#minji angst

You've been standing on this corner for twenty minutes, watching shapes move through the rain-slicked dark. People emerge from doorways and vanish into taxis. The city breathes around you, indifferent to your crisis of conscience. And you're starting to think that maybe this whole thing - this plan, this night, this pathetic attempt at authenticity - is exactly the kind of intellectual masturbation your workshop professors used to warn against.

You've published three short stories. Decent literary magazines. The kind with small circulations and respectful reviews. They called your prose "clean" and "technically proficient." They said you had "promise." But they all noted the same flaw, buried in the compliments like a splinter: your work lacked a certain veracity. That word. You've turned it over in your mind a thousand times, and every time it feels like an indictment. Your characters feel hollow because you're hollow. You're writing about shadows of experiences you've never had, emotions you've only observed from a comfortable distance.

You want to write about suffering. Real suffering. The kind that leaves scars on people's souls, that changes the way they move through the world. But how can you when your own life has been nothing but a series of comfortable, middle-class disappointments? Breakups that hurt but healed. Rejections that stung but didn't destroy. You're a fraud trying to write truth, and the gap between what you know and what you want to say feels unbridgeable.

So tonight, you're doing something about it. Tonight, you've decided to stop theorizing and start living. Or at least, start witnessing. You're going to be a tourist in someone else's hell, and you're going to hope that somewhere in the wreckage, you'll find the veracity you've been missing.

The address leads you to a door that looks like any other: just a plain, dark-green slab of wood with a tarnished brass number. No red light, no neon sign promising pleasure. It’s almost disappointingly discreet. You push it open into a narrow hallway that smells of damp carpet and cigarettes. At a small wooden desk sits a woman old enough to be your grandmother. She doesn’t look up from the crossword puzzle she’s working on, just keeps worrying a string of cheap plastic rosary beads with one hand while the other holds a pen.

She finally lifts her gaze, and it feels like being weighed and measured.

“Yeah? What.”

“I, uh. I’m looking for a girl.”

She clicks her pen. “They’re all girls. Specifics.”

“Twenties. Someone… smart. Who can talk.”

Her lips twitch into something that isn’t a smile. It’s more like a muscle spasm of mild amusement. She looks you over again, taking in your soaked jacket and your too-earnest face. You, the writer, trying to play a role you haven't even written yet. She seems to understand the whole pathetic story in a single glance. Without another word, she picks up a small desk phone, mutters a single word into it you can’t make out, and hangs up. She slides a small, cold, brass key across the desk. Room 7.

You walk up the stairs in silence, simply absorbing the atmosphere of the place, which is quieter than you expected. You find the door, and the key feels slick with sweat in your hand. You have to try twice to get it into the lock. For a second, you think about turning back, about just running out into the cleansing rain and forgetting this whole stupid, pretentious idea. But you don’t. You turn the key, push the door open, and step inside.

The room is dim, lit only by a small bedside lamp with a heavy shade that casts a cone of amber light. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, to see past the haze of your own anxiety. And then you see her. She’s not waiting for you, not posed or expectant. She’s curled up on the edge of the bed, propped against the headboard, wearing a simple black slip dress that leaves her shoulders and the long, elegant lines of her legs bare. She’s reading a paperback, her focus so absolute you feel like an intruder. Her hair is as black as night, long and well-groomed, or perhaps that's just its natural appearance, framing a face that stops your breath. It’s the kind of face that’s so perfectly symmetrical it’s almost unsettling. Wide, intelligent eyes; a nose that is delicate and majestic (in the sense of belonging to a mystical royal figure), full lips that are completely relaxed as she reads. It’s her. You know that face. You spent four years trying not to stare at it in calculus.

She looks up, her eyes adjusting to the shape of you standing in the doorway, and her expression shifts from neutral concentration to a flicker of confusion, then to a sudden shock of recognition.

“Holy shit.”

Her voice is the same: low, a little husky. Particularly appealing to your ears and personal tastes. It’s the voice that answered a question about derivatives once and made the entire room feel stupid. You just stand there, mute.

“Kim Minji.”

The name comes out of you like a ghost. She closes the book, without bothering to bookmark the page, she's definitely the type who remembers the exact number.

“I gotta say,” she begins, her gaze sweeping over you, a little sarcastic, a little amused. “Of all the people I thought might walk through that door tonight… you weren't even on the list. Not in the top million.”

Her dress is short, riding high on her thighs as she uncurls her legs to sit facing you. It’s a simple garment, but on her, it looks like high fashion. It accentuates the flawless skin of her collarbones, the gentle slope of her shoulders. You finally find your own voice, though it sounds thin and foreign.

“What… what are you doing here?”

She laughs, but it's far from meaning she's happy. “What does it look like I’m doing? Isn’t it obvious?”

“Yes! I mean, yeah, obvious. But not—I didn’t mean you look obvious. Like a prostitute. You don’t. At all. It’s just the context, right? The room, the… everything. That’s the only reason it’s obvious. It’s a contextual obviousness. Not a personal one.”

She just watches the train wreck, a genuine giggle escaping her lips this time.

“Relax,” she says. She unfolds herself from the bed slowly. In three steps, she’s closed the space between you, and the air crackles with a proximity you are profoundly unequipped to handle. She takes your hand. Her skin is warm, her grip surprisingly firm. “It’s unexpected, seeing you here. But I’m not gonna judge. Not really in a position to, am I?”

She leads you to the bed and gently pushes you down to sit on the edge. The mattress gives beneath you. Before you can process it, she turns and settles herself onto your lap, facing you, her legs bracketing one of yours. Her scent is subtle, something like clean linen, maybe a hint of green tea. And there’s a subtle smell of something that must be cigarette smoke, but you don't have time for aromatic guessing right now. Then she leans in, her face close to yours.

“So. What’s on the menu for tonight?” she asks. “Let’s get the ground rules out of the way. It’s a set price for the hour. No anal. No kissing on the mouth. No creampies, so don’t even think about trying to pull the condom off. If you’re into it, I’ve got a strap-on in the drawer. You seem like the type who might like that, having a girl take charge.”

Remembering: this is Kim Minji, who sat two rows ahead of you, who you once saw read a Dostoevsky novel during a pep rally. She’s looking at you with an unreadable, seductive calm, talking about strap-ons, and for one terrifying, electric second, your body betrays your brain and you actually consider it.

She must see the conflict warring across your face, because a flicker of a real smile touches her lips. “But maybe… for a familiar face, I’d make an exception on the kissing rule.”

It’s the fabricated intimacy that snaps you out of your stupor. You find a strength you didn’t know you had, place your hands on the thin, silky fabric at her waist, and gently, respectfully, lift her off your lap, setting her down beside you on the bed. Her expression shifts instantly from seductive professional to utterly, completely confused.

“I… I appreciate the offer,” you stammer, feeling the heat in your own cheeks. “You’re… very convincing. But that’s not why I’m here.”

She just stares at you, brows knitting together. “Then why the fuck are you here?”

You take a breath. Here it is. The pitch. “I’m writing a book. A novel. It’s about a girl, like you. I mean, not like you you, but in this line of work. It’s about her perspective on the city, on people. And I… I need it to be real. I can’t just make it all up. The details, the feeling of it. It would be a lie. So I came here for research.”

Minji’s face remains blank for a long second. Then she throws her head back and laughs. Not a giggle this time, but a full, throaty, cynical laugh. It’s a laugh that says she’s heard every stupid line in the book, and this one is a new classic.

“Research,” she repeats. “Holy shit. That’s a new one. You want to buy my time to… what? Ask me about my tragic backstory so you can write it down and win a fucking award?”

“No, that’s not it. I want to pay you for your time. The same rate. We just… talk. I ask questions. You tell me what you think about things. Anything. Philosophy, the news, politics. I want an authentic perspective.”

She looks at you, her eyes narrowed, dissecting your earnest, stupid face. “So you don’t want to fuck my body, you want to fuck my head instead. You want to mine my life for ‘authenticity.’ You know what that is? It’s the same transaction, just wrapped up in a pretty, intellectual bow. People who read your book will get to feel worldly and empathetic for a few hours, dipping their toes into a life like this from the safety of their fucking IKEA armchair, and you get to be the brilliant artist who brought it to them. It’s still voyeurism. It’s just… what? Torture porn for literary majors.”

“That’s not fair,” you argue. “Art can build empathy. A good story can make someone feel something real, understand a life they’d otherwise just ignore or judge.”

“Oh, spare me the ‘power of art’ speech. Every writer thinks their intentions are pure. Every director shooting a movie about war thinks he’s an anti-war activist. At the end of the day, you’re still selling a product, and the product is someone else’s pain. My pain. You’re just another john, but you want to buy my misery instead of my pussy.”

She’s right, or at least, she’s not wrong. The ethical ground beneath you has turned to quicksand. You can only be honest.

“You have every right to say no. And you’re probably right about some of it. But I am asking. And I will pay.”

She studies you for a long time, the silence stretching out. She looks at your hands, your shoes, your face. Finally, a long, slow sigh escapes her. She seems to deflate, the fight going out of her.

“Getting paid to talk is better than getting a knee injury from some asshole who thinks he’s a porn star,” she says flatly. “Okay. Fine. I’ll be your little research project. But there are rules. Non-negotiable.”

“Okay. What are they?”

She holds up a finger. “One. You don’t ask about my past. How I got here, my family, where I’m from. All of that is a locked box. You don’t get the key.” She holds up a second finger. “Two. Your character is not me. You can use ideas, feelings, observations. You cannot use my life. You are not writing my biography.” A third finger joins the others. “Three. You are not here to save me. I don’t need a hero. Don’t get any ideas about rescuing the poor, fallen woman. It’s pathetic, and I’ll walk the second you try it.” She pauses, and her gaze becomes incredibly intense. “And last… you can’t fall in love with me.”

She lets that one hang in the air.

“I’m serious,” she adds. “Don’t. It’s a bad idea for everyone. This is a job. So if you think you can handle all that… maybe we have a deal.”

You look at the rules she’s laid out. They seem like walls, high and thick. They’re all acceptable, a fair price for what you’re asking. Except the last one. The last one feels different. It feels less like a rule and more like a premonition. But you’ve come this far. You push the doubt down.

“I accept.”

She extends a hand, cool and formal.

“Deal, writer boy.”

You take it. Her handshake is firm, sealing the strange, impossible contract.

“So when do we start?” you ask, your hand falling away from hers.

“How about now?” she says, standing up and grabbing a simple, worn coat from a hook on the door. “There’s a 24-hour diner three blocks from here. I’m starving.” She looks at you. “You pay the house for my hour, then you can buy me a cheeseburger.”

It’s an order. You nod, pulling your wallet out. You agree. She slings a small bag over her shoulder, and together, you walk out of the room, leaving the bed and the amber lamp behind.

—

The rain follows you. It has been raining for days now, and it still doesn't seem close to stopping. Minji doesn't seem bothered by the rain. You walk side-by-side under the fractured glow of the streetlights, a weird silence stretching between you. It’s her who breaks it.

“So why, though?” she asks, not looking at you, just staring ahead at the wet, black asphalt. “Of all the miserable little stories in this miserable fucking city, why this one? Why mine?”

You knew the question was coming. You just didn’t have a good answer for it. “I don’t really know. It feels… necessary. I just want to write something that matters, I guess.” You shove your hands in your pockets. “I’ve published a few things. Short stories. The reviews are always polite. They say I’m technically proficient, that the prose is clean.” You pause. “But they all say the same thing. ‘Lacks a certain veracity.’ That was the phrase one of them used. A nice way of saying my characters feel like bullshit.”

Minji is quiet for a moment, absorbing that. “So you came looking for veracity in a whorehouse.” It doesn't sound like a question. It’s a diagnosis.

The diner is an oasis in this deluge. It smells of old coffee, sizzling bacon grease, and the clean scent of bleach. You both slide into a booth with cracked red vinyl seats, the big window next to you a canvas of streaming, distorted city lights. You memorize everything. This could be an interesting setting for a story. A moment later, a girl your age approaches, wiping the table with a damp cloth. Her face is cherubic, with large, luminous eyes and a spray of light freckles across her nose that you can see even in the harsh lighting. She moves with an exhausted, end-of-shift efficiency. She gives Minji a tired but genuine smile.

“Hey, Minji. The usual?”

“Hey, Dani. Yeah, the usual,” Minji says, then gestures to you with her thumb. “This is… a customer.”

The waitress glances at you. Her friendly expression tightens just a fraction. It’s a look you’re starting to get used to: suspicion. “A customer?”

“Not the normal kind,” Minji clarifies.

Danielle looks from you to Minji and back again, her eyes narrowing. “Right. Better I don’t know what a ‘different’ customer is, I’m guessing.”

“You’re guessing right,” Minji says, picking up a menu she has no intention of reading. “It’s disgusting, really. He’s going to sit here and ask me a bunch of intimate questions and pretend he cares about the answers.”

Danielle’s gaze on you hardens. “Are you a reporter?”

“Worse,” Minji deadpans. “He’s a writer.” She rattles off her order without looking up. “Cheeseburger deluxe, extra pickles, fries, a Coke, and a slice of the apple pie.” She closes the menu and pushes it toward you. “He’ll have… I don’t know. Sad artist food.”

You just look at Danielle. “Just a coffee, please. And a slice of the pie.”

Danielle jots it down, gives you one last wary look, and walks away. “Dani’s a good kid,” Minji says quietly, watching her go. “Goes to city college for chemistry during the day, works the graveyard shift here.”

“Can we, uh, get started?”

Minji leans back against the vinyl, crossing her arms. A look of profound boredom settles onto her perfect features. “Knock yourself out, writer boy. Your meter’s running.”

You pull a small, dog-eared notebook and a pen from your jacket pocket. You feel like a caricature of yourself. You click the pen. “Okay. So. On an average night, how many clients do you see?”

“Depends,” she says, her eyes drifting to the kitchen pass-through. “Tuesday? Maybe one or two. Friday? Could be six, seven. Depends on the weather. Depends if there’s a convention in town.”

“And what’s the… financial arrangement? Do you get a percentage? Do you have a weekly quota?”

“Fifty percent to the house. No quota. It’s a freelance gig with really shitty benefits.”

Her answers are rote, mechanical. She’s giving you the FAQ page. You press on, feeling increasingly like a tax auditor. “What are the biggest dangers? Is it the clients, or…?”

“The biggest danger is boredom,” she says. “Clients are mostly just sad. Or angry. Or scared. The dangerous ones you learn to spot. The real danger is dying of boredom while some guy tells you about his wife for the fifth time.”

Danielle arrives with the drinks and your pie. A few minutes later, she returns with Minji’s order. It’s a glorious, greasy platter of food. A huge burger dripping with cheese, a mountain of golden fries. Minji’s entire demeanor changes. She picks up the burger with both hands, squishes it down, and takes a huge bite. A little bit of ketchup escapes onto her thumb, and she licks it off without a second thought.

You clear your throat and glance at your list of stupid questions.

“Do you get… regulars?”

She pops a fry into her mouth and chews thoughtfully before answering. “A few.”

“And what’s that like? Is it… easier? Knowing them?”

“It’s less paperwork,” she says, not elaborating.

You press on, feeling the gears of your own ineptitude grinding. “What’s the weirdest request you’ve ever gotten?”

She stops chewing and looks at you with an expression of profound pity. “Sorry. All my anecdotes are proprietary.”

This isn't going as you expected. You look down at your notepad, at the list of questions you spent hours compiling. What safety precautions do you take? How do you separate the work from your personal life? Have you ever felt a real connection with a client? They all seem impossibly shallow now, like trying to understand the ocean by asking it to fill out a survey. You let the pen rest on the page. You’ve run out of questions that don’t make you feel like a complete asshole.

So you just watch her instead. You watch her finish the fries, then pull the slice of apple pie closer. She eats it with a different kind of focus - slower, more deliberate, savoring each bite. You notice things. A tiny, silver-white scar that cuts through her left eyebrow, almost invisible unless the light hits it just right. The way she tucks a strand of her black hair behind her ear, a gesture that is entirely her own. You start writing again, but you don't look at her while you do it. The pen scratches quietly across the paper.

She never looks at her phone. Not once.

There’s a small, faded bruise on her inner wrist, shaped like a thumbprint.

She has a habit of tapping her front teeth with her thumbnail when she’s thinking.

You’re so lost in the cataloging of these details, these tiny fragments of a real person, that you don’t notice she’s finished her pie and is just watching you, her chin resting in her hand.

“What the hell are you writing over there? You’re filling up pages. My life isn’t that interesting, I promise you.”

You look up, startled. You feel caught, like a spy. You close the notebook and slide it to the side of the table, next to the salt shaker.

“It’s nothing. Just small notes.” This whole approach was a mistake. You came in like a scientist, all clipboards and questions, when you should have just come in like a person. You decide to try that now. “Look, I’m sorry. This isn't working.”

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued by your admission of failure. “Oh yeah? Your ‘research’ hitting a wall?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “My questions are garbage. They’re not what I actually want to know.” You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. You look at her, not as a subject, but as the girl who used to sit two rows ahead of you in calculus. “Forget the book for a second. Let’s just talk.”

She eyes you with deep suspicion, her guard instantly back up. “Talk about what? Don’t think this is your chance to sneak in questions about my ‘tragic past’.”

“No. Not about that. Just… what do you like to do? You know. When you’re not working. When you’re not here. What do you do for fun?”

She stares at you, her mouth slightly agape. She seems to be searching for the angle, the trick, the hidden question beneath the question. Finding none, she’s left adrift in the unfamiliar territory of a genuine, human inquiry. She blinks, looks out the rain-streaked window for a long moment, watching the traffic lights change through the window, turning the raindrops on the glass from red to green to amber. and then turns back to you.

“I read,” she says, simply and directly.

Of course. You remember it instantly. In the back of every class, during every lunch break, she always had a book. A thick paperback with a worn spine, held in one hand while the other doodled in the margins of a notebook.

“You always did,” you say. “Even in high school.”

“I’ve been reading since I was a kid,” she says with a small shrug. “It’s the only thing that’s never felt like a waste of time.”

“Favorite books?” you ask, leaning forward, genuinely curious now. The notebook lies forgotten on the table.

“The list changes. Every week, maybe. I’ve been on a Murakami kick lately. Kafka on the Shore, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. I know he’s problematic, the way he writes women sometimes… but god, the atmosphere. The feeling. It gets under your skin.” She takes a sip of her water. “Before that, I finished a biography on Foucault.”

You blink, surprised. “Foucault? That’s… heavy reading for a Tuesday night.”

“Says the guy who wants to write a magnum opus about suffering,” she shoots back, a playful glint in her eye. “I was interested in his ideas about power. How it’s not just some guy in a castle telling you what to do. It’s in everything. Every structure, every conversation.” She gestures with her fork between the two of you. “Like this. You, the observer, asking questions. Me, the subject, giving answers. You think you’re just gathering information, but you’re creating a narrative of power where you get to define me.”

“The Panopticon,” you say. “The prisoner who knows he might be being watched at any moment, so he polices his own behavior.”

“Exactly,” she says, pointing the fork at you. “And you’re the man in the central tower. You think you’re seeing the ‘real’ me, but you’re only seeing the version of me that knows you’re watching.”

You just stare at her. The intelligence radiating from her is more captivating than her beauty. “You’re amazing,” you confess. “I thought you were amazing in high school, too.”

