why didn't you throw them away?"

His hands stop moving. The flowers remain half-arranged between his fingers. For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then:

"The notes?"

You nod. The silence stretches. Long enough for your pulse to become annoying. Long enough for the question to feel dangerous. Finally, Seungcheol exhales softly.

"Because throwing them away felt like giving up."

The answer lands harder than expected. You stare. He continues looking at the flowers.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you looks away. The shop suddenly feels too quiet.

Too small. Too honest.

—

The conversation changes after that. Not dramatically. Not immediately. But something shifts.

A wall lowers. A distance disappears. You begin talking about things you've avoided for years.

University. Family. The struggles nobody posted online. The loneliness. The uncertainty. The versions of yourselves that existed while the other wasn't there to witness them.

For the first time, it feels like you're catching up properly. Not on events.

On each other.

—

The breakthrough arrives unexpectedly. Through gossip. Naturally. Because this town cannot help itself.

You're helping arrange flowers outside the festival pavilion when Mrs. Kim appears. You should have run. Instead, you smile politely. A mistake.

"Did you know," she begins immediately, "that Seungcheol never brought anyone serious home?"

Your heart stops.

"What?"

Mrs. Kim continues cheerfully.

"Such a waste."

You stare. The woman sighs dramatically.

"Everyone liked him."

The implications begin arriving one by one. Slowly. Terribly. You don't want to ask. You ask anyway.

"Why?"

Mrs. Kim blinks.

"Why what?"

"Why didn't he date anyone?"

The answer comes far too quickly.

"As if we don't all know."

Then she walks away. Leaving you alone with approximately twelve different emotional crises.

—

The festival opens the next day. Crowds flood the streets. Music drifts through the air. Children race between displays. Customers fill the shop. The entire town seems alive. 

You should be enjoying it. Instead, you're distracted.

Because every time you look at Seungcheol, another letter appears in your memory. 

Another wish. Another year. Another version of him quietly hoping for something he thought he would never get.

By evening, exhaustion settles over everyone. The crowds thin. Sunlight begins fading. And somehow you find yourselves alone behind the shop.

Again.

The garden glows gold beneath the setting sun. Dandelions sway gently amongst the flower beds. 

The same flowers. The same stubborn flowers. Hope disguised as weeds.

Seungcheol sits beside you on a wooden bench. Close. Not touching. Close enough. For several minutes, neither of you speaks. The silence feels full. Waiting. Anticipating. 

Like the final moments before a storm breaks. Then he says quietly:

"I was happy you came back."

Your breath catches. The confession isn't romantic. Not technically. But it feels significant anyway. You glance toward him. His gaze remains fixed on the garden.

A nervous habit you've started recognizing.

"I was happy too."

The words come easily. Truth always does. He smiles. Small. Soft. Real.

And suddenly you're struck by a realization so obvious it almost feels ridiculous. Every important moment in your life somehow leads back to him. Every memory. Every wish. Every version of home.

The thought settles heavily between your ribs. Not uncomfortable. Just undeniable. The sun sinks lower. The dandelions sway.

And for the first time, you begin wondering whether the final letter in the drawer isn't actually the end of the story.

Maybe it's only the beginning. Because tomorrow is the final day of the flower festival. Tomorrow you'll finish sorting the last boxes from your grandmother's house. Tomorrow you'll have to decide whether you're leaving again.

And somewhere deep down, beneath years of distance and excuses and carefully maintained walls, a small stubborn hope begins to bloom.

Much like a dandelion. Refusing to die. Refusing to be ignored. Refusing, despite everything, to stop growing.

—

The last day of the flower festival arrives far too quickly. You know this because you spend most of the morning trying not to think about it. Unfortunately, thinking about something and trying not to think about something are often the exact same activity.

By noon, you're painfully aware that this is your final week in town. By three o'clock, you've mentally packed your suitcase twice. By five, you've considered extending your stay. By six, you've considered cancelling your return entirely. None of these thoughts help.

Especially because every possible future seems to revolve around the same person. Across the square, Seungcheol is helping a little girl choose flowers for her mother. You watch him crouch down so they're eye level. Watch him listen seriously to her explanation. Watch him help arrange a tiny bouquet.