The admission makes her pause. A faint blush rises on her cheeks. “I remember you,” she says softly. “You were always in the library. The quiet, smart, slightly mysterious one in the corner. Always scribbling in a notebook.”

“I always wanted to talk to you,” you say.

“So why didn’t you?”

“Are you kidding?” you laugh. “You were… you. You had that big group of friends, you were always laughing. You were confident. Intimidating. It was way too much for a kid like me.”

“God, was that what it looked like?” She giggles, a veil of sadness momentarily crossing her face. “Everything feels so complicated when you’re a teenager. If you had just come over and said hi, I probably would have been thrilled. You seemed nice.” She looks down at her hands, tracing the rim of her water glass. “The image you had of me… it was completely wrong. I wasn’t like that at all. Not on the inside.”

“For what it’s worth. You still look amazing to me.”

Her eyes snap up to meet yours. She’s flustered, and trying to hide her shyness, she forces a cynical little smile. “Even though I’m a prostitute?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. Don’t be naive. It’s the first and last thing people see. It’s a brand. You know what men think when they hear it. You know what other women think. It matters.”

“Will you ever… change professions?” The question is out before you can vet it for stupidity.

“Do you think I want to be doing this?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Changing jobs doesn’t change the brand. It’s not that simple.” She sighs, clearly done with this line of conversation. She pushes her empty plate away. “Anyway. I’ll look up those short stories of yours. See if you’re actually any good.”

You feel a ridiculous surge of hope. “Yeah?”

“Don’t get excited,” she warns, but she is smiling. “I’m a harsh critic.”

Just then, Danielle appears at the table, a coffee pot in hand. “Anything else for you guys?”

Minji starts gathering her things, pulling on her coat. “Nope, we’re good. I actually have to go.”

The spell is broken. The session is over. You pull out your wallet and pay the bill Danielle leaves on the table, leaving a generous tip. You realize that if this were a story, the transaction would be a harsh metaphor of the frame around this entire evening.

Minji waves a quick, casual goodbye to Danielle over her shoulder, and then you’re pushing through the diner’s glass door, back into the night. The cold hits you first, a damp slap in the face. The rain has eased into a fine, persistent drizzle that coats everything in a slick, reflective sheen. The city sounds are muffled, distant.

You fall into step beside her, the silence comfortable for a few paces. You’re not ready for the night to end, not ready for her to go back to being a name in a file at the front desk of that discreet green door.

“So, besides reading,” you start, trying to keep the thread of normalcy going, “is there anything else you like to do?”

She thinks for a moment, her breath pluming in the cold air. “Sleep,” she says.

“Right. You must be up all night for work. That’s got to be tiring.”

“You get used to it,” she says with a shrug. “Just flip the switch. The night is the day, the day is the night. I sleep all morning, all afternoon. The sun feels weird to me now.”

You look at her profile under the blurry halo of a streetlight. Now that she’s mentioned it, you can see it. Faint, dark smudges beneath her eyes, skillfully muted by makeup but there if you look. A weariness that settles deep into the lines of her face when she isn't actively smiling. It does nothing to diminish how beautiful she is; it just makes her beauty seem more fragile, poetically tainted.

“I really like sleeping, though,” she continues, “sometimes I wish I could just sleep forever. Never wake up.”

“That’s… a little morbid, Minji.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking. I just mean… it’s nice in there. In the dark. Imagine just being asleep, all the time. Living in one dream after another. A whole other reality, just for you. No rules. No gravity.”

“You’ve definitely been reading too much Murakami,” you say, nudging her with your elbow.

She laughs for real this time and gives you a light, playful punch on the arm that sends a surprising warmth through your whole body. “Shut up, you.”

And in that small, perfect moment of connection, you both hear it.

crack

The sound is disorienting, brittle, and sickeningly final. It comes from under your foot. You both freeze and look down. There on the wet, black pavement is a snail, its delicate, spiraled shell shattered into a dozen pieces, its soft body a ruined mess.

“Oh, shit,” you breathe. “Poor thing.”

“You get used to it,” Minji says coldly.

“I don’t know about that.”

She looks at you, her face serious in the dim light. “It only happened because you’re with me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I step on them,” she says, as if stating a fundamental law of physics. “Every time I walk around in the rain. Always. Without fail.”

You manage a skeptical laugh. “That’s just a coincidence, Minji.”

“No, it’s not.” She looks at you intently. “Think about it. Before tonight, have you ever, in your entire life, accidentally stepped on a snail? Not on purpose, when you were a psycho kid. Accidentally.”

You search your memory. Bugs, yes. But a snail? The specific, gruesome crack of a shell? You honestly don’t think so. “No… I guess not.”

“See?” she says, as if this proves everything. “It happens to me. All the time, during the rainy season. It’s my thing.”

“And you think it… means something?”

“It’s probably a curse.”

“It seems like a very specific, kind of pointless curse,” you argue, trying to be the rational one. “Surely you’re not the only person in the world who steps on snails.”

She snorts. “Okay, writer boy. You’ll see for yourself.” She says it as if she's challenging you. “Now that you’ve been with me, it’ll start happening to you, too. You’ll see.”

“Has anything… bad ever happened to you because of this so-called curse?”

She gestures to herself with an open palm: her coat, her job, her presence on this dark street at this hour of the night. The gesture encompasses her entire existence.

“Look at me,” she says simply.

“That’s not evidence, that’s paranoia.”

She just shakes her head, giving up on you. You’ve walked the few blocks back, and the plain, dark-green door is right in front of you. The end of the line.

“So,” you say, hating the transactional feeling that’s creeping back in. “When can I see you again?”

“Same day next week is fine,” she says. Then she adds, “But we’re doing this during the day. My treat. Meet me at that same diner. Say, three o’clock.” She sees the question on your face and clarifies. “I could be with a client right now instead of walking around with you. But there’s no business for me on a Wednesday afternoon. Maximize profits, you know?” The logic is cold, but the offer is warm. She smiles, a genuine, tired smile. “It was good to see you again, writer boy. You’re still full of surprises.”

“You too.” You think about adding something else, but you just leave it at that.

You start to turn, to walk away into the drizzle.

“Hey!”

You look back. Minji is standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“Thanks for the burger.”

“You’re paying next time.”

She laughs. It's the only sound on the empty street besides the rain. “No fucking way.”

She gives you one last look, then disappears inside, the green door clicking shut behind her. You smile to yourself and continue on your way, the sound of the rain blending with the echo of her laugh.

—

The week crawls by, and Minji takes up residence in your head, rent-free. You find yourself rereading the notes from the diner, but the clinical observations feel like a cheap caricature now. What you remember is the sad, knowing look in her eyes when she talked about her high school self, the sound of her real laugh, the surprising warmth of her arm when she punched you. You can’t square the woman who debated Foucault in a greasy spoon with the transactional reality of her life. The question of how she got there becomes an obsessive, unanswerable itch in your brain, a direct violation of her first and most important rule.

When Wednesday finally arrives, you’re standing outside the diner ten minutes early. She arrives right on time, and for a second, you don’t recognize her. The night-time creature from the brothel, all silky black dress and calculated allure, is gone. In her place is a girl who could be any other student on her way to the library. She’s wearing a pair of worn, faded jeans that fit her perfectly, a soft-looking red and black flannel shirt, and a pair of scuffed work boots. Her hair is pulled back in a messy knot, and without the careful makeup, the dark circles under her eyes are more pronounced.

“Wow,” you say, the word escaping before you can stop it. “You look… different.”

She shoves her hands in her pockets and gives you a wry, tired smile. “Yeah, well. I’m not gonna walk around looking like a whore on my day off, am I?” She starts walking toward the diner’s entrance. “Bad for business. No guy wants to fuck a girl who looks like she just came from a shift. They want the illusion that they’re the only one.”

The casual cynicism is a splash of cold water, and the best thing to say is to say nothing. You just follow her inside and slide into the same booth as last time. The coffee you order is hot and bitter and does nothing to wake her up. She cradles the warm mug in her hands, her eyelids heavy.

“Where to?” you ask gently. “The city’s your oyster.”

She shrugs, staring into her cup. “I don’t know. I mostly just sleep.” Then a flicker of something animates her face, a memory surfacing. “There was this place… an arcade. I spent half my childhood in there. I heard it’s closing down at the end of the month.” She looks at you. “I’d like to see it one last time. For old time’s sake.”

“Okay,” you smile, “let's go to the arcade then.”

—

The arcade is what you'd expect from an arcade about to close its doors forever. Half the machines are dark, bearing sad, handwritten ‘Out of Order’ signs, but the ones that still work blink and beckon. As you step inside, a wave of nostalgia hits you so hard. The worn, patterned carpet, the prize counter filled with cheap plastic junk, the specific layout of the machines - you know this place.

“I used to come here,” you say. “All the time. After school.”

She looks at you, her eyes wide. “No way. Me too. You think we were ever here at the same time? Two little kids, playing games ten feet away from each other, with no idea.”

“It’s possible,” you say, and the thought of that missed connection, of the parallel lives you lived, hangs between you, both beautiful and sad.

She immediately heads for a vintage Street Fighter II cabinet.

“You’re going down, writer boy,” she says, cracking her knuckles with theatrical flair.

You laugh, grabbing the joystick on the right. “You have no idea who you’re talking to. I was a legend on this thing.”

You were not a legend on this thing. She annihilates you. Her fingers dance across the buttons. She’s all focus and instinct, her tongue stuck out in concentration, her body swaying with the on-screen action. She beats you five games in a row, her character executing flawless combos while yours flounders. Her laughter is loud and triumphant, echoing through the half-empty arcade. It’s the freest you’ve ever seen her.

You move on to a sit-down racing game, the plastic shells of the cars cracked and faded. She chooses a red Ferrari; you pick a blue Lamborghini. She spends the entire race yelling at the screen, leaning her whole body into the turns, her flannel-clad shoulder bumping against yours. She beats you by a full lap. At the air hockey table, her defense is impenetrable, her shots like cannon fire. The puck is a blur, ricocheting off the walls until it slams into your goal again and again.

After being humiliated countless times, you give up. Minji is doing a little victory dance, and given the circumstances, that's what I'd call “dancing on your grave”.

“Okay, okay, I give,” you laugh, holding your hands up in surrender. “You’re a monster. A stone-cold killer. I’m starting to think you hustled kids for their lunch money in places like this.”

She stops dancing and points a finger at you. “Don’t be a sore loser, writer boy. You were the one talking all that trash about being a ‘legend.’ I was just defending the honor of this fine establishment.”

“I was taking it easy on you!” you protest. “It’s called sportsmanship. You should try it sometime.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “Tell yourself whatever you need to, to sleep at night.” She straightens up, rolling her shoulders back. The change in her is remarkable.

“You don’t seem so sleepy anymore.”

“Humiliating you has renewed my will to live,” she says, her face completely serious before it breaks into a wide, beautiful grin. “Come on. I saw a pizza counter in the back. The loser buys.”

The pizza is terrible and perfect all at once. It’s greasy, the cheese is a little too rubbery, and the crust is a bland, chewy platform for the slick of tomato sauce. You both sit on a pair of wobbly stools at a high-top table. For a few minutes, you just eat in silence. Minji, you note again, eats with a focused, unselfconscious intensity that you find completely captivating. She finishes her first slice and dabs her mouth with a thin paper napkin before turning to you.

“So,” she begins. “This writing thing. Why’d you pick it? Or did it pick you?”

The question catches you off guard. It’s a reversal of the roles you’d established, of the dynamic she herself had critiqued so sharply. Now she was the one probing, asking the questions. You swallow a bite of pizza, buying yourself a second to think of an answer that isn’t complete bullshit.

“I don’t know,” you start, being honest. “I was always the quiet kid. In my own head all the time. I guess writing was… a way to build things. You create these little worlds, you know? And inside them, you’re in control. You’re the god of that little universe. It gives you a sense of power, of authority, when you don’t really have any in the real world.” You look down at your plate, feeling a little exposed. “And I guess… it’s a way of being seen, without actually having to show yourself. You can pour everything you are onto the page, all the ugly and weird and confusing parts, and people can see it, connect with it. But you’re still safe. You’re still hiding behind the words.”

Minji listens intently, her eyes fixed on you. She doesn’t respond right away, just considers your confession with a serious gravity. She takes a slow sip of her soda, the sounds of the arcade seeming to fade into the background.

“Everyone wants to be seen, don’t they?” she muses. “It’s like… the most basic human thing. Proof of existence.” She leans forward, her elbows on the table. “I was reading about those cave paintings in Argentina. The really old ones. There’s one cave, the Cave of Hands, where it’s just… hundreds of handprints stenciled on the walls. Men, women, even children. They’d put their hand on the rock and blow pigment around it. It’s so simple, but it’s devastating when you think about it. It’s not a story, it’s not a hunt. It’s just a signature. Thirty thousand years later, it’s still there. It’s just a person yelling into the void, ‘I was here. We were here. My hand was this big. Can you see me?’”

“And you? Do you want to be seen like that?”

She takes a long time to answer. She looks away, toward a racing game where a kid is furiously spinning the wheel, his face illuminated by the flashing screen. “I think,” she says finally, turning back to you, “I just want people to see me differently. And I feel like I can’t change how they see me. The mold is set.”

“Is it because of the…” you start, the word ‘prostitution’ dying on your lips.

“It’s not just that,” she cuts you off, anticipating your clumsy attempt at understanding. “That’s just a job. A small, shitty part of my life. It’s everything else. It’s the stuff you’re not allowed to ask about.” She sighs. “The problem is, I can’t talk about any of it without it sounding like some sob story. Without people getting that look in their eyes. Pity. And then I’m not a person anymore. I’m a victim. A project. Something to be saved.”

Her eyes lock onto yours, and they are blazing with a fierce, defiant pride. “Honestly? I’d rather you see me as your object of study than as a victim.”

“I don’t see you as either.”

She holds your gaze for a long moment, then just nods. “Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.”

After paying for the pizzas, you step back out onto the street. The sky has changed. The afternoon sun is gone, hidden behind a thick, uniform blanket of bruised-purple clouds. The air is cool and heavy with the promise of rain.

“I love days like this,” Minji says, pulling her flannel shirt tighter around herself as you start to walk. “Cold. A little gloomy. I hate the sun.”

“You hate the sun?” you ask, amused. “Who hates the sun?”

“I do,” she says, completely serious. “Sunny days are oppressive. Everything is so bright and beautiful, and everyone’s out, laughing and living their perfect, happy lives, moving forward on their paths. It’s all so… harmonious. And I just can’t seem to fit into that picture.” She kicks at a loose piece of gravel on the sidewalk. “It feels almost illegal to be sad on a sunny day. Like you’re a bug in the system. But on days like this…” She gestures up at the heavy sky. “The world feels like I do. It gets it. And I can just be. I feel happier this way.”

It’s one of the most honest and insightful things you’ve ever heard. You memorize these words to write them down later. “That’s… an interesting way to look at it,” you admit.

You walk in silence for a few more blocks, the city shifting around you, preparing for the coming storm. You approach a busy intersection, and she stops, turning to face you.

“This is me. My time’s up. Got to get home and get ready for the night shift.”

The spell of the afternoon is broken. You reach into your pocket and pull out the folded cash you’d prepared. The act of handing it to her feels clumsy and wrong, a crude gesture that erases the genuine connection you just felt. She takes it without ceremony and tucks it into the pocket of her jeans.

“I’m going to buy a very expensive, very unhealthy cigarette with this,” she says with a small and defiant smile on her lips.

“I’ll see you next week, then? For our next session?”

“It’s a deal. Bye, writer boy.”

She turns and starts to walk away, merging with the handful of other people waiting for the light to change.

“Minji!” you call out.

She stops and looks back over her shoulder, a question in her eyes.

“I prefer days like this, too,” you say. “For writing. The gloom is… comforting. That and a good cup of coffee, and I can write for hours.”

A real smile spreads across her face, reaching her eyes this time. “The writer boy has style.” She gives you a final, small wave, then turns and disappears into the crowd crossing the street.

You stand there for a moment, watching her go. “You have it too,” you whisper to the empty air.

You turn away from the intersection, a faint, involuntary smile on your face, replaying her last words. The feeling is warm, a small, bright ember in the gloom of the approaching evening. You take a single step off the curb, your mind a million miles away, and then your foot comes down.

Crack.

The sound slices through the city's hum. It’s identical. Unmistakable. You freeze, looking down at the sole of your sneaker. Impaled on the tread is the wreckage of another snail, its shell a mosaic of shattered fragments. A cold, strange feeling, like static electricity, prickles up your spine. Now that you’ve been with me, it’ll start happening to you, too. Her voice echoes in your head, a calm, certain prophecy. It’s absurd. It’s a stupid, irrational coincidence. But the proof is stuck to the bottom of your shoe. You look back across the street, a sudden, urgent need to find her, to show her, to share in the sheer weirdness of it. But the crowd has already swallowed her whole. She’s gone.

You’re alone with her curse.

—

The rest of the week is a compulsive obsession that, in the end, leads you nowhere. You try to work on your novel, but the fictional girl on your page feels thin and lifeless compared to the flesh-and-blood enigma who now occupies your thoughts. You spend hours sketching out her character in your notebook, not for the book, but for yourself. You list the contradictions: her fierce intelligence and her fatalism, her cynical armor and the glimpses of the joyful, vulnerable kid underneath, the way she can dissect a French philosopher one minute and issue a challenge on Street Fighter the next. Each new detail only makes her more complex, more unknowable, and more impossible to forget.

By the time Wednesday rolls around again, you realize while waiting that you've been living your days only for this moment, and it's a worrying realization, the same fixation on something that drove you away from your ex-girlfriend in the past. And friends. And family.

It’s raining today, a steady, determined downpour that turns the city into a watercolor painting of gray and smeared neon. You see her waiting under the diner’s awning, and you feel that familiar jolt. You brought an umbrella, a big black one, and you see she has one too, a clear one with a simple white handle. Today, she’s wearing a dark, knee-length trench coat, belted at the waist, and the same scuffed boots as last week. She looks like a character from a French New Wave film, mysterious and chic and completely at home in the melancholic weather.

“Hey,” you say, stopping in front of her.

“Hey, writer boy,” she replies. “You came prepared.”

“Looks like you did too,” you say, nodding toward her umbrella. She opens hers, and for a moment you both stand there, enclosed in your own little transparent domes. “So what’s the plan for today, consultant?”

She takes a small pack of cigarettes from her coat pocket, taps one out, and puts it between her lips. “No plan,” she says, speaking around the unlit cigarette as she digs for a lighter. “Let’s just walk. We’ll figure it out.” That sounds perfect to you. She finds the lighter, cups her hand around the flame, and the tip of the cigarette glows orange. She takes a long, slow drag, then exhales a plume of smoke that collides with the misty air and vanishes. You start walking, the rhythm of your steps and the rain on your umbrellas creating a moving pocket of sound and solitude.

“When did you start smoking?”

“Sixteen.”

“Seriously? In high school?” You try to picture it, to place this habit onto the girl you remember, the one with the books and the quiet intensity. It doesn’t fit. “I never would have guessed. You were good at hiding it.”

“You have to be, at that age,” she says with a shrug. “It was just one of the things you didn’t see.”

You walk in silence for a block, the only sounds being the rain and the soft hiss of her cigarette. The city feels washed clean, the streets dark and reflective like a river.

“So how was your week?” you ask, trying to sound casual, trying not to let on that you’ve thought of little else.