The girl leaves looking delighted. Seungcheol looks equally pleased. The sight hurts. Not because it's sad. Because it feels familiar.

Because it feels like home.

Because somewhere along the way, without realizing it, you've started measuring places by whether or not he exists in them.

And that seems like a dangerous way to live.

—

The festival winds down slowly. Stalls begin packing away displays. Families drift home. The streets gradually quiet.

For the first time all weekend, the town feels peaceful. You spend most of the evening helping return decorations to storage.

Boxes. Signs. Flower stands. The work is repetitive enough to keep your hands busy. Not your thoughts.

Those remain frustratingly active. By the time darkness settles over town, only a handful of people remain.

The cleanup continues. The shop stays open late. And eventually you find yourself alone.

Again. In the storage room. Again. Standing in front of the drawer. Again.

At this point, you suspect fate has completely given up pretending to be subtle.

—

The final note is hidden beneath all the others. Tucked carefully at the very bottom. Almost as if someone wanted it protected. Your pulse quickens immediately. Because unlike the others, this paper looks newer.

Not recent. Just newer. Adult handwriting. Adult paper. Adult ink.

Slowly, you unfold it. And the world narrows.

Things I wish for:

I don't think this one belongs to a dandelion anymore.

I think some wishes are supposed to be said.

I love Y/N.

I've loved them since we were kids making rules about wishes in the park.

And if they come back someday, maybe I'll finally tell them.

– Seungcheol

For a long moment, nothing happens. You simply stare. Reading the words once. Twice. Again. As if repetition might somehow make them less overwhelming.

It doesn't.

The confession sits plainly on the page. No jokes. No hiding. No pretending. Just the truth. The same truth that has apparently existed for years. The same truth you've spent the entire month slowly uncovering one letter at a time.

Outside the storage room, a floorboard creaks.

You look up.

Your heart immediately attempts escape. 

Because Seungcheol is standing in the doorway. And judging by his expression, he knows exactly what you're holding.

—

"Oh."

Brilliant. An excellent response. Truly.

Years of emotional buildup and the first thing either of you manages is:

"Oh."

Seungcheol closes his eyes. Briefly. The expression on his face suggests he is considering several possible methods of spontaneous death.

"You found that one."

You hold up the paper.

"A little late to ask me not to read it."

His groan echoes off the walls. You almost laugh. Almost.

If your heart wasn't currently beating hard enough to qualify as a medical emergency. The silence stretches. Neither of you seem sure how to continue.

Finally:

"You were never supposed to find that."

Your eyebrows rise.

"There are literally eight hundred letters in that drawer."

"There are not eight hundred."

"There are enough."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Then disappears. The seriousness returns. And suddenly the air changes. The humor fades. The truth remains.

"You meant it?"

The question comes out quieter than intended. Seungcheol looks at the floor. Then the shelves. Then literally anywhere except you.

Eventually, he exhales.

"Yeah."

Just one word. Simple. Certain. Enough.

Your chest tightens painfully. Because there is no hesitation. No uncertainty. No attempt to take it back. Just honesty.

The kind that takes years to build. The kind that only appears when someone is finally tired of hiding.

"Since we were kids?"

A small laugh escapes him.

"Unfortunately."

The response is so Seungcheol that tears immediately threaten.

"You make it sound tragic."

"It was."

Now he smiles. Softly.

"I liked you for fifteen years."

Your laugh comes out suspiciously emotional.

"I was very committed."

The tears win. Just slightly. Enough for your vision to blur. Enough for Seungcheol's expression to immediately change. Concern replacing nervousness.

"Hey."

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I'm having a normal reaction."

"This doesn't seem normal."

"It absolutely isn't."

And somehow that breaks the tension. Both of you laugh. Both of you look slightly overwhelmed. Both of you look suspiciously close to crying.

When the laughter fades, the truth remains. Patient. Waiting. You stare down at the letter again.

At your name. At years of wishes. At every version of him that existed before this moment.

Ten years old. Twelve. Fourteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-six. Every single one hoping for the same thing. Every single one writing your name.

The realization settles heavily inside your chest. Not because it's surprising.

Because it isn't. Not anymore.

Somewhere between the first letter and the last, you've already known.

You simply weren't ready to admit it.

"Do you know something funny?" 

Seungcheol looks confused.