She takes another drag. “Routine. The usual.”

“What is the usual? What’s a normal night like for you?”

She gives you a sideways glance, a silent reminder of her rule about personal questions. But this feels different, less about her past and more about the simple, grinding mechanics of her present. She seems to decide it’s a permissible question.

“It’s not as exciting as you probably imagine,” she says. “I get there around seven. Sit in that little room. Read a book. Wait for the old woman to call me on the desk phone. A john shows up. We go to the room. He tells me about his shitty job, or his wife who doesn’t get him, or he doesn’t say anything at all. He gets what he paid for. He leaves. I change the sheets. I wash up. I go back to the little room. I pick up my book. I wait for the phone to ring again. Repeat three, four, maybe five times. Go home when the sun is coming up. The end.”

The description is so bleak, so devoid of drama, it’s more chilling than any horror story you could invent. It’s the sheer, soul-crushing monotony of it.

You keep walking, the rain starting to come down harder now. You pass a small city park. It’s completely deserted, the swings swaying gently in the wind, the metal slide slick with rain. A large, multi-colored plastic playground structure (a sort of miniature castle with tunnels and windows) sits in the middle of a sandpit that has turned to dark, wet mud.

Minji stops, tilting her head as she looks at it. She takes one last drag from her cigarette, then flicks the butt into a puddle where it sizzles and dies.

“Come on,” she says, a sudden, mischievous glint in her eye. “I have an idea.”

She ducks under the railing and starts walking across the wet grass toward the playground. You follow, your shoes squelching in the mud.

“What’s the idea?” you call after her.

She reaches the plastic castle and points to a small, arched opening at its base. “Temporary shelter,” she says. “And a better place to talk than the street.” She crouches down and crawls inside without a moment’s hesitation. You stand there for a second, feeling ridiculous, then you collapse your umbrella, shake off the water, and crawl in after her.

“I don’t know if we’ll both fit in there,” you say, eyeing the low, arched entrance. “That’s made for, like, eight-year-olds.”

Minji is already on her hands and knees, peering into the plastic cavern. She looks back at you over her shoulder, her face framed by the bright blue plastic. “Aren’t we all just eight-year-olds pretending to be adults, anyway?”

You can’t argue with that. You let out a sigh and crouch down to follow her in. It’s a tight squeeze. The space inside is a cramped, hollow dome of faded red plastic. It’s surprisingly cozy. The world outside is reduced to a gray, watery blur seen through the circular cut-out windows. The drumming of the rain on the roof is loud and rhythmic, an oddly comforting roar, isolating you both from the rest of the city. The air smells of wet earth and ozone.

You manage to get seated, your back pressed against the curved wall, your knees practically touching hers. “Great,” you groan, trying to shift into a position that doesn't feel like a future chiropractic emergency. “My back is going to kill me later.”

She laughs at your suffering. “You need to exercise more, writer boy. Get that ass out of the chair and move around. You can’t just sit there all day, decaying.”

“Hey,” you protest, though she’s not wrong. “It’s part of the job. Creative work requires a comfortable, stationary butt.”

“That’s nonsense,” she scoffs, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Some writers wrote standing up. Hemingway had a whole setup for it.”

“Well, I’m not Hemingway, and I prefer my ergonomic chair with the lumbar support, thank you very much.”

“Of course you do,” she grunts, but she’s smiling. You laugh too.

She runs a hand along the curved plastic wall. “There was a playground like this, near where I used to live,” she says. “I loved this thing. It felt like a spaceship.” She turns to you, the dim, red-filtered light making her eyes seem darker, deeper. “What’s your best childhood memory?”

“Wow. That’s a tough one.” You lean your head back against the wall. “I don’t know about the best, but I remember… I remember loving the weekend road trips my parents and I used to take. We didn’t go anywhere fancy. Sometimes just to a neighboring city, or a state park a few hours away. But when you’re a little kid, every new place is another universe. New smells, new kinds of trees, new people with different accents. It was magic. I especially remember this one period right after I learned to read. I was obsessed. On those car trips, I would read every single sign we passed. Out loud. Billboards, street signs, exit signs, historical markers, everything. ‘Speed Limit Fifty-Five.’ ‘Next Gas Two Miles.’ ‘Visit the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.’ It drove my parents absolutely insane.”

Minji laughs out loud, covering her mouth while trying to catch her breath. “Oh my god! I can picture that so clearly. A tiny little you, sounding everything out, just narrating the entire highway.”

“Yeah, that was me,” you say, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “So, your turn. What’s your best memory?”

Her smile cracks. Just for a second, but it’s unmistakable. “Rule number one, remember?” she says quietly. “No past.”

“Shit,” you breathe. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I started it.” She takes a deep, steadying breath, as if preparing for a dive into cold water. “I’ll tell you. But just this once. Don’t get used to it.”

You just nod, waiting.

“I remember when I got my first bike,” she begins, looking through the plastic wall and into another time. “It was blue. A little rusty, secondhand. I remember learning to ride it, the training wheels coming off, the scraped knees. There was this kid, a boy who lived next door. He and I, we spent an entire summer afternoon just… riding. All over the neighborhood, for hours, until our legs felt like they were going to fall off.”

She pauses, and a faint, sad smile touches her lips. “There was this one afternoon. We rode farther than we ever had before. We crossed this really high, long bridge over a ravine. And on the other side, we used our allowance to buy popsicles from a corner store. I remember sitting on the curb in the middle of that bridge, the bikes lying in a heap next to us, just eating these dripping, sticky popsicles.”

She looks at you, trying to see if you're really paying attention to this small piece of her memory. “It was a sunny day. I know it was a Sunday. And the sun… it’s a weird thing to remember, but the light was different that day. It was this unique, golden color. It made everything look… sacred, almost. It was a glow I’d never seen before, and I’ve never seen it again since. And it’s not just nostalgia, it’s not my memory playing tricks. I remember noticing it, even back then. I remember just staring at the trees and the ravine and the sky, thinking, this is special. My friend asked me what I was looking at.”

The memory is so vivid, you feel like you’re there with her. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” she whispers. “I just shrugged. I was maybe eight or nine. I didn’t have the words. And I didn’t want him to think I was weird. But I’ve regretted it ever since. I wish I’d asked him. I wish I’d said, ‘Don’t you see it? Don’t you see how different the sun is today?’” She looks down. “After that, we rode home. I remember my legs burning on the pedals all the way back. And I remember having pasta for dinner with my parents.” Minji is silent for a moment, and you think she's finished, but then she adds: “I would give anything to see a day like that again.”

“I thought you hated the sun,” you say gently.

“I do,” she says. “But it wasn’t always like that. And that day… that day was a fluke. An exception to every rule. If I ever saw another one, maybe I’d feel differently.”

“You have incredibly detailed memories of your childhood.”

She shrugs, the movement jerky, as she fumbles in her coat pocket for another cigarette. “Not really.” She finds one and puts it between her lips, but doesn’t light it. “That’s one of the only things I actually remember. That day. The rest is just… a blur. It’s weird. I have almost nothing else from before I was, like, a teenager. It’s like my brain decided to erase everything for some reason. But it kept that one day. I remember every second of it.”

“Sometimes,” you begin, trying to bring some kind of comfort or understanding, “our brains do that to protect us. Erase things. When we go through… you know. A really big trauma. It’s a defense mechanism. A way to keep functioning.”

“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to play therapist. Using some sentimental, pop-psychology bullshit to get me to open up about my tragic past. You think if you dangle the idea of ‘trauma’ in front of me, I’ll spill everything so you can get a better chapter out of it.” She leans forward, and you can almost see the threat in her eyes, even though you know it's a self-preservation mechanism. “It’s not going to work.”

“Okay, you caught me,” you joke, raising your hands. “Wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”

She finally lights the cigarette she’s been holding, the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating her face in the dim, red light. She takes a long, slow drag, then holds it out to you.

“Here,” she says. “Shut up a little and have a drag.”

“Oh, no, I don’t smoke,” you say, waving it away automatically.

“I know,” she says, the cigarette still held between her fingers, an offering. “It’s obvious. You should try it. Just once.” She gives you a knowing look. “You won’t get addicted from one puff. I promise. In fact, you’ll probably hate it. Nobody likes their first cigarette. You have to smoke at least ten before your body learns to like the poison. That’s when the addiction starts.”

You’re about to refuse again, to give her a lecture on carcinogens that you both know is pointless. But then you look at the cigarette. At the white paper, the glowing orange tip, and the dark, wet stain on the filter from her lips. The thought of putting your mouth where hers just was, of sharing that small, illicit intimacy, overcomes all your rational thought. You reach out and take it from her, your fingers brushing against hers.

You bring it to your lips. The filter is still warm. You inhale the way you’ve seen actors do it in movies, a deep, confident breath. The smoke hits the back of your throat like a fistful of hot gravel and ash. Your body rebels instantly. A violent, barking cough erupts from your chest, wracking your entire frame. Your eyes water, and you double over, the cigarette falling from your trembling fingers.

Minji bursts out laughing, a full-throated, genuine laugh that’s startlingly loud in the enclosed space. “Jesus, writer boy,” she gasps between laughs, picking up the cigarette from the plastic floor. “Don’t try to swallow it. It’s not a dick. It’s soft. Just a little puff.”

Your throat feels raw, but you take the cigarette back from her, embarrassed. This time, you do as she says, drawing in just a tiny bit of smoke, letting it sit in your mouth for a second before blowing it out. It’s still acrid and disgusting, but it doesn’t try to kill you. You hand it back to her.

“I don’t know how you can stand that,” you rasp.

She takes a graceful drag, inhaling the smoke you found so vile as if it were the purest mountain air. “It tastes like death,” she says, exhaling slowly. “I like it.”

For a moment, there is only silence. The drumming of the rain on the roof, the faint glow of her cigarette, the shared breath in the small, dark space. You look at each other, and it’s her, again, who breaks the spell.

“I read one of your stories,” she says, changing the subject completely.

Your heart gives a nervous little kick. “Oh yeah? What did you think? Be honest.”

“It was surprisingly good,” she says, and the backhanded compliment is the most sincere praise you’ve ever received. “The one called ‘A Pause to Live.’ I found it online.” She takes another puff, gathering her thoughts. “That character, the doctor. She spends her whole life being perfect, disciplined, always planning for a future that’s supposed to be her reward. Then she gets the cancer diagnosis and realizes the future isn’t coming.” Minji looks at you. “And the way she just… breaks. Teaming up with that criminal patient, that charming, nihilistic asshole. It was good. Fun, exciting. But also really sad. I was surprised. I actually wished it was longer. You made them feel like real people.”

“That was my last one,” you say, feeling a ridiculous surge of pride. “It’s the one that got the best reviews. But… I still feel like I need to evolve. To get deeper.”

“Well,” she says, tapping a bit of ash onto the floor. “In that case, I hope I’m helping.”

“You are,” you say. “You’re helping a lot.”

“Good.” She smiles. “So how’s the book coming? The one about me.”

“It’s, uh, relatively stagnant,” you admit. “I’m still just in the gathering-information phase. But I feel like these sessions… they’re enriching me. As a writer.”

She lets out a short laugh. “They’re enriching me, too. Your weekly payments are very welcome.” You feel a flash of disappointment, thinking she was going to say something more. She must see it on your face, because she reaches out and gives your shoulder a playful shove. “Hey, I’m kidding. Mostly.” Her expression softens. “Seriously, though. This has been… nice. It’s almost like weird therapy. An escape from the routine. I get to come out here and pretend to be a person for a few hours.” She looks away, a little shyly. “It’s cool. I feel a little… seen. I thought it was going to be way worse.”

“I’m happy to hear that. I’m really happy.” The words give you a surge of courage. “Actually… I was going to ask you for your number.”

Her guard is instantly back up. “Why?”

“To talk,” you say quickly. “During the week. I’ve really enjoyed… this. Talking to you. And waiting a whole week is a long time. I thought maybe… we could text. Or whatever. If you’re comfortable with it, of course.”

“Okay… Yeah. Okay.” She holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

You fumble it out of your pocket and hand it to her. Her fingers are cool as they brush against yours. She types in her number, creates a new contact, then opens her messages and sends a single word to herself: Hey.

“There,” she says, handing it back. “We should probably get out of here. Before someone calls the cops on the two weirdos hiding out in the playground.”

“Yeah, probably a good idea,” you agree, already feeling the ache in your joints.

She starts to crawl toward the opening, but then she stops. She’s looking at something on the floor. You follow her gaze and see it: a small, grey smudge of cigarette ash, right next to a built-in plastic steering wheel. A tiny, insignificant mess.

“I’m a monster,” she whispers, and before you can say anything, she scrambles out of the opening and into the rain.

You follow her out, back into the real world. You both open your umbrellas. The gray, wet city feels stark and cold after the strange, colorful intimacy of the shelter. You start walking again.

“It happened, by the way,” you say, just to break the silence. “After I left you last week. I stepped on one.”

She doesn’t seem surprised. She just keeps looking straight ahead, her face set. “I told you it would.”

“It’s still not proof,” you insist. “It could be a coincidence. Even lightning can strike the same place twice.”

“You don’t even believe that anymore, writer boy. I can hear it in your voice.” She’s right. You don’t. The feeling when it happened was too specific, too weird.

“Is this… is it dangerous?” you ask, the question sounding stupid as soon as it leaves your mouth. “This whole snail thing?”

“No,” she says simply.

“How can you be so sure?”

She finally turns to look at you, her eyes meeting yours under the canopy of your umbrellas. “Because I won’t let anything happen to you.” The statement is so direct, so fiercely protective, that you're almost certain you blushed a little.

“How can you guarantee that?”

“Because I know myself,” she explains. “Before things get too deep, too complicated… I’ll disappear. Someday. And when I’m gone, the snail thing will stop. So you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Disappear? Why would you disappear?”

“It’s what I do,” she says with a shrug. “It’s my one reliable talent. When things get complicated, I leave. It’s better for everyone. A preventative measure.” She looks you dead in the eye. “I’m a walking mess. A tornado in a coat. Trust me. Nobody really wants that around for the long haul.”

“Maybe I do.”

A sad, tired smile touches her lips. It’s a smile that has seen this conversation before. “That’s sweet of you to say. But you don’t know me. Not really. You just know this version of me. The curated one.”

“And what if I want to know the real you? All of it?”

“Why?” she shoots back. “Why would you want that? I’m your object of study, remember? Your project.”

“No. You’re not. Not anymore. You’re my friend… or something. Something close to it.”

“Exactly,” she exclaims. “That’s exactly why I won’t let you get any closer. For your own good. And for mine.” She must see the alarm on your face, because she adds, “I’m not going to kill myself, so you can relax. I just mean I’ll leave. Pack a bag and go. Start over somewhere else where nobody knows the brand.”

“Why are you so sure that’s how this ends?” you plead. “It doesn’t have to.”

“Because I’ve seen it happen before. Many times. And I’ve never been strong enough to stop the people around me from getting hurt. But I’m not making that mistake again. Not this time.”

“The snail thing isn’t a curse, Minji,” you insist, trying to find some leverage to pull her back from the edge. “You’re a good person. It doesn’t make sense—”

“Bad things happen to good people,” she cuts you off. “All the time. Especially to good people. Not that I’m claiming to be one. But nobody gets a free pass.”

“You’re young,” you argue, trying a different tack. “You’ve barely lived. It doesn’t make sense for someone to be this fatalistic when—”

“Your doctor,” she interrupts again. “The one in your story. How old was she? Thirty-one? She was a good person, wasn’t she? A healer. Young. And she got cancer eating her from the inside out. It didn’t make sense for that to happen to her, either.”

“That’s just a story I made up—”

“And I bet you did your research, didn’t you?” she presses, relentless. “I bet you wrote it with authority because you read the real stories of a dozen real young women who went through the exact same thing. Women who didn’t get a charming criminal to take them on a joyride. Women who just got sick and died. It happens. Bad things happen. Who the fuck knows why?”

You have no answer. She has dismantled every one of your arguments with a cold, brutal and nihilistic precision.

“Look,” she continues, a little gentle now, “how about this? We just… enjoy this. Whatever it is. For now. For as long as it lasts. And when it’s over, it’s over. And we’ll have some good memories to show for it. It’s better than having nothing, right?”

You want to argue. You want to rage against her certainty, against her self-fulfilling prophecy. But you look at her face, at the profound, unshakeable conviction in her eyes, and you know it’s pointless. You know these are the terms. All or nothing.

You give a slow, defeated nod. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she repeats. “I have to go.” She gestures vaguely with her phone. “We’ll talk later. Text me or something.”

“I will,” you say.

She gives you a small, final smile and turns to walk away. Just before she gets too far, one last, desperate, practical question occurs to you.

“Hey!” you call out. She stops and looks back. “What if I just… what if I look down the whole time? When I’m walking. I could just watch my feet. Then I wouldn’t step on them.”

She considers your pathetic, logical solution for a moment. A sad, knowing look crosses her face.

“I’ve tried that,” she says. “But sooner or later, you have to look up. You have to look ahead to see where you’re going. And that’s when it happens. You’re so focused on the horizon that you don’t see the small, fragile things right under your feet. You just crush them and keep moving. That’s life.”

She turns and keeps walking, leaving you standing alone in the rain with the crushing weight of her words. That’s life.

—

The curse, if that’s what it is, continues. Twice that week, on your way to get groceries, you feel it. That sickening, delicate crack under your shoe. Both times you stop, a cold dread washing over you as you look down at the tiny, spiraled ruin on the pavement. It’s a coincidence. It has to be. You’re just more aware of it now, looking for it. You think about telling her, about sharing in the sheer, statistical improbability of it all. But you don’t. You don’t want to give her the satisfaction. You don’t want to add another piece of evidence to her grand, fatalistic theory of everything.

It’s a Thursday, one of those rare, bright autumn days that feels like a lie, when you see her. You’re coming out of a coffee shop, lost in thought, and you almost walk right into her. Hanni Pham. Your ex. She looks… exactly the same, to be honest. The two years since you’ve last seen her haven’t changed a thing. Which is a good thing, because from your point of view she was always the most beautiful girl you had ever met. She’s still got that cascade of dark, glossy hair, that face that always seemed to be on the verge of a smile. She’s wearing a simple, cream-colored sweater and jeans, and she radiates a kind of effortless, sunny health that feels like a foreign language to you now. You instinctively duck your head, hoping to blend into the lunchtime crowd, a pathetic, cowardly impulse. But it’s too late.

“Hey! Is that you?”

Her voice is just as you remember it: warm, clear, and full of a genuine brightness. You’re caught. You turn, forcing a smile.

“Hanni. Hey. Wow. Small world.”

“I thought that was you!” she says, closing the distance between you. Her smile is too genuine for someone who just ran into her ex-boyfriend. “How have you been? It’s been forever.”

“I’m good. Yeah, good. Just… you know. Writing.”

She looks you over, her gaze both friendly and analytical. It’s the doctor in her. “You look tired. Are you busy right now? Can I… can we talk for a minute?”

It’s a terrible idea. A landmine. This is a ghost from a life you don’t live anymore. But you look at her open, friendly face, and the word that comes out of your mouth is, “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You end up in a different cafe, a bright, airy place with blonde wood tables and cheerful pop music playing. It feels a world away from the greasy spoon diners and rain-slicked streets you’ve been inhabiting. You both order coffee.