"A dangerous start."

You ignore him.

"I used to wish for you too."

The words leave before you can stop them. His expression freezes. Completely.

"What?"

You laugh softly. Because honestly, the universe has a terrible sense of humor.

"Every birthday."

You look down at the letter.

"Every shooting star."

A smile. Small. Embarrassed.

"Every dandelion."

Silence. Absolute silence. 

"Seriously?"

You nod. His eyes widen.

"You never told me."

"You never told me."

"That's because I was terrified."

"So was I."

The answer arrives instantly. Truth again. Always truth.

—

The confession isn't dramatic. There are no grand speeches. No perfectly rehearsed declarations. No movie-worthy dialogue.

Instead, there is honesty. Messy honesty. The kind built from years of friendship.

Years of absence. Years of missing someone without fully understanding the shape of that feeling.

You talk. Really talk. For the first time. About moving away. About losing touch. About all the almost-visits.

The unanswered messages. The missed opportunities. The people you both tried and failed to become. And somehow, through all of it, the conversation keeps returning to the same conclusion.

You found your way back. Not immediately. Not perfectly. But eventually. You came back. And he waited. Not intentionally. Not actively. Just quietly.

Like someone protecting a wish.

—

The flower shop closes early the following evening. Not because business is slow. Because Seungcheol insists on taking you somewhere.

You recognize the destination immediately. The field.

The one behind the shop. The one from childhood. The one where everything started.

The walk there feels strangely familiar. As if no time has passed. As if every version of yourselves still exists somewhere among the grass.

The field is smaller than you remember. Most places are. The dandelions aren't.

They remain everywhere. 

Bright. Stubborn. Impossible to ignore.

Exactly like him.

—

"Do you remember the rules?" Seungcheol asks. You laugh.

"The rules changed every week."

"They were very sophisticated."

"They were completely made up."

"They were based on science."

"They absolutely were not."

His offended expression is immediate. You grin. Some things never change.

Thank God.

—

Eventually the conversation fades. The evening settles around you. Warm. Peaceful. Comfortable.

Seungcheol picks a dandelion.

Then another. Holding one out. You accept it automatically.

Like muscle memory. Like childhood. Like home.

The white seeds tremble gently in the breeze. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

"What are you wishing for?"

The question is familiar. The same question from years ago. The same field. The same flowers. The same boy.

Only now he's a man looking at you like you're the answer to something. You stare at the dandelion. Then at him. Then smile.

"Nothing."

His eyebrows lift.

"Nothing?"

You shake your head.

"No."

The answer feels surprisingly easy. Certain. Complete.

For the first time in a very long time, there is nothing left to ask for.

No missing piece. No distance. No unanswered question. No wish waiting to be granted.

Just this. Just him. Just the future.

Whatever shape it takes. And somehow, that's enough.

More than enough.

Seungcheol smiles. Slowly. Softly. The kind of smile that belongs entirely to you.

Then together, sitting side by side in a field full of dandelions, you blow the seeds into the evening air.

Thousands of tiny white fragments drift upward.

Carried by the wind. Carried toward whatever comes next. Not because you need wishes anymore.

But because some traditions deserve to survive. Some things deserve to bloom again.

And some first loves, despite distance and time and every reason they should have faded, are stubborn enough to wait.

Like dandelions. Like hope.

Like Choi Seungcheol.

Like you.

The seeds disappear into the sunset. This time, neither of you watches them go.

You stand beside your suitcase for a moment longer than necessary, staring down the familiar street while an uncomfortable ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs.

Three days ago, you had been packing up your apartment. Two days ago, you had been sorting through legal documents and answering sympathetic phone calls.

Now, after years of saying you'll visit eventually, after years of finding excuses and postponing plans and convincing yourself there would always be another opportunity, you're back in the town you spent most of your childhood trying to leave.

Not because you wanted to return. Because your grandmother died. The thought lands heavily, even now.

Your grip tightens around the suitcase handle. The funeral had been small. Simple.

Exactly what she would've wanted.

Most of the relatives had already left again, returning to their own lives, while you stayed behind to sort through paperwork and prepare the house for sale.

Just a few weeks, you told yourself. Long enough to finish everything properly. Long enough to say goodbye.

Then you'd leave again. The plan sounds reasonable in theory. In practice, every step through town feels like walking through memories.

The route to your grandmother's house passes the elementary school where you spent countless afternoons pretending to pay attention during class. The creek behind the football field still winds lazily through town, hidden beneath the same willow trees that once provided the backdrop for summer adventures so important they had felt life-changing at the time.

You know exactly where every turn leads. You hate how much of it you remember. The house itself sits exactly where it always has. The garden is slightly overgrown. The mailbox leans to one side. The front porch creaks beneath your weight.

Home.

Not home anymore. But close enough to hurt.

—

The first few days disappear beneath a mountain of responsibilities. Boxes. Documents. Phone calls. Dust-covered photo albums.

Closets packed with items your grandmother had somehow convinced herself she might need someday.

You spend hours sorting through decades of accumulated memories, discovering things you forgot existed and things you wish you could forget.

Old school reports. Birthday cards. Drawings. Photographs. Far too many photographs. By the fourth day, the house feels quieter than ever.  The silence eventually becomes unbearable.

Which is how you find yourself wandering through town with no destination in mind, hands shoved into your jacket pockets while the late afternoon sun bathes everything in warm gold.

You tell yourself you're just getting fresh air. You tell yourself you aren't searching for anything. The lie lasts approximately fifteen minutes.

Because eventually you turn a corner. And stop.

The flower shop still stands exactly where it always did. For a second, you think you've imagined it.

The familiar brick storefront. The flower boxes beneath the windows. The painted sign hanging above the entrance.

Only one thing has changed.

The name.

Your chest tightens. Not because the shop exists. Because you know who owns it now. You learned it from one of the older ladies at the funeral.

"Oh, have you seen Seungcheol yet?"

As if that were the most natural question in the world. As if years hadn't passed. As if hearing his name didn't still do something strange to your heartbeat. You haven't seen him. Not yet.

You hadn't planned to.

But suddenly there he is. Standing inside the shop. Alive. Real. Older.

The breath catches somewhere in your throat. For a moment, all you can do is stare.

He's arranging flowers near the front counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes as he focuses on adjusting a bouquet.

You knew he would have changed. Of course he would've changed.

The last time you saw him, he was fourteen years old and trying very hard not to cry while helping load boxes into a moving truck.

The man standing in front of you now is nothing like that boy. Except he is. The shape of his smile when he speaks to a customer. The way he absentmindedly scratches the back of his neck. The slight furrow between his brows when concentrating. Some things remain stubbornly familiar.

Then, as if sensing your stare, he looks up. And sees you.

The world doesn't stop. Nothing dramatic happens. Cars continue driving past. The shop door remains closed. The flowers continue existing. But something shifts.

You know it does because Seungcheol freezes. The bouquet slips slightly in his hands. For one stunned second, neither of you move.

Then his eyes widen. Your stomach drops. And suddenly you're ten years old again.

—

"You have to make a wish first."

"I already made one."

"That doesn't count."

"It does count."

"No, it doesn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

Ten-year-old Seungcheol had always been incredibly confident for someone who spent half his time making things up.

The two of you sat cross-legged in a field behind his grandmother's flower shop, surrounded by dandelions and sunlight.

He held one proudly between his fingers. You rolled your eyes.

"You literally just invented that rule."

"Every game has rules."

"This isn't a game."

"It is now."

You groaned dramatically. He ignored you.

"Close your eyes."

"No."

"Y/N."

"No."

"Trust me."

At ten years old, trusting Seungcheol was the easiest thing in the world. You closed your eyes.

"Now make a wish."

You sighed. Made one anyway.

"Done."

"Okay."

You opened your eyes just in time to watch him blow the dandelion apart. White seeds scattered into the wind.

"What'd you wish for?" you asked.

His expression became immediately suspicious.

"You can't tell people."

"You made that up too."

"Maybe."

"You definitely did."

"But what if it's true?"

You laughed. He grinned. The sunlight caught in his hair.

And somehow, without either of you realizing it, that afternoon became one of the memories that followed you everywhere.

—

The bell above the flower shop door rings softly when you finally step inside. The scent hits you immediately.

Fresh flowers. Soil. Greenery. Something sweet and familiar.

The same scent that used to cling to Seungcheol whenever he spent all day helping his grandmother. The same scent you haven't thought about in years.