“So,” you start, just to fill the silence. “How’s life? Still slogging through med school?”

She nods, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “Still slogging. It’s… a lot. Anatomy is trying to kill me. But it’s good. I like it. What about you? I saw you published that story, ‘A Pause to Live.’ I read it. It was really, really good. I was so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, looking down into your cup.

“Are you working on the novel now? That was always the dream, right? The big one.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m working on it. It’s… slow going.”

“What’s it about?” she asks, and you know her curiosity is genuine.

You hesitate. How do you even begin to explain? It’s about a prostitute I hired who quotes Foucault and thinks she’s cursed. You shake your head. “It’s still taking shape. To be honest, I’m not even sure what it’s about anymore.”

She just nods, accepting your evasion. “It was nice, seeing you,” she says finally. “I’ve been… thinking about you. Lately.”

Here it comes. The minefield.

“The way we ended things…” she continues, tracing a circle on the table with her finger. “It was so stupid.”

The breakup had been a slow, grinding dissolution. You were drowning in your work, stressed and obsessed, convinced that the only path to becoming a “real” writer was through total, monastic devotion. You pushed everyone away, especially her. Hanni, with her logical, scientific mind, could never quite understand why you had to bleed for your art. She saw it as a choice, not a compulsion. The gulf between your worlds had just grown too wide to cross.

“It was my fault,” you say, the guilt still fresh after all this time. “I was a mess. I completely neglected you, our whole relationship.”

“No. Don’t do that. It wasn’t all you. I was to blame, too. I didn’t get it. I didn’t even try to understand what you were going through.” Her eyes are full of a sincere regret. “You were working so hard, trying to build something, and I… I wasn’t supportive. I should have been.”

“You were supportive,” you argue. “You read every draft. You debated me on character motivations. You were my first reader.”

“That’s not the same as being a partner,” she insists. She takes a deep breath, and you can see her steeling herself. “I… I want to try again.”

“Hanni…”

“I know it’s a lot,” she says quickly, seeing the shock on your face. “But I miss you. I miss… us. For all the drama at the end, it was good, wasn’t it? It was calm. We were happy. I miss that feeling.” She gives you a small, vulnerable smile. “If you’re willing, of course. And… if you’re not seeing anyone.”

The question is a casual, brutal little dagger. And for some reason, the face that flashes in your mind is Minji’s. Minji in the dim light of that brothel room. Minji laughing in the arcade. Minji’s eyes in the red glow of the plastic playground castle. Are you seeing her? What the hell would you even call that?

You feel a surge of fear. Fear of hurting Hanni again. Fear of your own self-destructive patterns. Fear of trying to resurrect something that might be better left dead.

“Hanni, I… I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You won’t,” she says with a confidence you don’t share. “We’re older now. We’re different people. I’m different.”

Yeah, a life with Hanni would be… easy. It would be normal. Sunny days, holding hands, meeting her parents. A world without curses and cracked shells and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke. A world without Minji. The thought leaves you feeling hollow.

“I… I need to think about it,” you finally manage to say. “It’s a lot to just spring on me in the middle of a Thursday.”

She nods. “I know. I’m sorry. Of course. Take your time.” She reaches across the table and briefly puts her hand on yours. Her skin is warm and soft. It feels like a trap. “Just… think about it, okay?”

You nod. You just nod.

Eventually, you both stand, the spell of the past broken by the simple act of pushing back your chairs. Outside the large window, the city moves on, oblivious. Hanni steps around the small table, and before you can process it, she’s hugging you. It’s a familiar embrace, one you haven’t felt in two years, and your body remembers it before your brain does. She feels small and warm in your arms, and her hair smells like peaches, just like it always did.

She pulls back, but keeps her hands on your shoulders. “I just want you to know,” she says with an emotion she isn’t trying to hide anymore. “I still love you. I never really stopped.”

It’s the one thing you didn’t want to hear, the one thing you can’t possibly respond to. Your throat closes up. All the words you’ve ever written, all the clever phrases and insightful lines, they all abandon you. You’re left mute, a pathetic statue of indecision. She sees the panic in your eyes, the total system failure, and a sad, knowing smile touches her lips. She pats your shoulder, a gesture of both affection and release.

“It’s okay,” she says, saving you. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You just stand there as she gives you one last, lingering look, then turns and walks out of the cafe, a ghost of a life you could have had disappearing back into the stream of the city. You don’t say anything. You just say goodbye to the empty space where she was standing.

The week crawls under the weight of Hanni’s confession. Her words, I still love you, echo in your head, a constant, low-frequency hum beneath the noise of your life. They represent a door, a path back to a world that is safe and warm and normal. A world that makes sense. You try to write, but your thoughts are a tangled mess. You keep thinking about her offer, weighing it against the strange, precarious arrangement you have with Minji. It’s the choice between a well-lit, paved road and a dark, unmarked trail into the woods.

And then, Wednesday arrives. Your favorite day. The sky is a uniform, melancholy gray, the clouds thick and low. It’s perfect. You meet her at your usual spot, the corner by the diner, and she’s already there. But she’s not alone.

Today, she’s wearing an oversized, thick, charcoal-gray hoodie, the hood pulled up over her head, casting her face in shadow. The sleeves are pushed up to her elbows, revealing the pale skin of her forearms. Below it, she’s wearing a simple black skirt that ends mid-thigh and a pair of torn black fishnet stockings tucked into her usual scuffed-up combat boots. And at her feet, on the end of a frayed rope leash, is a small, scruffy, cheerful-looking terrier mix.

You stop in front of her. “Okay. I have to ask.”

Minji looks up, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “What? You don’t like my outfit?”

“No, the outfit is… it’s a statement.” You gesture with your chin toward the dog, who is now sniffing your shoes now. “I mean him. Don’t tell me you have a dog.”

“He’s not mine,” she says, giving the leash a gentle tug. “He belongs to my neighbor. He’s old, can’t get around much anymore. Asked if I’d walk him. He pays me twenty bucks.” She shrugs. “Best twenty bucks I make all week. All I have to do is walk in a circle and pick up shit.”

The dog, having deemed your shoes uninteresting, looks up at you and lets out a single, sharp yip.

“He likes you,” Minji deadpans. “He has terrible taste in people.” She starts walking, and you fall into step beside her, the little dog trotting happily between you. “So. How was your week, writer boy? Write any masterpieces?”

“Not exactly. I did listen to that playlist you sent me, though.”

Her eyes light up with interest. “Oh yeah? What did you think?”

“It was… eclectic,” you say carefully. “The obscure indie stuff was cool. The weird 70s Japanese funk was interesting. But I gotta say, I didn’t peg you for a Maroon 5 fan.”

She lets out a short laugh. “Hey! Don’t knock it. Their first album is a legitimately perfect pop record. No skips. It’s pure early-2000s angst. It’s got a certain… veracity.”

“Okay, okay, point taken,” you concede with a laugh. “So, how was your week? Anything more exciting than walking this little guy?”

She’s quiet for a moment, just watching the pavement slide by. “It was a week,” she says finally. “Routine. The usual. A couple of assholes, a couple of sad sacks. One guy who cried after. Nothing new.” She kicks at a loose stone. “How about you? You seem… I don’t know. Distracted.”

Her perception is, as always, unnervingly accurate. The image of Hanni’s face, her hand on yours, flashes in your mind. You open your mouth to tell her, to unload the whole complicated, messy situation. You want her advice. You want to know what she thinks. But you know it's simply better not to. Telling her about Hanni feels like bringing a ghost into the room, a ghost from a bright, sunny world that has nothing to do with the gray, rain-slicked reality you share with Minji. It’s a betrayal of this fragile, weird thing you’re building.

“No, just tired,” you lie, shoving your hands in your pockets. “But actually,” you say, forcing a change of subject, trying to steer the conversation back to the familiar ground of your arrangement. “The notes. Your file. I’ve actually made some good progress this week.”

This gets her attention. She gives the leash a little slack, letting the terrier investigate a particularly interesting patch of weeds. “Progress?” she asks, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “Is it any good? Or is it just more notes about how I eat my cheeseburger?”

“It’s getting there,” you say, feeling a nervous energy thrumming in your chest. “It’s starting to feel like… something real.” You pause, taking a breath. “You should see it.”

“Oh, really? You’re finally going to let me see the secret file you have on me? Am I going to have to sign an NDA?”

You laugh, the sound is a little shaky. This is it. You gather up all the courage you have, a finite and flimsy resource, and you just say it. “Yeah. You can. I was thinking… maybe you could come over? To my apartment. On Friday. I’ll make dinner. You can read everything then.”

Her smile vanishes. The little dog yips, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“My god,” she murmurs. “No. That’s… that’s crossing a line, writer boy. A big one.”

“I know! I know it is. But I want to. Please, Minji.”

“You’re making things complicated,” she says, her gaze hard, her defenses slamming into place. “This isn’t what we do. We meet here. We walk. We talk. I go home. You go home. That’s the deal.”

“I know,” you press on, emboldened by a strange, reckless certainty. “But you know you want to, too. Don’t pretend you hate this. I know you enjoy these stupid Wednesdays as much as I do. So why keep pretending? Why drag it out?”

She stares at you. You can see the conflict between her rules and a desire she won’t admit to. She falls back on the only defense she has left, the one she always uses when things get too real.

“Fine,” she says, cold and transactional. “But I’m charging you. For the extra meeting. My full nightly rate.”

It's a test. It has to be. A way to push you away, to put the comfortable, ugly barrier of commerce back between you. You feel a flash of disappointment, but you don’t back down. You look her right in the eye and call her bluff.

“Okay.”

Your simple, immediate acceptance throws her. She was expecting you to argue, to be repulsed, to retreat. Instead, you just agreed to her terms.

“Why? Why are you so… interested? Why are you pushing this so hard?”

You don’t have to think about the answer. It’s the truest thing you know. “Because I think you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

“Jesus Christ,” she scoffs. “Your bar is on the fucking floor, you know that?”

But the insult has no heat. She lets out a long, slow sigh, and then, with one fluid motion, she reaches up and pulls the hood back from her head.

Her hair, a black sheet of silk, falls around her face. The weak, gray light of the afternoon catches the perfect, unsettling symmetry of her. Without the shadow of the hood, you can see the faint, purple smudges of exhaustion under her eyes, the tiny, almost invisible scar that bisects her eyebrow.

“Okay,” she says, resigned. “Fine. I’ll come over. But just this once. I’ll… I’ll skip a night of work. For you.”

“Thank you,” you breathe. “I’ll pay you, of course. Whatever you would have made. It’s only fair.”

“No,” she says, looking away, down at the little dog. “Forget it. I’m not going to charge you. I’m… I’m going because I want to go.” She looks back at you, her gaze direct and a little shy. She thrusts the dog’s leash into your hand. “But you’re walking the dog. The rest of the way. And if he takes a shit, you’re picking it up.”

“Deal,” you say. “That is a very fair trade.”

She pulls her hood back up, disappearing once more into the shadows. “Good.”

You start walking again, the little terrier trotting happily at your side, a new silence settling between you.

“You know,” you say, just to break it. “You look nice today.”

She snorts. “Come on. I look like I’m about to mug you at any moment.”

You grin. “The only thing you’re going to steal is my heart, girl.”

Minji groans, loud and performative, and you can't help but laugh. “Oh my god, that was horrible. Truly awful. Never say that again.” But she’s laughing too. She reaches out and gives your shoulder a hard, friendly pat, and you walk on together through the gray afternoon, a shared smile on both your faces.

—

You've been ready for twenty minutes, but you still find things to check. The apartment is clean (it's always clean, you're wired that way) but today you scrubbed surfaces that didn't need scrubbing. You straightened books that were already straight. The dinner is done, a simple pasta dish with garlic and olive oil, nothing fancy, but you tested the seasoning three times. You hope she likes it. You hope she doesn't think you're trying too hard. You hope she doesn't think you're not trying hard enough. You're a mess of contradictions pacing your small living room.

The intercom buzzes and your heart jumps. You press the button. "Hey. Come on up."

You wait by the door, listening to the faint sounds of footsteps in the hallway, getting closer. Then the knock. Three soft taps. You take a breath and open it.

Minji is standing there, and the sight of her stops your thoughts cold. She's wearing a simple black dress, sleeveless, fitted at the waist and falling to just above her knees. It's nothing elaborate, no embellishments or flourishes, but on her it looks like something from another world. Her hair is down, falling straight and dark around her face. Her eyes are lined with a smoky shadow making them look even deeper, more intense. Her lips are a soft, muted rose. She looks… she looks like a dream you had once and forgot until this exact moment. The perfect girl (a line you would never use in one of your stories, but here you are, considering using it in your novel).

"Hey," you manage to say.

"Hey," she says back, and there's something in her voice, a nervousness you've never heard before. She shifts her weight, one hand holding a small black purse. "I, uh. I didn't really know how to dress for this. I hope it's not too much?"

"No. It's perfect. You look amazing."

A faint blush touches her cheeks. She looks away, down the hall, anywhere but at you. "Thanks."

You step aside, holding the door open. "Come in."

She walks past you, and you catch the faint scent of her perfume; clean and subtle, like jasmine and rain (and a little bit of cigarette smoke). You close the door and watch as she takes in your apartment. It's not much. A small living room with a couch, a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks, a tiny kitchen visible through an open doorway. But it's yours.

"It's exactly your style," she says, running her fingers along the edge of the bookshelf. "Clean. Organized. A place for everything."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" you ask, smiling.

"Compliment," she says, her lips twitching into a small smile. She looks at the framed prints on the wall, the stack of notebooks on the coffee table. "I like it. It feels… calm."

You gesture toward the kitchen. "Dinner's ready. I made pasta. Nothing fancy, but I hope you like it."

"I'm sure it's great," she says, but she's still looking around, her eyes scanning the details of your life. She turns to you, a teasing glint in her eyes, and asks: "So. How many girls have you brought here, writer boy?"

"What? No, I—"

"Come on," she presses, grinning now. "Your life can't just be books and coffee twenty-four hours a day. You must have a roster."

"No roster. My ex-girlfriend used to come here, but that was a long time ago."

The grin fades from her face. She's quiet for a moment, then asks, "What was she like?"

"What's up with that question? Come on, I don't want to talk about ex-girlfriends right now, Minji."

She holds up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Fair." She looks toward the hallway. "Can I see your room?"

"Yeah. Of course."

You lead her down the short hall and open the door to your bedroom. It's small, just enough space for a bed, a desk, and a bookshelf. The desk is cluttered with papers, notebooks, a laptop. The bed is made with obsessive care.

"This is where you write," she observes.

"Yeah."

She walks over to the desk, her fingers brushing the edge of the wood. You pull out the chair for her, and she sits, looking at you with a curious, expectant expression. You reach over and open a drawer, pulling out a thick, leather-bound notebook. Your handwriting covers every page. You place it in front of her.

"That's it," you say quietly. "All the notes. About you. About the character. It's… a mix of both, I guess."

She looks down at the notebook, then back up at you. "I hope there's nothing weird in here."

"I don't know about that," you say with a small smile.

You give her space to read calmly. You lie down on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. The paint is old, cracked in places. You count the imperfections while she opens the notebook and starts to read.

Page 3:

Her hands. I keep noticing her hands. They're relatively large, but delicate, there's a strength in the way she holds things. The way she gripped that burger at the diner, like she was afraid someone would take it from her. Or the way she held the cigarette, between her index and middle finger.

Page 7:

She has this habit of tucking her hair behind her ear when she's thinking. It's unconscious. Automatic. And every time she does it, I forget what I was about to say.

The small, white scar through her left eyebrow. A disruption in the symmetry. The only flaw in a face so perfect it's almost inhuman. And somehow, it's the scar that makes her real.

Page 11:

“Bad things happen to good people all the time. Especially to good people."

She said that like it was a law of physics. Like gravity. I don't know if she believes she's good, but I do.

Page 15:

A sketch. Rough, but unmistakable. Minji's face in profile, her jawline sharp, her expression distant. Another sketch below it; her eyes, just her eyes, rendered in careful detail. The way they look when she's listening to you, focused and just a little melancholic.

Page 19:

She told me she hates the sun. That on sunny days, the world feels like it's moving forward without her, and she's just stuck, a bug in the system. But on gray days, the world feels like she does. It gets it. She can just be.

I've never heard anyone articulate loneliness so perfectly.

Page 24:

There's a way she laughs (a real laugh, not the cynical, defensive one) where her whole face changes. It's like watching a door open. And for a second, you can see the girl she was before everything went wrong. Before the walls went up. I want to make her laugh like that all the time.

Page 28:

Another sketch. Minji sitting cross-legged, reading a book. Her posture is relaxed, vulnerable. The line work is softer here, less precise, like you were trying to capture a feeling more than an image.

Page 32:

She said she wants people to see her differently. That the mold is set. But she doesn't understand - she's not a mold. She's not a type. She's a person who reads Foucault and demolishes cheeseburgers and talks about thirty-thousand-year-old handprints in caves. She's someone who steps on snails and thinks it's a curse. She's someone who made me believe in curses.

Page 36:

I think she's the saddest person I've ever met. And the smartest. And the most beautiful. And I don't know how those three things can exist in one person without tearing her apart.

Page 41:

She is a girl trying to disappear into a world that refuses to let her go.

She is a ghost pretending to be a person.

She is a person everyone mistakes for a ghost.

Page 47:

"I'd rather you see me as your object of study than as a victim."

But I don't see her as either. I see her as Minji. And I don't know how to tell her that without breaking the rules.

She's quiet for a long time. You hear her breathing, soft and uneven. She turns another page. And another. Then she speaks, and her voice is fragile as if she had forgotten how to use it for a moment:

"Can I ask you a question?"

You're still staring at the ceiling, counting cracks. "Yeah."

"I want you to be honest."

"Okay."

She's quiet for a moment, gathering the courage. "On the other days. When we're not together. Do you think about me?"

You don't answer right away. You let the silence stretch, not because you don't know the answer, but because saying it out loud feels like stepping off a cliff.

"Honestly? All the time, Minji. You don't leave my head."

Another silence. Longer. Louder. You hear the chair creak as she shifts.

"I thought so," she says softly.

You turn your head to look at her. She's still facing the desk, her back to you, but you can see the tension in her shoulders.

"I think about you, too… constantly."

She turns in the chair, and that's when you see them. The tears. Silent, steady streams running down her face, cutting through the carefully applied makeup. Two black streaks of smudged shadow trail down her cheeks like ink in water. Her eyes are red, her lips pressed together in a tight line, trying to hold it all in.

"No one's ever…" Minji stops. She wipes at her face with the back of her hand, smearing the black further. "No one's ever portrayed me like this. Like I'm… beautiful. Like I'm something worth looking at." She lets out a shaky breath. "I think you romanticized it a bit too much. But I liked it. It's nice to see myself through someone else's eyes and be a good sight. For a change."

You sit up slowly. She gets up from the chair, and for a second you think she's going to leave. That everything that happened here was too much for her. And you wouldn't judge her if she did. But she doesn't leave. She walks over to the bed and sits down next to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her. Outside, the rain starts. You hear it before you see it, a soft pattering that builds into a steady drumming against the window. The room darkens, it's just you and her here, and it's lonely and it isn't at the same time.

"This is getting out of control.”

You turn your head to look at her. Her face is still streaked with black, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy. "Why?"

"Because you're going to get hurt," she says, not looking at you. "You know that, right? This doesn't end well."