He stands behind the counter now. Watching you. Still looking mildly shocked. You suspect you look exactly the same. For several awkward seconds, nobody says anything. Then—

"Hi."

Brilliant. Absolutely incredible. Years apart and that's the best you can manage. Seungcheol laughs. The sound eases something inside your chest instantly.

"Hi."

His voice is deeper than you remember. Everything about him feels older. Not unfamiliar. Just older.

"You came back."

The words aren't accusatory. If anything, they sound slightly disbelieving. You nod.

"Temporarily."

Something flickers across his face. Gone too quickly to identify.

"Right."

The conversation stumbles forward after that. Careful. Tentative. Questions about work. About family. About how long you've been back. 

Neither of you mentions how strange this feels. Neither of you mentions how many years disappeared between one conversation and the next.

Eventually another customer enters. Then another. The moment passes. You tell yourself that's probably for the best. Still, when you finally leave, Seungcheol walks you to the door.

"If you're bored," he says casually, "you can stop by anytime."

You blink.

"What?"

"The shop."

He gestures vaguely around himself.

"I'm usually here."

The invitation sounds simple. Normal. Yet your heart reacts as if he's offered something much bigger. You smile before you can stop yourself.

"Maybe I will."

His smile mirrors yours.

"Good."

—

The following afternoon, you return. Then again two days later. Then once more. Not intentionally.

It just keeps happening.

Sometimes you help carry deliveries. Sometimes you organize shelves. Sometimes you sit near the counter pretending to read while Seungcheol works.

The ease returns surprisingly quickly. Not completely. There are still years between you. Still things unsaid. But the foundation remains.

As if friendship had simply been waiting patiently beneath the surface. One evening, after closing time, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to answer a phone call. You volunteer to finish organizing a neglected storage room.

The space is cramped. Dusty. Filled with forgotten boxes. You sneeze twice. Immediately regret your life choices.

And then you notice the drawer. Small. Wooden. Hidden behind a stack of old gardening catalogues.

Curiosity wins.

You pull it open. Inside are dozens of folded papers.

Hundreds, maybe.

All carefully preserved.  You hesitate before reaching for the top one. The paper is yellowed with age.

The handwriting is instantly recognizable. Even after all these years.

Your breath catches.

Slowly, you unfold the note. Across the top of the page, written in uneven childhood handwriting, are four words.

Things I wish for.

And underneath:

For Grandma's roses to survive winter.

For my knee to stop hurting.

For Y/N to stop crying when they lose races because I don't like it.

At the bottom, squeezed into the corner:

I think wishes work better when you blow two dandelions instead of one.

– Seungcheol

You stare at the page. Then read it again. And again.

Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak. The sound barely registers.

Because suddenly you're ten years old.

Standing in a field.

Holding a dandelion.

Listening to a boy make up rules about wishes.

And for the first time since returning home, you wonder whether maybe some memories never left at all.

—

The problem with nostalgia is that it never arrives alone.

It comes hand-in-hand with comparison, with grief, with all the quiet questions that only appear when you're staring at the person you used to know and trying to reconcile them with the person standing in front of you now.

By the end of the second week, you have become painfully aware of that fact. You have also become painfully aware of how often you find yourself at the flower shop.  The first few visits had reasonable explanations.

You needed somewhere to walk. You needed a break from sorting through your grandmother's belongings. You needed a distraction.

The seventh visit is significantly harder to justify.

Especially when you're carrying two iced coffees and walking toward the shop before you've fully finished convincing yourself you're only dropping by for a few minutes.

The bell above the door rings. Seungcheol immediately looks up. The smile that appears on his face happens so naturally that neither of you seem to notice it.

You do. Unfortunately.

"You're late."

You stop.

"What?"

He gestures toward the wall clock.

"You usually get here fifteen minutes ago."

The realization settles over both of you simultaneously.

Because he's right. Because apparently you've established a routine. Because apparently Seungcheol has noticed.

Heat crawls up your neck.

"You timed me?"

"I didn't time you."

"You literally knew I was fifteen minutes late."

"I just noticed."

"That's timing me."

"It isn't."

"It absolutely is."

His laugh fills the shop. You hate how much you missed that sound.