"It's too late for that. I'm going to get hurt no matter what happens. But I'm an adult. I chose this."

She lets out a bitter laugh. "You didn't choose this. You don't even know what you're choosing, writer boy."

"Then tell me."

She tilts her head, her hair falling forward to hide her face. "I can't promise you anything. I won't give you false hope. That's not fair to you. I'll say what I said last time: you can choose to enjoy the moment with me. Until the day I leave. Or you can give up now. Cut your losses. Walk away."

You reach out slowly, giving her time to pull back, to reject you. But she doesn't. Your hand finds hers, your fingers threading through hers.

"I won't give up on you," you say quietly. "On this."

"You don't understand. This is an illusion. It's fleeting. It might end tomorrow. It might end in five minutes."

"I don't care."

"You should care—"

"I don't," you interrupt, your grip on her hand tightening. "I don't care if it's an illusion. I don't care if it ends tomorrow. I just… I need you."

For a moment, she just stares at you, her dark eyes searching your face for something: doubt, hesitation, a reason to pull away. But she doesn't find it. And then she kisses you.

She tastes salt from her tears and the smoke from the cigarettes she must have smoked on her way here. Her lips are full and soft, moving against yours and you freeze for a fraction of a second, and then your hands move on their own. They go to her waist, gripping the fabric of her dress, pulling her closer.

Her hands slide up your chest, around your neck. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, something between a gasp and a sigh. You kiss her back with everything you have, pouring all the weeks of longing and confusion and desperate want into the contact.

She shifts, pulling back just long enough to swing one leg over your lap, straddling you. The dress rides up her thighs, and the weight of her on you, the heat of her body pressed against yours, is overwhelming. Your hands move from her waist to her hips, holding her there, anchoring her to you. Her forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard, your lips still inches apart.

"You have me," she whispers. "But I'm not yours."

The words should hurt. They should be a warning, a barrier. But right now, with her in your lap, her breath on your face, they don't matter.

"I know," you say, pulling her into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around her back. "I know."

Yuno's POV

I inhale the evening air, letting the aroma of grass fill my lungs. The full moon watches over us with a gentle gaze, casting an intimate spotlight on me and Minji. She leans over the railing, watching the streetlights flicker on the town below and imagining that they're stars shining from a million miles away.

A cool breeze whistles past. I wrap an arm around Minji for warmth, and she leans into my touch.

It's quiet. Peaceful. Perfect.

"The moon looks beautiful tonight," she comments. I nod, but all my focus is on her: the girl more beautiful than any celestial body could hope to be. Her hair dances with the wind like a stream of the finest black silk; her eyes, so full of wonder and possibility, hide their own galaxy within. Planets, constellations, blackholes, pieces of Minji only revealed to those that can see beyond her surface.

Being here, alone, with her—I could die with a smile.

"Minji," I utter softly in the narrow space between us. She turns to me, a knowing smile on her lips, and shuts her eyes. She's waiting.

With a quivering breath, I slowly lean in, captured in the force of her gravity. As I move closer and closer, warm puff of her breath brush my cheeks, like the first ray of sunshine after an arduous winter. Her soft lips are the last thing I see before my vision grows dim.

And then, nothing.

My eyes shoot open. Minji is gone, replaced by the slow whirling of my ceiling fan. I jolt upright, desperately searching for her, only to be met with the dull layout of my bedroom. A disappointed sigh leaves my lungs—just a dream.

My phone sits on my bedand the memory of my fruitless attempt at texting her comes crawling back. How fucking pathetic. In my dream, I have no problem being all lovey-dovey and shit, yet I can't even think of a single thing to say to her in the real world. My fingers hover over the keyboard, some last ditch effort at searching for the rights words to say, but it's all for naught as I end up texting the group chat instead.

Yuno: Good Morning.

Yujin: GOOD MORNING!!!!

Winter: good morning :)

Yuno: What are you two up to?

Winter: working :/

Yujin: im hanging out with my grandma!!

With the two of them busy, I'm left to figure out how to spend my Sunday alone. I click over to Minji's blank messages one last time, my heart palpitating weirdly. Whatever this feeling is, love or otherwise, it's getting old quickly. Everything is confusing, and unlike most of my problems, I can't just brute force my way through it. What am I even hoping for here? A relationship? I don't know anything about relationships or dating or how to be a boyfriend.

Minji's boyfriend, huh? That sounds kinda nice.

No. We're too different, and I don't exactly have any redeeming qualities. I mean, Minji is like... a shining star—beautiful and radiant, but unattainable. And I'm just a sad cockroach that gets to look at the star. I wouldn't be surprised if my entire existence is just some sick joke played by whatever it is that's up there.

We're just friends, and that's okay. And yet, I can't quite ignore the dull pain in my chest from the thought of being 'just friends'. With a heavy sigh and a couple thousand unanswered questions, I send her a simple "Good Morning" text. Because that's what friends say to each other.

Heading downstairs, the sizzling of melting butter and the heavenly scent of warm maple syrup grows stronger, making my stomach growl louder than a lion asserting its dominance. My dad flips another pancake onto a growing stack, two more still cooking on the stovetop.

"Good morning, Yuno," he greets me with a quiet smile. "I made some breakfast. Help yourself."

I quickly take a seat and stack a couple pancakes onto my plate, practically drooling at the sight of these golden-brown disks of perfection. The warm scent wafts past my nose and I suddenly remember that first morning at Minji's house. Despite being complete strangers, she still offered me a place to sleep to avoid the rain, warm clothes to change into, and even went through all the trouble of making me waffles. She didn't have to, yet she did, and it made all the difference in my measly little life.

Minji is just so... incredible. And beautiful. And intelligent and kind and sweet and—

"Uh, are you okay?" I hear my dad ask. "You've been staring at your pancakes for a while now."

I shake my head, pulling myself back into reality. "I'm fine." 

That's a lie. I'm not fine. A girl—THE girl—is taking over my mind, making my heart feel weird and my mouth feel dry. I like a girl that can't possibly like me back and I'm just supposed to be fine with that. How do I even begin to explain this to anyone?

My dad sits across from me at the table and fills up his plate. The silence between us begins to grow as we eat, an air of unease and uncertainty filling the room. On top of my feelings for Minji, I now have to deal with my feelings regarding the state of my dad. It's been years since I last saw him like this. He's fine now, but what if he relapses? How did he even make such an abrupt change anyway when all I saw him doing was sleeping and drinking? I should be happy, but I can't shake the feeling that he could just revert to his older self without warning. I can't cling to hope for too long, otherwise I'll be met with disappointment yet again.

"So, I was thinking," he says, nervously clearing his throat. "Would you wanna go to the mall later?"

I freeze like a deer in headlights, caught off guard by his sudden question. "The mall? Why?"

"You don't have to go if you don't wanna, I just thought..." He sighs heavily, dropping his expression to the floor. "I want to be your dad again, like old times, before your mother... left us. If you don't want anything to do with me, I understand, but if it's okay with you... I want a relationship with my son again."

He looks into my eyes with a sincere expression, tears threatening to pour. A part of me wants to say no, to make up some lame excuse and wander the streets until it's dark instead of spending any time with him. Maybe he's right. Maybe I am harboring some resentment for him for leaving me, a child, alone all these years, left to watch my one remaining parent shatter into a million pieces every day until he's nothing but dust. Maybe I got so used to being alone that the thought of relying on someone else again makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I get into these stupid fights and aimlessly walk around the neighborhood because I know that the only person waiting for me at home is constantly drunk and sleeping.

Despite that, I don't say no. I nod my head and utter, "Okay," because the other part of me wants to have my dad back regardless of what he did. I want to be able to come home after school, into a home with the lights on, where the air doesn't constantly smell like alcohol, and have someone, anyone, ask how my day went. I want someone to rely on when life gets too difficult to handle by myself. I want my family again.

So we eat our breakfast in silence. The uncertainty lingers, but next to it is a warming sense of hope, holding its hand in reassurance.

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Minji's POV

Knock, knock, knock

"Minji?"

Knock, knock, knock

"Honey, are you awake?"

I finally sit up, rubbing the drowsiness from my eyes. "Now I am," I yawn, stretching out my limbs. The clock reads 7:12 AM, about an hour after I usually wake up on the weekends. My phone lay face up on my bed, still on Yuno's empty messages. Like an idiot, I waited all night for a response from him, but all I got was an hour less of sleep. Maybe I shouldn't have held my breath for him.

My mother swings my bedroom door wide open. "Oh good, you're awake," she says, pacing around my room and picking up some of my laundry off the ground. "Go eat breakfast and get washed up. We're going to the mall."

"The mall? Why?" I ask.

"Oh, y'know... Just some clothes shopping," she says with a peculiar smile. "We need to update that closet of yours, dear."

Too drowsy to argue, I get out of bed and head downstairs, where my father is taking a call in the kitchen. Wisps of steam float from the mug of black coffee sitting on the counter next to him, untouched as he presses his phone to his ear with an intense focus. He mouths "Good morning" to me, gesturing to a plate holding a simple cheese and spinach omelet. I dig in, unintentionally eavesdropping on my father's conversation.

"Mhm. Tuesday you said? No, it's not a problem at all. Yes, she will be there, I'll make sure of it. Yeah. Mhm. No problem. We'll see you then."

Finally, he hangs up the phone and sits next to me at the dining table. Wrinkles of exhaustion decorate his face, likely from working early in the morning.

"Did you sleep okay, Minji?" He asks. "You're usually up earlier than this."

"I slept fine. I thought I'd get some more studying done after I got home and forgot about the time," I lie. I can't even imagine how furious he would be if I told him that I stayed up all night waiting for a text from a boy.

He grins proudly at me. "I'm happy that you're working hard on your studies, but good sleeping habits will keep our brain healthy." His phone buzzes in his pocket. "I'll be right back, I have to take this." He leaves the room, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my omelet and my thoughts. Maybe Yuno isn't going to text me. Maybe I should text him first instead. But shouldn't the guy text first...?

A sigh leaves my lips. I'm way in over my head with prom preparations already, I definitely don't have any room for a silly little crush. Perhaps these feelings are just one of circumstance. We've been bumping into each other everywhere, so these feelings will fade if I just avoid Yuno for a bit. Sounds easy enough, right?

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The mall is always busiest on the weekends, full of families and friends looking for new deals while carrying around soft pretzels or pointing out attractive people who pass by. This mall, however, is a bit different from most, reserving its entire top floor for high-end designer shops. There isn't any sort of membership or secret password that prohibits people from entering the top floor, but it generally stays barren aside from the few wealthy shoppers who can afford to do more than just window shop, including my family. The blatantly obvious segregation between social classes is disgusting, but I would be lying if I said I don't like being able to shop without stumbling through the thick crowds on the lower levels.

"What do you think about this one, dear?" My mother pulls a black dress off the hanger, presenting its fine, intricate detailing to me. Shimmering black beads are sewn into the fabric, probably taking countless hours to place by hand.

"It's very pretty," I comment plainly. By all means, it's a beautiful dress, but I much prefer something more comfortable.

"Why don't you go try it on, dear," she says, handing me the dress. I glance at the price tag, causing my eyes to go wide in shock at the $120,000 price point.

"$120,000? Isn't that a bit much for a dress?" I ask, concern painting my face.

"Nonsense, Minji. Don't you want to look good for the party?"

My brow furrows. "Party? What party?" My mother's gaze wanders, avoiding me completely.

"Well, there's no party in particular, but you never know what will come up. Just try on the dress please." She pushes me into the dressing room before I can ask another question.

Right as I close the door behind me, I feel my phone buzz in my purse. My heart skips a beat from the words on the screen - 1 new message from Yuno.

"AH!" I exclaim, nearly dropping my phone.

"Are you okay in there, ma'am?" A worker asks from the other side of the door. I can feel my cheeks heat up from embarrassment.

"I-it's nothing! Just a, uh, a spider! But it's okay!" I silently cringe at myself as I hear the worker's footsteps walking away. I just know Hanni would be laughing her butt off at me getting this excited over a text from Yuno.

With a trembling hand, I open up his text, which simply reads "Good morning." It's a short and simple message, yet I bite my lip, actively stifling a delighted squeal. An overwhelming sense of giddiness washes over me from those two words on the screen, my mind racing as I try to think of a response.

Should I ask him how he slept? Maybe that's a bit too intimate... Oh, what if he had a weird dream? That's an interesting topic of conversation, right? No, that might be too weird... Maybe I should ask the girls for help. But they might just laugh at me. Oh god, what do I do?

Right as my thumb hovers over the keyboard to type up a response, I freeze. This isn't what I'm supposed to be doing. Yuno and I are just friends, and that's all we can ever be. I'm just far too busy for any kind of serious relationship, and my parents clearly don't approve of him either. Even so, a small voice in the back of my head tells me to go for it, that it'll work out if I try hard enough. Anything can be achieved through hard work, right? That's what my parents always tell me. A heavy sigh escapes my lips as my heart and mind devolve into war with no clear victor. I don't even know for sure if he feels the same, yet here I am, getting all excited over his words on a screen.

A knock at the door snaps me out of my rambling thoughts. "Honey, are you okay in there? You've been in there a long time, I only gave you one dress to try," I hear my mom ask.

"S-sorry!" I quickly toss my phone back into my purse and grab the dress off the hanger. Maybe I just need some time to think about it.

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"Thank you for shopping with us, Ms. Kim! Have a wonderful day!" The worker exclaims as we leave the store with a plethora of shopping bags and a long receipt to match. My mother takes a single bag, leaving me to carry the rest. My family definitely has the means to live a "comfortable" life, but even exorbitant purchases like these are uncharacteristic of them.

"Why... huff... do I... huff... need all these clothes?" I ask, struggling to carry everything. "Isn't this... huff... a bit much just to update my closet?"

"Think of it as a gift from your mother, dear," she replies, not looking in my direction. "I barely get to see you because your father and I are always working. Don't you want to spend time with your mother?"

"I guess so..." But not like this, I think to myself. As we descend the escalator to the lower levels, the frequency of people increases, making it nearly impossible to take two steps without accidentally hitting someone with the bags. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I offer an apologetic look to everyone who passes by.

Amidst the chaos, I trip over my foot, sending shopping bags and expensive dresses flying everywhere. My mother continues on without even so much as a glance backward, leaving me to pick up the remnants of her wealth as passersby give me weird looks or downright ignore me. As if things couldn't get any worse, a man snatches my purse off the ground and dashes toward the mall exit.

"H-hey! Give that back!" Of course, my words fall on deaf ears as the thief gets farther and farther. No one moves to stop him, too scared or confused to intervene. My phone, my wallet, the little knick knacks my friends have given me over the years, all of it is gone...

Out of nowhere, a person tackles the thief to the ground, wrestling my purse from his hands. The scuffle ends with the heroic stranger standing over the thief's now unconscious body, a crowd surrounding and applauding his efforts. An overwhelming sense of gratitude fills me, and without thinking, I run over to my savior and capture him in a big hug,

"Oh my god, thank you so much for getting my purse back, I don't know how I can—" Panic replaces gratitude as I look up at him for the first time.

"Y-Yuno?!"

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Yuno's POV

I glare at the black screen of my phone, taunting me by reflecting my own ridiculous emotions. My body is restless, itching for any sign of life, a vibration, a notification, just anything to quench my frustrations. And then it happens: the screen lights up with life. Frantic, I grab the phone, bringing it up to my eyes to read the notification.

Yujin: Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyy guyyyyyysssssss. I made kimbap for my grandma, what do yall think?

A photo of Yujin is attached to the text, depicting a clumsily put-together plate of what I assume to be kimbap. Out of the billion notifications I've received in the past hour, all of them have been from Yujin, and zero have been from Minji. My head drops in disappointment. Despite my own warnings, I can't stop thinking about her. She plagues my mind with her pretty eyes and cute face and gentle voice and—

"You alright, Yuno?" My dad sits across from me at the table, his brow furrowed in concern mid-chew. "You haven't touched your burger at all."

I shake my head, gathering my bearings. '50s rock music blasts from the speakers above, fitting the atmosphere of the classic American-style diner my dad ended up choosing. With no plan in mind, my dad suggested that we get some lunch first, although his words fell on deaf ears since I was too preoccupied staring at my phone.

"It's nothing," I utter, avoiding his eyes. He sighs heavily, his expression darkening.

"Look, I... I understand if you don't trust me completely, and I will work harder to earn your trust, but I don't want you to suffer in silence," he explains. "If something is going on, I want you to know that you can come to me for anything, no matter how big or small. I don't have the answers to everything, but I'm here to listen if you need me."

My lips part to speak, but the words get caught in my throat, too scared to make themselves heard. I choke them down, guilt arising within me due to my silence. What am I supposed to say? "Hey Dad, you are right, I feel weird seeing you like this after so long and so suddenly, but also my life in general has just become so weird. In less than a week, I slept over at the student council's president house, got two friends, got into several fights, went to the fair for the first time, and I also really like the student council president. Maybe even love her, I don't know." 

This whole thing is ridiculous. I am ridiculous.

"I'm fine, really," I assure him, and myself partially.

He looks at me, unconvinced, but doesn't pry any further. "Alright, just... I want you to know."

God, this sucks. I can't even eat a meal with my own dad in peace because of my inability to function like a regular human being. Part of me wishes I could just pretend like everything is alright, but since when have I ever felt alright?

"What about you?" The words eject from my mouth without thought. Call it curiosity or not wanting to eat in awkward silence for the second time today. Either way, the question is out there now.

"What about me?" My dad asks, rightfully confused.

"I mean..." Fuck, why is it so hard to talk? "You... You're up and alive, I guess. What changed?"

He places his burger down and looks up with a thoughtful expression. "I, uh, went out for another drink one night and ran into an old friend from college. We just talked for a while, maybe even all night, just catching up like no time had passed. Y'know, he introduced me and your mom way back when. Seeing him reminded me of my old college days, living like I was on top of the world, and... I just knew something had to change."

"That's... great. Really." And I mean it. A smile grows on his face at my sincerity.

"Yeah, it really is. He basically saved my life. I hope you're able to find good friends like that, Yuno."

My phone buzzes with a new message from the group chat.

Winter: that looks really great yujin :D

Yujin: hehe thanks !!!

A small grin grows on my face. Maybe I already have. If only I could get a text from one other friend...

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We walk into a clothing store full of people my age dressed much more stylishly than I am. I didn't particularly need to update my closet, but the potential guilt of declining my dad's offer to buy me clothes was too overwhelming. Besides, what else are you supposed to do at a mall other than spend exorbitant amounts of money on material things?

"Go look around. Let me buy you something nice for once," he quips. His mood seems to have significantly brightened after our talk at the diner.

Looking through all the racks made me realize just how out of my element I am. Outside of my school uniform, most of my clothes are just sweats and hoodies - comfortable and don't draw too much attention. Everything (and practically everyone) in here is basically a giant billboard that says "Hey, look at me!!!"

Then, something catches my eye: a forest green sweater with a bear wearing overalls screen printed on the front. I try to move on, but the beady lifeless eyes of the bear stare into my soul, demanding that I take it home. It's ridiculous, It's childish, it's...

"I want it," I blurt out.

"Really? This?" Dad chuckles, examining the sweater. "Didn't think you would be interested in this kind of thing, but hey, what do I know about fashion?"

I cough awkwardly, my face growing warm. I didn't know anything about fashion either. Hell, if I didn't have the reputation I have, I would probably be a prime target for bullies if I wore that around. Out of everything in the store, why did I want that sweater? Who in their right mind would even like this sweater?