—

The flower shop feels different now that you've spent enough time inside it to notice the details. The place still carries traces of his grandmother. The old cash register remains displayed on a shelf near the counter.

Framed photographs line one wall.

The ancient rocking chair in the corner somehow survived several decades despite looking permanently one bad day away from collapse.

But Seungcheol is everywhere too. The organization. The handwritten signs. The new displays. The garden outside. The entire place feels like a conversation between generations.

A continuation rather than a replacement.

His grandmother would've loved that. You think she already knew he would inherit the shop.

Everyone probably did. Everyone except Seungcheol.

—

"You know most people hate these things."

You glance up from the arrangement you're helping prepare.

"Daisies?"

"Dandelions."

He nods toward the window.

Outside, several bright yellow flowers have appeared amongst the carefully maintained garden beds.

You smile.

"They're kind of pretty."

"Exactly."

He sounds offended.

"Kind of?"

"Okay, they're pretty."

"There we go."

"You care way too much about dandelions."

"I inherited that."

His voice softens slightly.

"Grandma used to say they were the bravest flowers."

You pause.

"What does that mean?"

He carefully trims a stem.

"They grow everywhere."

A shrug.

"They survive getting stepped on."

Another cut.

"People call them weeds, but they keep blooming anyway."

You watch him for a moment. Sunlight filters through the front window. Dust drifts lazily through the air.

The shop smells faintly of lavender and soil. For a second, the years between childhood and now seem remarkably small.

"They sound stubborn."

Seungcheol grins.

"Exactly."

—

The first time someone mistakes you for his partner, you're unprepared. The culprit is an elderly customer named Mrs. Kim.

One moment she's purchasing carnations. The next she's looking between you and Seungcheol with obvious satisfaction.

"It's nice to finally meet them."

You blink.

"I'm sorry?"

Mrs. Kim waves dismissively.

"Don't worry."

Seungcheol visibly tenses. You immediately become suspicious.

"Don't worry about what?"

The woman pats your hand.

"Oh, honey, we've all heard about you."

Silence. Complete silence. You slowly turn toward Seungcheol. He refuses to make eye contact.

"Seungcheol."

"No."

"What does she mean?"

"No."

Mrs. Kim laughs. The traitor.

"You know, Y/N this and Y/N that and—"

"Mrs. Kim."

The warning in his voice only makes her smile widen. You stare. He stares determinedly at the floor.

A customer enters. The conversation mercifully dies. 

Unfortunately your curiosity survives.

—

You corner him later.

"What exactly have people heard?"

"Nothing."

"That sounds suspicious."

"It isn't."

"Seungcheol."

He groans.

"You're impossible."

"You avoided the question."

"I mentioned you sometimes."

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes."

The response is entirely too fast. You narrow your eyes.

"How many times?"

His expression immediately suggests the answer is significantly higher than either of you would like.

—

That night, after returning home, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the drawer again. You know you probably shouldn't be reading the notes.

They're private. Personal. Hidden for a reason. And yet. The temptation wins.

Again.

The next paper is dated in messy twelve-year-old handwriting. You unfold it carefully.

Things I wish for:

To beat Jeonghan at soccer.

To grow taller.

For Y/N to stay here forever.

Don't tell them I wrote that.

You stare. Then reread the sentence. Then reread it again.

The words somehow feel heavier each time.

For Y/N to stay here forever.

Simple. Innocent. Childish. Yet something twists painfully inside your chest.

Because you didn't stay. Because neither of you had any control over that. Because twelve-year-old Seungcheol didn't know he was writing a wish that would never come true.

—

Middle school had been awkward. Not terrible. Not dramatic. Just awkward.

The age where suddenly everyone became aware that boys and girls existed. The age where friendships acquired strange new rules nobody explained properly.

You remember sitting beside Seungcheol during lunch one afternoon. He arrived carrying two juice boxes. Immediately handed you one.

Completely normal. Entirely routine. Unfortunately half your classmates witnessed the exchange. The teasing started instantly.

"Ooooh."

"Look."

"It's Y/N and Seungcheol."

You remember wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Seungcheol had looked equally horrified. The two of you spent the rest of lunch aggressively denying accusations nobody had technically made.

Neither of you acknowledged how red your faces became.