Minji. Minji would. Half of her bed is covered in teddy bears. I want that sweater because, for some stupid reason, I think it'll magically make her like me. Or something. I don't know. She hasn't even texted me back yet, what good is a sweater with a bear on it gonna do?

Before I could protest, my dad hands me the sweater in a plastic bag, already paid for. "You wanna stop by a couple more stores?" he asks.

"Sure," I concede, still feeling embarrassed. A part of me feels oddly glad that I took it, imagining Minji's reaction to seeing the sweater. "Wow Yuno, your sweater is so cute, we should go out sometime!" Yeah right. Still, I can't stop the small grin dancing on my lips.

"H-hey! Give that back!"

A familiar voice rings from the center of the mall. I glance upwards to see a man barging through the crowd, clutching onto a purse that definitely isn't his. Without thinking, I spring into action, dashing towards him as fast as I can.

"Yuno!" My dad calls out from behind me, but his words are left unheard as I continue my pursuit. Right before the man reaches the exit, I jump onto a bench and dive at him, tackling him to the ground

"What the fuck man, get off of me!" The thief yells. He lands a punch to the side of my head as I try to wrestle the purse from him. While it isn't the hardest blow I've received, it's enough to piss me off. I grab his throat, digging my fingers into his windpipe, nearly crushing it in my grip. He squirms underneath, the desperation welling in his eyes as he fights for breath. I reel back my fist and let it fly, aiming to crack his skull against the ground.

As my fist gets closer and closer to his head, time crawls to a standstill. Minji's voice echoes in my head: "You're a good person, Yuno. I just wish you would stop getting into trouble." I mean, he deserves it, he's a thief. He steals some poor girl's purse, he deserves a good beating. And yet, I pull back at the last moment, knocking him out instead of outright shattering his jaw. His skull is intact, but he'll surely feel it when he wakes up.

The sound of scattered applause around me pulls me from my adrenaline-fueled haze. It's only now that I realize people are recording me like a zoo animal, upholding me like I'm some kind of "hero" or something. In reality, I just did what they were too scared to do, but they're too busy creating their own  narratives to see that.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrap around me in a familiar and oddly comforting anaconda grip.

"Oh my god, thank you so much for getting my purse back, I don't know how I can—Y-Yuno?"

That voice. Is it...?

"M-Minji?"

I suddenly find myself mere inches away from Minji's face, staring straight into the blacks of her eyes. I take in the perfect slope of her nose, the roundness of her eyes, down to the soft puff of her lips. My first instinct is to pull away, but frankly, I don't want to. God, I think I'm going insane.

Fortunately (or rather unfortunately), Minji lets go, finally giving me room to breathe. But as my lungs fill with breath, so does my stomach fill with the incessant flapping of butterflies.

"S-sorry about that, uh... Th-thanks, Yuno..." She mutters, her gaze never leaving the ground.

"Y-yeah, no problem..."

"Yuno!" My dad calls out to me, running in our direction. "Jesus, you're fast... huff... Are you alright?" He glances over at the thief's unconscious body as two mall cops drag him away. "You certainly did a number on him, huh? Impressive." He pats my shoulder, giving me a proud smile.

The clop of expensive high heels draws our attention, growing louder and louder with each step.

"Minji! Are you okay, dear?"

Minji's mom appears, checking her for injuries.

"I-I'm okay, mother. Um, you remember Yuno, right?" She awkwardly gestures towards me, leading her mom's gaze. With her cold gaze studying my expression, It's like I have a sniper dot placed firmly onto my forehead, ready to blow my brains out if I so much as cough in her direction.

"Ah yes... I remember." Mrs. Kim's lips curl into a curt smile that does little to hide her disdain. "Thank you, I suppose. Although, I could've easily bought her another one." The tension rises as we lock eyes in a stalemate that neither of us are willing to lose.

"Hello!" my dad chimes in, unknowingly diffusing the situation. "I'm Ian Lin, Yuno's dad. It's nice to meet you!" He extends a hand towards her, which Mrs. Kim accepts with clear reluctance that he somehow doesn't notice.

"Well... I would love to chat, but we must get going." She steps past us, her heels clacking violently against the floor. "Minji dear, pick up the bags please. We need to get your new dresses fitted at the tailor." She doesn't even look back, leaving Minji to pick up the mountain of shopping bags by herself. It's a wonder that someone as unconditionally kind as Minji was born from someone like her. Maybe Minji is adopted or something.

"I should get going," Minji sighs, barely able to take a full step forward. "Thanks again, Yuno."

"Wait." I reach out and grab some of the bags from her. "Let me help you."

"Oh, you don't have t—"

"I want to."

Minji's cheeks turn peachy as she hands me a few of the bags to carry. Meanwhile, my dad whips over to the other side of her and offers his assistance.

"May I?" he asks. Minji concedes with a sigh, shooting him a grateful smile.

"Thank you. I was, uh, really struggling before," she admits.

The three of us follow loosely behind Minji's mother. No wonder she didn't text me, I don't think I would have the luxury of breathing when I'm around a terrifying woman like that. Still, it does put me at ease a bit knowing Minji wasn't exactly ignoring my text. Seeing her in person is way better than a couple of words on a screen.

"Minji, right?" my dad asks her. "Are you a friend of my son's?"

"Yes, Mr. Lin, we are friends."

Friends. The title feels bittersweet at best, but hearing her admit that without any hesitation in her voice makes my heart do a leap. I fake a cough just to hide my smile.

"That's great, I don't get to meet a lot of Yuno's friends. By the way, just call me Ian, Mr. Lin makes me feel older than I already am," he quips, earning a chuckle from Minji. "I have to ask, what's Yuno like at school?"

"Yuno is..." She turns to look at me, but my gaze is glued to the ground, too nervous to meet her eyes. "...a bit of a troublemaker..." Damn. "...but he's a good guy." Hell yeah.

"That's good to hear. Y'know, he gets his personality from his mother." His grin fades for a second before going back to normal. "And he gets his good looks from me."

The two of them laugh while I silently cringe to myself, a dull throb hitting my temples. Never in a million years did I imagine the two of them ever meeting, let alone holding a conversation like this. It's kinda nice, in an off-putting way. Better than letting Minji meet him as a grieving alcoholic.

"Hurry up dear," Minji's mom calls out to her, walking into the tailors.

"Welp, this is my stop. Thank you for the help, but I can take it from here," Minji says. She takes the bags from us, lightly gracing my hand and sending a jolt of electricity through my body. "Bye Yuno and it was nice meeting you Mr. Li—er, Ian."

A disappointed sigh leaves my lips as I watch her disappear into the shop. She was right there, close enough for me to catch a whiff of her lavender-scented perfume. I've been waiting all day for a text from her, yet my stupid feelings made me too nervous to speak.

"You like her, don't you?"

My head snaps towards my dad, a sly smirk dancing on his lips. My eyes grow wide in shock, "W-what, n-no... I-I just, uh... W-whatever..."

"I know that look anywhere, Yuno. It's the same one I gave your mother before we started going out," he explains. My face sinks into my hands, the overwhelming urge to disappear consuming me.

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Minji's POV

My family has frequented this specific tailor shop at the mall for numerous occasions over the years, we even went here to get my school uniform properly fitted before the school year started. The shop has one sole worker, a kind yet quiet old man. He's skilled at his job, but my only issue with him is that he continuously pokes me with sewing pins while taking my measurements.

"Mother, why do I—Ow! Why do I need so many new dresses for my wardrobe—Ow! None of these clothes are things I would wear casually."

She sighs. "I suppose we'll have to tell you eventually."

"Tell me what?" I ask, my brow furrowing.

"We're starting a new business venture with the Park family and we thought it would be a good idea to hold a banquet this Tuesday to mark the beginning of our partnership. We haven't seen them in a while, so we figured it would be a good idea to catch up."

The Park family? "Okay, but if it's for the business, then why do I have to go?"

"Their son, Sunghoon, will be in attendance, so we expect you to do the same."

Sunghoon. Just the name alone sends a shiver down my spine. I thought I finally got rid of him after he moved away in middle school, but no. He's finally come back to haunt me.

"U-uh, I have school that day a-and I have a test coming up that I need to study for and—"

"Your father and I think that the opportunity to network and make connections with influential people in the industry will be more beneficial to you than a high school test that you can make up anyway. Besides, don't you want to see your old friend Sunghoon again? I remember how hard you cried after he moved away."

No, Mother, those were tears of joy. My parents have been close friends with the Parks since they attended the same college together, so naturally (and incorrectly), they assumed that their kids would be close as well. Sunghoon got along well with my brother, but he was an absolute menace towards me. He would call me names, steal my things, and talk bad about me to his annoying group of friends. No matter how much I cried to my parents about him, they always gave me the outdated, misogynistic line of "boys will be boys." When his family finally moved away during middle school, I couldn't have been more thrilled, literally crying tears of joy knowing that I would never have to see him ever again. But of course, fate is a cruel mistress, making everything go right for a couple of years before stabbing me in the back with a Sunghoon-shaped knife.

"But mother, I—"

"We're just asking you to attend the banquet for a couple of hours and mingle. Why do you have to make things so difficult?"

A dejected sigh leaves my lips. There's no getting through to her at this rate. At least I have a day to mentally prepare myself before the banquet. Right now, I plan to say hi to him to keep up appearances and then avoid him like the plague for the rest of the event. Piece of cake, right?

My gaze falls to my purse, sitting on a bench a few feet away. A thought plants itself into my head like a seedling, growing and growing into a full-blown idea. Maybe there's a way that I can make this banquet a little more bearable.

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The second we make it into the house, I kick my shoes off by the front door and dash upstairs towards my room, ignoring the calls from my mother to put them away properly. By the time we finished up at the tailor, my phone had somehow died in my purse, making me antsy the whole drive home.

I burst through my room, practically leaping towards the charger.

"Come on, hurry up," I plead, praying that it will somehow make the phone turn on faster. Thankfully, it only takes a few seconds to light up with life. I quickly scroll through my messages, typing up a quick text to the person who will be most vital to plan.

Yuno: Good Morning.

Minji: heyyy! can i call u? i have something important to ask

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Yuno's POV

I stop dead in my tracks, nearly dropping the groceries all over the kitchen floor as I reread Minji's text over and over again. My mind can't help but wander through all the possibilities of why she would want to call me. Maybe it's her mom using Minji's phone to get revenge on me for simply existing. Or maybe she got kidnapped and I'm about to be called to pay for ransom. But why would the kidnappers call me? Maybe she—

"Hello? Earth to Yuno." My dad waves his hand in front of my face, pulling me from my thoughts. "I can't have you stand in the middle of the kitchen while I cook dinner," he chuckles.

"A-ah, right. Sorry." I move to put the groceries away, but he stops me.

"I can put the rest of the groceries away. It's clear you would rather be doing something else right now." He gives me a knowing smile as he hands me the bag with my new sweater in it. Right before I head up, I turn to him one more time.

"Um, thanks for taking me to the mall. It was... nice," I say.

He chuckles to himself before waving me off. As soon as I'm in my room, I shoot Minji a quick reply.

Minji: hey! can i call u? i have something important to ask

Yuno: Sure.

An overwhelming wave of suspense hits me, filling my mind with an endless mountain of questions. After a beat, my phone buzzes to life with Minji's name and I quickly swipe to answer her call.

"Hello!"

Her voice rings clearly through the speakers like the soothing sound of a gentle breeze. I'm somewhat glad she didn't ask to talk in person, otherwise, she would see the obvious blush on my face.

"H-hey. Um, what did you want to ask me?"

"Oh right! It's kinda weird, but... Are you doing anything on Tuesday night?"

My heart thumps loudly in my chest. Is she asking me on a...?

"N-no, why?" I can't stop my voice from quivering nervously.

"Well..." She sighs. "It's a bit of a long story, but basically, my parents are holding a banquet for the family business on Tuesday and if you're not busy, I was wondering if you wanted to go... with me."

"A-as your date?" I slap my hand over my mouth, but it's too late. Why couldn't I just think for one second before blurting that out like an idiot? "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"N-no, it's okay! Um..." She clears her throat. "Technically speaking, I guess you would kinda be my, uh, date."

I don't speak for a long while. I can't. The thought of being Minji's technical date sends me into a long, euphoric spiral. Is this what true happiness feels like?

"Um, hello? Yuno?"

"Yeah, sorry, I'm still here," I croak awkwardly. "Uh, why me? Why not invite any of your other friends?

"There's this guy that's gonna be there and I would really like to avoid him, so I figured I could bring you instead of the girls and maybe he'll... y'know."

My heart sinks a little. "You just want me to be there to scare him off?"

"I... yeah, technically." Her tone turns apologetic. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... Just forget what I said—"

"I'll go." 

Maybe I'm just a hopeless love-stricken fool who's willing to toss away any ounce of self-respect I have left for a girl he likes, but it's not like I'm doing anything interesting on a Tuesday night anyways. Plus, banquets usually have free food, and if Ms. Kim's cooking is any sign of things to come, it'll probably be good.

"I'm sorry if it seems like I'm using you. I just really need a friend to help get me through the banquet," she says.

"Hey, it's fine. You want me to rough him up for you?" I quip. I'd gladly wrestle a bear if she asked me to.

She laughs softly through the phone. "No, nothing like that. I want you there as my friend, not my bodyguard."

"I can do that." I lay back in my bed, staring at the ceiling as I listen to Minji's voice. I can't help but imagine what she must be doing now. Maybe she's hunched over her desk, working on some student council business. Or maybe she's laying down in her own bed, her phone next to her ear as she clutches one of her many teddy bears to her chest. The simple thought of her existing sends my heart into a frenzy.

"Thanks," she utters. "Y'know, it feels like you're always helping me with something and I haven't paid you back at all."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"First, you saved me from that drunk guy in front of the convenience store, and then the spider in the Ferris wheel, and then today with the purse thief, and now I'm asking you to go to a banquet with me because I don't want to see some guy. You're always doing things for me and I haven't done the same for you."

"That's not true," I refute. "The day we first met, you let me, a total stranger, sleep on your couch so I wouldn't have to walk home in the rain."

"Well, I only did that because you offered to walk me home first," she argues. "See, you've done a thousand things for me, and I've only done one thing for you."

"You've... done a lot for me."

"Like what?" she asks, still in disbelief. 

"You... listened to me when you didn't have to," I start. "Anybody could've easily disregarded me as just another brute. After all the times I've been stubborn and gotten myself into trouble, you still treated someone like me with kindness and understanding. I guess what I mean is... you're existence itself has helped me more than you realize."

Minji says nothing for a while. As each second of silence passes, I worry if I might have something wrong. Maybe we're not close enough to get this vulnerable and I scared her off. Regardless, I meant every word I said, even if I didn't think I would be saying all of this out loud to her.

"Um, thank you, Yuno," she says after what feels like forever. "That was... really sweet."

"Yeah," I mutter because I have no idea what else to say. "I should probably go, you're probably busy with something—"

"Wait!" Minji interjects. "Not yet. I mean, unless you wanna go?"

Heat rises to my cheeks. "You wanna stay on the call?"

"Um... yeah, if that's okay. I, uh, don't feel like hanging up yet."

I bury my face into a pillow, trying to hide my smile even though I know she's not here to see it. God, Minji Kim, you'll be the death of me one day. The cautious part of me continues to nag at me, telling me that this will go nowhere, that I'm a fool for being hopeful—but I don't care. I want to keep talking to her. I want to keep hearing her voice and thinking about her and being friends with her. Minji is a drug and I'm the hopeless addict looking for his next fix. Even if it hurts me in the end, I'd rather die know her warmth than live in constant fear of getting burned.

 I shut my eyes, turning off all my senses just to focus on Minji's voice. "What did you wanna talk about?" I ask.

—

You realized that you’ve never possessed the creative calibre as much as a writer should’ve had. Perhaps it’s appropriate that you’ve never pursued it as your major career. You read all these stories, and you knew that you just can’t come up with these plots. You don’t know how to do character developments, hell, you can barely write dialogues. The way people talk in real life remains a mystery to you. So, it’s probably for the best that you’re in engineering.

Though, it just takes a mistake to change it all. Many stories start with a catastrophe, a turning point, or something that puts the protagonist on their journey. So, here you are, you have a story right in front of you, so should it be transformed into something commendable? award-worthy? a selfish portrayal of what’s supposed to be just a passage of life? The goal of it doesn’t really matter much (though some recognition would be nice); you just had to write it out.

—

You don’t know how much time you have for this. Everyone has been telling you it should be long enough for the forgiveness to be ready, but you’ve also been wondering whether, if that day comes, it would be too long that the cadence won’t strike you as pristine as before.

Though, it hadn’t stopped you from fantasizing how this encounter would play out. You’d say something witty with a chuckle, and she’d smile back, or even better, a laugh. Both of you would see the separation as some childish actions of the past. The two of you would go back to where you were: grief-stricken, exhausted, scared high school students. 

The sunlight would force you to retreat to some cafe during the afternoon, letting you two trade stories between the gaps. And as the sun sets, you’d sit beside her in some park, laid back a bit, hands on the grass to offer some balance. She’d do the same. Then your hearts would slowly be reconnected with each other, hoping to reclaim solace missing in the separation, as if you are the only two people on earth.

Firstly though, those events would have to be triggered by your words. And despite thousands of days of you trying to perfect every syllable, they just conveniently stuck in your throat. This isn’t what you’ve been readying yourself for. Awestruck and powerless is an understatement, and no tests have ever made you feel so drowned in your gargantuan number of thoughts.

You cannot say a word to her, and there may not be any second chance for this.

You are her mistake, and you’ll always be.

–

One: About You

–

There was something ‘bout you that now I can’t remember

It’s the same damn thing that made my heart surrender

And I miss you on a train, I miss you in the morning

I never know what to think about

–

I like you

What

I like you! Like do you wanna go out on a date?

(Seen)

It isn’t the longest silence you’ll experience with her, let alone with someone else, fourteen years on earth won’t give much of an insight to you, but it’s enough for you to know what she’s going to say next.

I’m sorry

Regret in her words bled through the pixels. 

But I just see you as a friend

Being on text messages takes out the awkwardness a bit, but that doesn’t help transform the dagger, really.

Kim Min-Ji, your entire relationship was based on this encounter, and that three-week phase of some bullet crush upon entering a new school preceding this. You were charmed by a girl’s look, and then no one can compete with that.

You had found her face appealing, then you fantasized your whole life with her. One thing led to another, and you were head over heels for her in just a week. 

Nowhere that you haven’t gone with her in your head: a date at an American diner—drinking milkshakes, a trip to the theater—watching some schlocky romance and cringing when the couple on the screen are kissing each other, and the most ambitious one: marriage, she’s smiling, everyone you’ve ever known is surrounding you, cheering as you are leaning in for a kiss.

Too bad you didn’t have a backup plan if it failed.

Consequences of the rejection had you decompressing every, single, thing you’ve been admiring about her to your friends, yeah, the same ones. You treated that as if it was the end of the world. 

It was quite a phase, and you inevitably got closer to those people. They were slowly fading away eventually, one by one, but at least, at that moment, you felt like there’s someone listening to you.

While the dagger stuck, you kept eluding her, avoiding eye contact as you were walking past each other. You had to let her know you were hurt. God, that shit looked so damn petty in retrospect.