—

You wake the next morning determined not to think about old letters. The determination lasts approximately twenty minutes.

By lunch, you're back at the flower shop. By evening, you're helping prepare arrangements for a wedding. By closing time, you're laughing so hard you nearly drop an entire bucket of peonies.

The transition feels alarmingly natural. As if this version of life has been waiting patiently for your return. As if leaving had only been an interruption.

Not an ending. 

The thought unsettles you.

—

The following week, the town begins treating your presence as permanent. The bakery owner asks whether you've found a job yet. The librarian asks if you're staying. Three separate neighbors mention available apartments.

You spend most conversations repeating the same answer.

"I'm only here temporarily."

Every single person responds the same way.

"We'll see."

The most irritating part is that nobody sounds uncertain. 

Least of all Seungcheol.

—

One afternoon, while helping water plants behind the shop, you finally ask.

"Did everyone in this town secretly agree to annoy me?"

He laughs.

"Probably."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

You splash water toward him. He dodges. Barely.

"Traitor."

"I didn't do anything."

"You never tell them I'm leaving."

His expression changes slightly. The smile remains. Something else disappears.

"Oh."

Immediately, guilt settles in your stomach. You hadn't meant—

"I mean—"

"It's okay."

The words are gentle. Too gentle. The conversation moves on.

Yet the silence lingers.

—

That evening, while closing up, Seungcheol disappears upstairs to search for inventory records. The opportunity presents itself. You tell yourself you're only checking one note.

One. That's all.

The lie fools absolutely nobody. Especially not yourself. You return to the drawer. Select another folded paper. Open it carefully.

The handwriting is older this time.

Less childish. More controlled. The date makes your chest tighten.

The year you moved away.

Things I wish for:

To have my own flower shop someday.

For Grandma to stop working so hard.

For Y/N to smile like they did before they found out they're moving.

I hate this wish.

The words blur slightly. You blink. Look away. Look back.

The paper remains unchanged.

The same ink. The same handwriting. The same impossible honesty.

For a long moment, you simply sit there.

Remembering.

—

The moving truck had arrived too early. Or maybe it only felt that way.

You remember cardboard boxes. Your mother's stressed voice. Relatives carrying furniture.

Everything happening much too fast. You remember friends saying goodbye. Teachers promising you'd make new ones. Adults insisting change was exciting. 

You remember hating every second of it.

Most of all, you remember Seungcheol. Standing beside the driveway. Hands shoved into his pockets. Trying very hard to act normal.

You'd both promised to stay in touch. You'd both promised nothing would change. At fourteen, promises like that feel unbreakable.

Reality is less cooperative. Calls become texts. Texts become occasional messages. Then birthdays. Then silence.

Not because either of you stopped caring.

Because life happened. Because growing up happened. Because distance is sometimes quieter than heartbreak.

—

A floorboard creaks overhead. You quickly fold the letter. Return it to the drawer. Close everything.

By the time Seungcheol returns, you're standing beside a shelf pretending to examine gardening supplies.

His eyes narrow immediately.

"You look suspicious."

"What?"

"You look guilty."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

You point at a random bag of fertilizer.

"Did you know this contains nitrogen?"

The silence that follows is devastating. Then Seungcheol starts laughing.

The kind of laugh that forces him to lean against a table for support. You hate him. Possibly. A little.

—

Later, after you've returned home, sleep proves impossible. Your mind keeps returning to the notes.

The wishes. The years. Everything that existed while you were gone.

Eventually curiosity wins one final time. Near midnight, you retrieve the drawer once more.

One last letter. Just one. You unfold it slowly.

The handwriting immediately looks different.

Shakier. Messier. Lonelier.

The date makes your stomach drop. A few months after you left. Nothing else is written on the page.

No numbered list. No jokes. No soccer. No flowers.

Just a single sentence.

Things I wish for:

Y/N comes back.

Just once. That's all. For a long moment, the room remains completely silent.

Outside, wind rattles softly against the windows. Inside, your chest feels painfully tight. You remember all the times you almost visited. All the summers you said maybe next year. All the holidays that slipped away. All the opportunities lost to convenience and distance and the assumption that there would always be more time.

The note trembles slightly in your hands.

And for the first time since returning home, you begin to understand that maybe you weren't the only person who spent years missing someone.