It was a month later when the heartbreak dissipated, and both of you decided that the next three years cannot be spent evading each other. (To be honest, it’s mostly just for you to stop being weird.) A nod was all it took, and that probably was a lot better than having her as a girlfriend.

–

She wants you to live on your life, separately

Being on text messages (and having it delivered through a friend) takes out the cruelty a bit, but that doesn’t help transform the dagger, really.

It started with just some petty acts, a crude joke. Then, just over a month later, you deleted every single picture of her, almost five years of them. It wasn’t a hard thing to do when you were so deep in melancholy, just a few minutes after a friend brought the breakup message to you. 

You thought you had to block her everywhere. But with every step taken to create some distance from her, those actions just, somehow, create unending echoes tormenting you.

Why

You really wanted to fix this; you really fucking did. You’ve never wanted it to end, even when you sent some faux, response-seeking farewell messages after days of waiting for her confirmation of how she felt, just to have her come and reply about the exam she was having just a few minutes later.

Are you gonna send something to her again if you know?

But even with her crying emojis, you were relentless with your replies. I fucking hate you still echoes to this day. It shaped how you see yourself: a selfish, yet codependent, self-indulgent, unlovable person. Even with the apology texts you sent a few weeks later (which she never saw), those four words were tattooed on you.

I won’t

You wished you could, but this answer seemed to be the way to satisfy her.

Think about it

Like all those years

What have you done to her

It was supposed to end with your first apology text, when she called herself an asshole over it. Then, you became one yourself. It turned out that reading only the preview message doesn’t give you the full picture, so you paid the price just a month later. You replied to that, then you waited. And with how God made you so insecure, you thought she wanted it to end after a week you took to reply.

You had problems.

It’ll all be okay

Someday

Looking at your friend’s text, you sighed, knowing that you can only let fate and time lead you to it.

–

You were nothing more than a friend. She sure loved you, just not in the way one would perceive as romantic. There were kind words, there was thoughtful advice, there were chatting deep into a lot of nights. 

Any form of physical contact though, you brought it up in some conversations (which one eventually being the spark that burned it all), were always quickly suppressed by her. So, there you were, having her as a friend, and the bar for where your future girlfriends should be.

hey

need some advice rn

uh huh

there’s this guy

send me his pic

alright wait a sec

[photo]

my god

what

okay yeah I know why he’s a big deal

fuck auto caps on I again

fuck

just turn it off in the settings lol

thanks

[Replied to: okay yeah I know why he’s a big deal] ikr

[Replied to: thanks] no prob

so

how is it with him

As it was flourishing, there were times that you wished for it to be as easy as a kiss and a happily ever after, with how well-gelled you’ve always been together. But the distance between you is just too much. 

You can’t conveniently visit her on every other weekend, while she really didn’t want to close the distance from being a close friend (or as you would think to yourself later: “our love may not coincide at the same time”). So, there you were, you became each other’s advisor for those times you’ve had.

–

All of what you saw as confidential: all the vibrations of your heart, all the tears running down your cheeks when alone, all the ties you cut and formed, as any teenager would do, was at last, delivered to your parents, at the age you didn’t think it was possible for such change. 

You didn’t expect that your parents would take it well, with how you’ve withheld everything for the last half decade, reducing every answer to their questions into a binary set consisting of yes and no. But as they’ve always been, they didn’t leave you in the dark.

You pleaded guilty to all of it – how you were wretched inside. How she became so much to you, how you took everything she says as an oath, how her jokes lit up a smile on your face every time, and how they still haunt you, to this day, keeps you from initiating any new, proper relationship with someone. 

They kept coming back, even if you thought time would slowly fade them away. The minor details, yes, but the bigger ones are still having free shots on you every now and then.

The first few months were difficult. Bed seemed to be the best place you could’ve been, lying down, your fingers sliding reels after reels for god knows how long. Though, it hits you, years of being alone, walling people out was detrimental to you. It starts with some small repairs: story replies to disconnected peers, dates with your close friends, more exposure to your family. 

You seek connections, desperately, to fill up the hole she once occupied. You took too many side jobs aside from the grueling university classes, and to be honest, you did meet a lot of new people in the next semester, even more than you did in the last two or three years here.

The space though, five years of freestyle carving put it into this twisted, incomprehensible, harrowing state in which all the adjectives in the world aren’t enough to define the shape of its former owner. How every fibre of your existence was tied to her was, as seen from outside, sad. 

Sure, it’s not wrong to let someone into your life, but with this extent – thousands of words to pry out a response - it just reeks codependency in retrospect.

It took some time, and a bunch of people, to cover up the space. You never quite make it like it was; there’s always a hole somewhere, and you can still see the footprints she left on you through it.

How you tell people close to you, most of the time, is that there was a fight - one you started. Then you were being a bitch for too long, and by the time you returned, she put you out of the picture. You added some bits of how you were dependent on her for your heartaches, how you treated her like shit for years, how you sent waves of messages that she didn’t reply because she was busy, how you said you hated her, only to retract and regret it a few days later, then it all ended.

It could be some way of unearthing emotional vulnerability under that “cold” façade - as often pointed out by your friends, which you deflected as crippling social anxiety. You thought people would trust you more if you decided to tell them how you succumbed to those inner demons. It works most of the time.

You told them that you cried to some K-pop song that you can only understand like two lines. 

You told them how you tried to recover the photos with some external program not a week later. 

You told them, with an otherworldly consistency, that it’s your fault, never hers. 

You told them you’d send something a year later, as an apology, to return to where you once were.

You told them that you might crumble again if the response is anything but a warm embrace.

Your taped-up heart remained intact when the day came, having your friends around and such after a year of reconstruction, and you surrendered to the fact that you really can’t do much more than a guilt-ridden text. But it’s not easy at all to watch “Sent just now” become “yesterday”, then “last week”, then “last month” slowly unfold. Then you knew that your strength just cannot handle this; cadence can’t exist with a single note.

It took you back to that day, when the future was just this black, unbounded, silent yet serene space. Times where every knife suddenly became alluring, heights weren't what you were afraid of anymore, the next trip to a pharmacist might be a deathtrap.

This eternal apathy: it was tempting to give in to it – to just leave all of these behind. Yet, you weren’t so sure to give yourself such an ending. People won’t like it, or do they? A lot of stories saw their main characters to their ends, no matter which way it would be. And to be fair, a lot of them became cult classics. You weren’t so sure which would be the right ending for yours.

–

Two: Now That We Don’t Talk

–

You grew your hair long, you got new icons

And from the outside, it looks like you’re trying lives on

–

One advice you took from your therapist is to keep journaling your emotions, each day. And even with the poor self-discipline, whether in a book or a journal, you carved your grimaces, laughters, and tears into words. But perhaps that became too customary. And as time passes, you find the storyteller side of yours magnetized outwards. So, there you were, in front of your old laptop, nibbling on the dagger.

–

Your plane landed in Tokyo mere hours ago. It was a few days after your sophomore year finals. You were paying for your inability to sleep with the shaking cabin, and it was just nine (Tokyo Standard Time) in the morning. Your eyes went dry, and you can feel the irregular beats of your heart. The sleeping pills from your psychiatrist can’t handle the excitement of getting on a plane, especially if it’s to Tokyo.

It’s cold, spring cold. Snow is nowhere to be seen, but your tropical genes are already shaken with a small breeze. You excused yourself from your family for some minutes outside the airport, to get some air for alertness.

The train would depart in an hour, but with the risk-averse nature of your parents, you had only 20 minutes to snap a few photos around Narita. You quickly pace yourself against the crowd, to the outside. You strode through the arrivals terminal, before reaching the automated door, finally catching the air. And it’s cold, spring cold.

It was cloudy, yet the sun was bright enough to deflect your vision away from the matter of protecting it. You pick up your camera to snap a few photos, testing the recipes you had looked up from home. And god, wasn’t Japan so pretty?

But maybe it’s the wind, maybe it’s the temperature, maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, you’re drawn to her, again. It was just over a month ago since the incident. Yet miles away from your parents’ car, when Minji had her dagger delivered through your phone, and as the distance grew, you realized that it’s poisoned.

Should I check my block-list?

It echoes, even if you had no reason to do it. And you gave in, under that spring air: cold, dry, unrelenting, merciless.

You took a seat by a slanted cream walkway outside. A man was sitting across from you. He looked up, before going back onto his phone, nonchalant to your presence, and it’s like you could complain about it.

And immediately, you take out your phone, so eager to check your blocked accounts.

She changed her profile picture into something that you can’t even make sense of: her. Even under the face of the drawn character, you could feel her radiate through your screen. Locals and tourists are still marching towards their destination, either into the city, or a plane, unbeknownst to your internal collapse. It’s probably the way your face is always the same - concealing the tears so well - cheerful or devastated.

She moved on from you: her old persona shed, bio rewritten, era changed. Yet there you were, at least a sea away, crumbled into pieces.

Perhaps it was time for you to shed a new shell.

–

“Minji will be here too!” One of your friends said.

It was the first time you had a sleepover at your friends’ apartment. Alcohols were, of course, involved. A bit of drunk chatting with your friends and walking around helped with the university-induced depression, which you, then freshman, naively dismissed as a normal thing. Then, you heard she would come for some lunch before you go back to the mundane routine you got yourself into.

“Heyyyyy.” You shouted into the room as soon as the apartment’s door was closed. She was sitting on the sofa in the middle of your friends’ studio-sized room.

“Hey!” She seemed to look different from her high school days, crimson on her lips, longer eyelashes, paler cheeks. She wears makeup now, and you wouldn’t lie that it took you by surprise - how beautiful she was. It may have been contributed to the fact that you had just six hours of sleep the night before, but she was gorgeous that day, breathtaking even.

“God, I miss you so much.” You said, sitting down beside her on the couch, while looking over the screen of her ancient phone.

“Awww, thanks babe.” Minji blew you a kiss, irony, to which you happily caught. 

“Long trip?” You asked, knowing how far she is from the city.

“Hour and a half.” She murmured.

“Sorry about that.” You chuckled, laying your back on the couch. It’s a display of your insufferable narcissism as usual, a humble smugness.

Your friends were too busy on their phones, waiting for a member to finish his shower before taking a trip into the city.

“No need, I’m here to see you.” Minji beams.

“Thanks, Minji.”

Not that you haven’t seen love blooming in front of you before, it’s just that you can’t grow the petals to display your stern sentiment. It has been, to say the least, difficult for you to express any tinge of compassion.

–

“ROMEO TAKE ME SOMEWHERE WE CAN BE ALONE, I’LL BE WAITING ALL THERE’S LEFT TO DO IS RUN.”

It’s only the two of you screaming between the other guys in the karaoke room. Even if it’s Taylor fucking Swift, she still seems to be threaded just between you two.

“YOU’LL BE THE PRINCE AND I’LL BE THE PRINCESS, IT’S A LOVE STORY BABY JUST SAY YES.”

You were pointing to each other, with others baffled by how enthusiastic you were.

Both of you kept going like wannabe singers until the end.

“WE WERE BOTH YOUNG, WHEN I FIRST SAWWWWW YOU.”

And the song ends, leaving only you two sharing the only spotlights in the room.

“Minji, fuck, god, that was great,” you panted, trying to catch your breath after screaming Love Story.

“You should thank me for listening to only English songs,” she scoffs, smiling at you.

You attempted to make a cute face, sarcastically. “Thanks, Miss Kim.”

“It’s my job to listen to Taylor Swift for you.” She bowed and smiled.

It’s always the irony-infused conversations, but deep down, you know you could trust her, at least once you do. So many of your problems were solved by her. Just tell them directly, just do this, just do that. And if you didn’t even want to, she’d take your place to show how competent in the field she is, just for you.

As your friends continue with the songs you two can’t capture the lyrics, you slid yourself towards her. “So, how’s the med school?”

She finds the words to answer the completed question for a while. Your other friends are still screaming their lungs out. “It… fucking sucks, yeah, it beat my ass back to high school.” She’d frowned at her script.

“I guess so, I shouldn’t have asked, even. We should talk about light things instead, I’m sor—”

“Don’t be.” Minji cut you off. “It’s fine, I needed a place to vent, anyway.”

The mood, again, swung into glee along with the background. “Oh, so what, Miss Kim, you’re going to use me as your personal venting tool now?”

As if you predicted your future.

“I might, if it doesn’t get better.” She’d snickered at her own comment.

Your expression softens to sympathy. “Well, I’m here. Miss Kim, Go ahead.”

“Really? We can chat about this later, to be fair” She negotiated your offer, not wanting to ruin the mood.

You pondered for a moment, as the song came to an end. “I suppose so, wanna pick the song?”

Minji smiled. “Sure.”

It was these small moments that you kept digging up, even if it is surrounded by smiles and laughs. I wasn’t kind enough to her. I said the wrong things. I was selfish. And it slowly grew into something far more sinister. I am a bad person.

–

“Okay, I’ll post this and tag you all.”

After the group selfie, it was time for you to go back to your regular depression-inducing activities at university.

“I have to get going now. I have class tomorrow morning.” Slightly annoyed by the time restraint, it’s evening now.

“Don’t forget to tag me~” Minji would speak out, playfully, a façade for the fear of being excluded.

“What if I do?” You pointed a finger to your chin.

“I’ll block you, that’s what I’d do”

“Aww, I’d be so sad.” You sarcastically pouted, before giving a farewell, “Bye, babe. Bye, everyone.”, waving.

“See ya.”

That was the last time you’d see her face.

Upon reelings, you can only recall the words as a vague, half-hearted goodbye. Oh how you felt so secure with her back then you just gave some shitty farewell, unbeknownst to how it would stick with you as her final image of you – the fact that has been gripping you tightly ever since.

–

Maybe, in a way, it is to broadcast the insides of your heart to the world. It’s always been what you do best. You found yourself sitting down in front of your laptop, pondering on the word choices. You were walking on a minefield of words, avoiding repetitions that would make your readers groan at such occurrences.

It could’ve been easy - the one who left was the villain, and the one who found you is the typical manic pixie dream girl any man would want. You would boast it when you meet her again, saying something along the lines of “I won the breakup.”, or “Guess who’s crying now.”. It’s quippy, snarky, made-ready, and gives some sense of revenge to the readers, and to you.

It’s not hard to give in to the waning under the half-lit moon; the vengeance is too alluring. Still, perhaps it was that single, small spot in the dark sky - the one that keeps on flickering a signal. And it was decrypted into the ending you didn’t want, acceptance, even if the creeping clouds are slowly curtaining the sky. The star keeps on flickering, to guide you.

And you followed it. The piece didn’t get as much recognition as you’d like, as the grudges were, even if partly, let go, and only mentioned as your thorns. Yet, that day, those spikes were shed, for a new shell to form to protect you from your own hatred.

–

Three: Feels Like

–

Met you at the right time

This is what it feels like

–

You were told that it’s going to be some kind of joint committee between universities. And so, as one of the chosen, you are here, in such rare occasions of being in a suit. It’s tiring - you just got off from your senior project, internship is approaching in a week, right after the Christmas holidays. Yet, being given a few activity hours from your university isn’t a bad offer at the time.

Some classical music you’ve never bothered to look their names up were sent through speakers; they probably couldn’t afford a real band. The grandiose, dimly blue-tinted-lit hall was occupied by hundreds of representatives. Waiters were walking back and forth to corporate demands for the food and drinks. The sounds from all kinds of conversations are lighting this ball up. It’s, from a whim, lively for now.

As always, you felt out of place here. You’ve never been the type that would slot into a conversation with ease. Every word you say might be interpreted as an insult, a showboating of your dull wit. So, silence seemed to be the best choice here. You can’t have people see you as some lowly, dense, out-of-place ordinary guy.

You kept checking your watch, anxiously, it should have been eleven when you were to leave, and time gets slower on purpose. Words around you were slowly, but surely on its way to push you to your edge. There were a couple of people from your university too, just that they were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they are in the toilet? Maybe they can talk to strangers? Maybe they don’t want to be around you?

With every second ticked, an uneasy feeling crept up your body with confidence, eager to take control. Your eyes were stuck to your phone, with right thumb swiping short videos after another. Each one elicited a dopamine shot to keep the shadows at bay, but it could do just that. You know this stuff is going to shave off your attention span bit by bit, but not faltering in front of everyone now just matters more.

Until-

“Sorry.” A stark, yet tender voice shook you, despite its message. You expected someone to come take you into their company, but it’s still a long way to go to get rid of this shell.

You turned your head back until she’s in your vision. A short-haired woman stood before you, around your age; her lips formed a weak grin. Her left hand was holding an empty plate, though with a few hints of red velvet’s frosting on it. “Can I have some more cake?”

Her right hand was in her blazer pocket.

You realized you had been standing in front of the cake stand for the last fifteen minutes. Fuck, this is embarrassing. You immediately moved away from the front table. What if I was seen as some fucker guarding all those cakes?

“What’s with that face?” 

“Uh—uh—” Being heavy in your thoughts can sometimes send some erratic, unwanted instructions to your facial features. This Fuck, this is embarrassing ordered the classic eyebrow squints, and a slight mouth frown.

“Are you seriously getting mad because I told you to move a bit?”

Ok, ok, shit, what the fuck is happening now. You were lost, failed to come up with a response. Those doe eyes were sure to be flammable with how you can feel trickles of sweat on your forehead now. First, you were all by yourself in what’s supposed to be a networking opportunity, and then this. This is how you are going to be viewed by these people now, an entitled, selfish asshole. A real chance pulled away from a single mistimed expr—

She pulled you back with her contagious simper. “I’m sorry. I was j—” She broke into another chain of laughter; there’s no reservation in those, like at all. “I was just fucking with you.” She put her right hand to cover her gaping mouth, while swaying her upper half back and forth like it was the funniest shit she has ever pulled. 

You may have just felt the largest absolute emotional slope in your life - it doesn’t really matter in terms of good or bad, just closest to being a straight line. You let out a shaken sigh, then, without knowing, you can’t help but start laughing with her in unison.

“God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect you to be s–so anxious about that.” The hilarity subsided, as she was starting to regain her composure.

You replied with some remnants of the previous guffawing. “It’s fi—ha, ha, it’s fine.” Still taking in what’s just happened.

You finally got a proper look at her. And on that exact night you first met, she wore a gray blazer, perfectly compatible with her decent height, just a few inches shorter than you – did she get it tailored? The navy wide-leg pants she had on her really gave her this “young and rising executive” look. Her short hair was a bit messy, probably from all the walking and talking she had while finishing that poor red velvet cake. 

Her nose was supposed to be the part that had you gawked, with how its bridge was flawlessly sculpted while still fitting with every other part on her face. And with the crimson lipstick on her plump lips, those features alone, perhaps, had Aphrodite working overtime. 

Then, just a bit above those, her hazel eyes, the ones that will have you gladly trapped in it for hours. The sunsets you will be sharing is going to be reflected in her eyes, as you bring your face closer to hers, to realize that she’ll be the person you can, and want to spend the rest of your life with.

(We still need to come back to the first night though. You haven’t gotten much more of her personality than that joke.)

“So, aren’t you going out and talking to someone?” She asked, her right hand using the cake server to pick up the lone chocolate one in the center of the table.

“Well, uh, it’s kinda hard to explain” You gestured your hands into an “I don’t know” pose, moving them up and down a little to imitate a weighing scale, as if you know what’s on both sides.

She puts on her curious face, staring straight into your eyes, trying to pry out an answer. “Try me”

You tried to hit back with your straight face, ready to not give in to her request, but to no avail. Her stare was getting even more intimidating. God, that gaze is strong.

“Fine.” You replied, as she giggled with her victory.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” She furrowed her eyebrows. She really looks like a confused bear with that face.

“Never have the courage to do it.”

“Well, you look like you have enough to talk to me.” She cuts the chocolate cake with her fork, before putting the piece into her mouth.

“That’s because you’re the one initiating.”

“Oka—“ She tried to reply with a stuffed mouth, but the content was still too big. She chewed it a bit more with her right hand covering her mouth, the other putting a stop sign on you. “Okay? And am I wrong for doing that?”

“No! I—“ Her right hand moved to her waist; she was burning you with her eyes, cheeks still moving. It is important that you don’t say the wrong words here. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome~” She twisted the last syllable into a melody, before letting out a cute giggle. “I’m Haewon by the way. And sorry for fucking with you a little too much.” She offered a handshake, which you reluctantly accepted. 

You suspected that there’s something weird with her then, with how chatty she was with you. Who would be going around, talking like this to other people?

It turned out a few years later that you’re the weird one.

“Aren’t you supposed to have some friends with you?” Haewon continues her pressing on you.

Shrugged, “Yeah, but I lost them like an hour ago, so—", as you fanned your eyes around for the umpteenth time of the night. The crowd rumbled, but still no sight of your peers. “I really have nowhere to go.”

Haewon kept switching her gaze between you and the crowd, as if to make more topics and banters out of it.

“You wanna join?” Haewon finally locked you within her sight; her thumb pointed away, into the uncertainty of the crowd.

“Uh—" 

It’s one of the few times you picked the right choice, even if it was clear as day.

“Let’s go then”

Joy gleamed her face, “Great, follow me”

Along with Haewon, you walked with her into the crowd. You bumped into some people who are apathetic to your action, and some even give you an understanding look, unbothered by your mistakes. The classical music blaring around seems to calm everyone down.

You’d finally reached a group of similarly-dressed students. “Welcome back Haewon, what took you so long?” One of them muttered out.

“Him.” Haewon replied, while looking at you and beams a smile.

–

Four: Cutie

–

Woke up in your orbit

Now where do I start?

–

Eighth wonder of the world: how the fuck can you secure a date with the royalty, Oh Hae-Won. You were aware – made known by her friends teasing you during a few group dates, knowing how Haewon has been spending a lot of time on her phone lately, too often with a grin on her face. 

“Hey” Haewon appears behind you in a sudden, voices in your head are now scattered.

A little shocked, “Hey”.

White tee, brown, modern crossbody bag on her shoulder, light navy jeans, hair a little shorter from that day, topped wi—

“Haiyah!” Haewon calls out, snapping you out of your trance. “You’re doing that again, aren’t you.”

“Doing what?” You replied, hoping she didn’t notice your pondering, borderline ogling on her choice of garments.

“Thinking.” She taps her head lightly. “Like you were being hypnotized or something.”

Rebuttal, “No, I wasn’t?”, and your eyebrows are marred.

“Yes, you were. And the first time I met you was also like this; you were lost in your head, and staring at me like you were trying to gauge something out of me.” She retorts with an arrogant chuckle.

“Alright, alright, fine, I’m a daydreamer, and what’s the problem with that?” You deflect the guilt. Shit, what the fuck did I say?

“Well—" Haewon nibbles her chin while finding the word. “People don’t really like being stared at, you know.”

“Yeah, that’s a fair point, my bad.” The people pleaser inside you got the better of the debater.

“Hey, look, let me give you some advice.” Determination sparks in her eyes, her hands holding on to the string. “Don’t think, just—do it, or feel it, you know.” You aren’t quite sure how to play along with her words. “The reason I’m here today is because I see something in you, and I’m sure you see something under this pretty face.”

And it’s true, Haewon sparks a sense of an adventurer inside you, even if they’re through internet lines. She brings up quite a number of places in the city you’ve never even heard the name of, and thinking of the list is, to say the least, nauseating. But under the boulder, your determination to match her venturesome nature isn’t crushed after all.

“You’re speaking like one of those life coaches, you know.” You sarcastically reply with a chuckle.

“It’s called encouragement, get used to it.” She nicks your shoulder softly. “Shall we start the walk?”

“Sure.”

–

You two stride along the road, catching the sight of other sightseers, both local and foreign. Graffitis are etched into the walls by your sides, interspersed with numerous coffee shops aimed to lure gen z customers with their furnishings. And one seems to work on you guys, because you now have an iced thai tea, while Haewon has a matcha latte, also iced.

“So.” You cut the silence, taking a sip of your content. “Are you here often?” It’s one of the more “talky” questions you can think of right now. Your head slightly turns towards her; your eyes during the rest (more than half actually) of the work to catch her in the bullseye of your vision.

“This is just my second time, to be honest.” She replies, drinking her matcha. “And I love how these buildings look; they probably look gorgeous on your camera, don't they?”

“It’s a good substitute for my Tokyo needs.” You scoff, scanning over the old houses around you.

“Oh yeah, those photos did look breathtaking, I can see why.” She brings up the photos from over a year ago, letting out a tiny smile in the process. “I’ve been to Osaka once actually.”

Surprised, “Osaka? How come you haven’t told me this already?”, she has never brought it up during the six months you’ve known each other.

“I can’t describe it as well as you, really.” Haewon looks down, still strolling at the same pace as before. “Plus, it was just for a project. We didn’t have much time for sightseeing.” She mutters out, eyes fixated on the ground.

“I think it would be fun, please?” A chortle escapes you, thinking it would let her know your enthusiasm.

It’s quite a clear day for a rainy season - hints of white clouds here and there, but never enough to rage against your first date. You two remain at a distance, still, leaving a gap between your shadows.

“No, no, you even laughed at the idea of it, I won’t tell you that.” She calls you out, whimpering as the sentence ends.

The next thirty seconds go by in silence, the two of you keep glancing at each other, evading contact at any signals. People pass you by as you walk, widening the distance between the tip of your fingers. Guilt, fear, uncerta–

“I won’t laugh again, I promise.” You give her an assurance, and that’s the best you can do.

“Really?” She looks up at you, catching your honest compassion.

“If it’s funny, I might.” You chuckle. “But I’m sure it was a good experience for you.”

“Thanks.” You lit up a grin on her face, as she’s getting all excited to tell you about her adventure.

“So, this was like three years ago, back when I had just finished my freshman year, it was a subway surveying thing.” Haewon starts her tale, with you two turning left, now walking to the river. “I went with a group of people, and it was mostly lecturing around the tracks, really.” She chuckles. “So we had just the evening for ourselves for like, a week.”

“We went to a firework festival on the first day. God, it was so fucking crowded, but the sparking lights looked spectacular. They did the color work well.” As she tells the story, you can’t help but get immersed in the words. There’s clarity in the way she recounts it, greatly assisted with how often she says “flickering”, “cold”, “bright”, “exhausting”, “overwhelming”, and much, much more.

“The wagyu just melted in my mouth.”

“The system was confusing, to be honest, like a spider’s web, but they helped me with that a lot.”

“Yeah, it was fucking cold, and I brought so many shorts because I underestimated late spring Osaka.”

You two walk past some more old buildings and a few more cafes, with her story as the melody. It sweeps your leg like a damn good movie. How vivid the atmosphere she’s enamoring you in, how she’s so enthusiastic in her reminiscence, and how she grins and narrows her eyes upon any mention of food.

After a while, the river is finally in your view, as she’s getting through her final day at Marble Beach.

“I pulled a friend I made there to see the beach with me, and he said that it changed his life.” She laughs. “It was beautiful, you really should see it.”

A soft smile escapes you. “Well, I kinda get him, really.” You two finally reach the cement barrier, heighting just on your hips. It’s not too short that Haewon would have to throw a life ring to you, yet not too tall to obstruct your river view, enough for you to rest your arms on it as if you’re posing.

“Yeah, the Odaiba Beach, right? I saw the photos, once you mentioned that.”

[More dialogue]

–

“How far is your stop?”

“Four stations.”

“Wow, I’m on six, then interchange to another four.” She sighs at the daunting route, knowing she’d be alone.

The carriage slightly shakes as it takes a small turn. Sight of people are only a few; both of you are holding onto a pole in the middle. You’re gathering all the willpower to keep your weak hand from falling onto hers.

Haewon is looking out the window in the same direction as you, eyes examining the view outside - nocturne. “Have you ever gotten bored of this?” She asks, turning her sight to face you still looking out along.

You ponder for a moment. “It looks pretty at night.”

“That’s true, but it’s not the question.” She replies. “And the way you talk is strange, you know that? Especially with how you answer questions”

“Probably from watching a lot of movies, I guess.” You deflect.

“See? You did it again!” She points at you, unbeknownst to the inadvertently closing distance between your hands on the pole. “It’s not a peeve or anything, really, but I see that you always answer yes-no questions with a reason, not directly yes or no.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve got this complaint a bit often. I have to say the same thing twice, or even thrice to a lot of people.” You reply.

“They probably expect a yes or no, perhaps?” Haewon ends the playful nudge with a chuckle. “I don’t mind though; I can catch your words.”

You can only smile in response. “Yeah, you’re gonna have to do that for a while.” You laugh, in a volume that wouldn’t make it echo inside the whole train.

“Woah, getting daring just being with me for a day? I’m having a good influence on you~” Haewon playfully takes a jab.

“You’ll have a lot of influ–” You pause. “That’s the same joke, yeah, that’s the same joke, I’m not saying it.”

She laughs, not quite as contained as yours, attracting a few looks onto you. “Yeah, I’ll see my schedule first.” Her laughter would dissolve into a smile. “I think I can sort out a few things for us.”

Us. You can melt right here and now. The way she says it so easily is just too attractive. What does she think of me? Are we a thing now? Should I kiss her?

“U—Us?” You stutter out, mind flayed.

Haewon is locked onto her calendar. “Yeah, I know I’m not that good at planning but—” She meets your eyes. “Oh.”

[You are blushing and there’s going to be a kiss at the end of this chapter.]

–

Five: Party Police

–

You don’t have to leave

You can just stay here with me

Forget all the party police

We can find comfort in debauchery

= = =

The sound of the air conditioner fills the room, emulsified with your anticipation, forming a perfect cadence. The air between you is a mixture of both minty breaths you insisted the two of you to take a spearmint candy, the gender-neutral-honey-scented body wash both of you used in separate shower sessions, and the summer breeze air purifier Haewon bought from your first trip to the convenience store together.

You two are inside her room, sitting on the queen-sized bed, hands clutched between the hole your tangled legs make.

Haewon’s lips are slightly parted, as if their owner is about to make out a sound, yet the whirring fan blows any of her half-thought intentions away. And instinctually, to which you realized a few blinks later, yours are also making their own gap, and the whirring fan blows any of your half-thought intentions away.

“I—" Haewon would be the first to stabilize her frequency, ever so mildly fluctuated by your proximity. “I love you.” She can only confirm it in a whisper, barely vibrating the dormant air around you.

Yet, it seeps in, perhaps by the sincere nature in her voice. Haewon has never looked this fragile before, and your next move can actually ignite her neurons with blue flame this time.

“I—I love you t—too.” Flushed, presto heart rhythm, you muttered out these simple words. Resting air now shook with the expressions.

You’ve kissed her many times before, the end of the first date, the middle of the second date, the start of the third date, then a full on make out session during one of The Academy’s International Film nominees, with an unknowing crowd in the theater (it helps that the movie is quite a rare action triumph, so that the wet smooches of your lips are buried under clips after clips being unloaded, and the bullet cases clanking on the floor). Though, never once has it ended with her uncontrollably uttering fucks or shits, or even deity names neither above nor under you.

Haewon starts to lean closer to you, wholeheartedly knowing that this won’t be a normal kiss. Her head tilts so acutely, barely deviated from the axis. The small, deep hum from her throat is unexpected, with her eyelids closed and all. Yet, who are you to say no to her proclamation of love.

The expectations are high, yours, hers, on this kiss to capture much more than your lips. It’s both of your first times after all. And with the contact, you can’t help but match her tone in lovestruck. Hands are still stationed, too afraid to take this further, until they aren’t yours that touches a face first. Haewon fondles your cheeks with both of her hands as the kiss ensues, persuading you to reciprocate, and you do.

Fervor rises along the ticks of all the clocks, Haewon pierces the gap you opened with her tongue, invading your mouth. You gasp in shock, signaling her to break off from the session.

“Shit, are you okay?” Haewon’s eyes enlarged, her breathing still out of rhythm.

Giggling, “No, no, no, just a little shocked, let’s continue”, as you initiate the action this time, hands holding her cheeks, tongue sweeping the insides of her mouth.

Again, fervor rises along the ticks of all the clocks, the sound of the kiss becomes the only thing you can hear now. It’s wet, a little salty, albeit ardent, and rapturous. 

And with an unknown source of bravery, your hand traverses down from her cheeks, grazing her neck. Haewon hums a minim into your throat as your fingers hit the ridge of her chest. And through the fabric, you give her left mound a squeeze, eliciting another two-beat note from her. Tender, addictive are the first few words as your fingers sink into the cloth, and the desire arises.

Your voice, muffled through the kiss, and raspy in hunger, asks such a bold question. “Fuck, God, Haewon, may I suck on them?”

Haewon would hum another note into your mouth, before unlatching from the torrid endeavor. “Make me moan, and don’t use your teeth.” She commands.

It’s all instinctual now, don’t think, just feel echoes. You playfully push Haewon onto the bed, eyes focus on your targets. The rhythm of her ragged breaths now takes over the room.

You run your hands down her luscious curves, feeling every hill and hollow on the fabric, before hitting an edge. ”May I?” As you grab the hem of her shirt, so eager to expose her.

”Of course, babe”

Permission granted, you swiftly pull the edge of her garment up, with her putting her arms up for easy exposure. The stream of the sight of her somewhat toned midriff, perky chest, and collarbones runs through your eyes, and it’s almost too heavy to take it in. “Fuck.” And you can only give a profanity for it.

“I know, right?” She responds, chuckling.

Magnetized, and sudden, your lips latch onto her left, brown peak, coating her breast with your saliva. She complies with your action under you, letting out a symphony whenever your mouth is right at the top of her areola, right before leaving, then swallowing it again. 

The buds, excited, erect under your touch. This seems to go on for minutes. You keep switching between her left and right mounds, one hand kneading the mound that isn’t currently savored, with the other traversing her upper body, marking every square inch as yours. You won’t get bored of this easily, especially with her moaning this loud.

“More, baby, more” Haewon pleads. Her hands start to push your head onto her erect nipples now.

If you’re going to be honest, it tastes just like any other part of a human body: skin, with some honey aroma after the shower. Perhaps it’s desire, perhaps it’s ardor, or perhaps it’s love, maybe all of them together, you were drawn to them. Her writhing cries only fuel the attraction further, and the force you use with your lips.

Until–

“Fuck, fuck–, yeah.” She whines. “That–That’s good, but I want more now, baby.” Haewon mutters in the same pitch as her moans, unable to retain her usual deep tone. “You seem to– love my tits– a lot, don’t you.” Her talking is constantly cut short to make ways for the ragged breaths.

“Twenty-one years of drought, babe” You chuckle, turning your head to face hers, chin hovering above her hard nubs.

“You wanna use your mouth or your dick, huh?” Slightly annoyed, yet excited, and perhaps too lecherous that she comes off as a horny cutie joke bear. “I gotta cum first, or at the same time with you, isn’t it” She seems to be aware of how your body works, and she’s right. You don’t wanna risk being unable to get yourself up again within five minutes, while she waits, unattended.

”Damn, babe, you’ve come prepared.”

”No?, I’m gonna come with you here!” She lets out another laughter, breaking the lustful mood a bit. God, she just can’t go a minute without making a joke. Her pursuit in digging any giggles out just kills you every time, even if that means the problems were hardly addressed, tingling a small part of you on the occurrences.

You sink into the glee with her. “Oh fu— fuck off babe.” But this lustful tryst just drives you into a whirlpool right now. You quickly dispose of your shorts (why the fuck would you guys even wear clothes if you’re just going to fuck after???), freeing your delirious digit.

“God.” Haewon stares at your erect cock in awe, twitching, a glint of concern in her eyes. You wouldn’t say that it’s exactly big, but it’s enough to make her gulp. “Do I have to take all of this?”

“I’ll push slowly.” You replied, panting from the brimming anticipation.

Without a word, Haewon yanks her shorts away. Another stream of her eden, thighs, and the full lower body strikes you. And Haewon is now bare in front of you, glowing, despite her cheap light hanging above. You want to cherish this moment forever, freeze it in time, or at least just slow down a bit. Oh Hae-Won trusts you enough to expose herself, fully, in front of you. And you aren’t sure which gesture can compare to this as her proclamation of love (maybe a marriage proposal, but let’s not get into that yet).

“I thought you’d do it slower”

“All that foreplay got me so fucking turned on, babe, plus, I’m not on the shy side.”

“The nipple sucking?”

“Yeah, that meal you just had. Also, take off that shirt, I wanna feel all of you.”

Ordered, you hastily get rid of the last piece of garment, tossing it into the void, following your shorts. Both of you are now fully naked, only the cold, compressed air is your barrier now.

“Good, now come here” She says with a wink, provocative, commanding, yet so greedy. Haewon is resting on her back, with her elbows lifting her abdomen just a little from the bedsheet, enough to face you without much eye movement, smiling with desire. She bends her left leg a little, and it drives you crazy. 

Fuck, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, perhaps ranked among the gods: Hera, Artemis, Athena, Hestia, and Haewon’s victory is a certainty. She can even go bar for bar against Aphrodite, her own creator, under this cheap room lamp. And you can’t just wait to be tied to this lady with her deity-defying charm with such an intimate act.

“You want my cock that bad, Miss Oh?” You slowly, to make it a tease, slide your knees against the bedsheet towards Haewon, getting closer to her, inch by inch. Haewon opens her leg, giving you permission and space to be in her proximity. Her eden is now in view, glistened with arousal. 

“There’s just this thing, ma’am, that I wanna take a sample of first.” Playfulness is attached in your message. She’s still on her elbows, heads slightly tilted at your defiance, as if you also have a god-challenging act in your pocket as well. And with some more inspection, it’s apparent that Haewon isn’t a firm believer in having cleanly-shaved hair, and somehow, this kind of nature just drives you into a frenzy.

“And what is it, mister?” Haewon asks, still with seduction, eyes locking on yours.

“You.” And without another word, you dive face first onto her wet, needy sex. Your nose is pressed against her mound, pubic hair brushes against it, but the “distraction” never succeeds in repelling you away. Further, it feeds the ferocity inside you to take in her scent, with a deep breath. With the sight alone, you thought you reached your limit, yet, spellbound under her musk, a hint of sweat, the honey-scented body wash, and her mildly tart aroma from the inside sends you into a literal mind break, like a morning coffee. Haewon is fucking addictive, and you can’t go a single day without her smell.

“She s–smells good, doesn’t s–she?” Her voice starts to quiver again, as your nose tickles her hair.

Meanwhile, your tongue, with a mind of its own, is lapping up her nectar, savoring the salty, tangy taste of her canal. Her sensitive nub, the one you’re sure it’s clitoris, is now stuck in your philtrum. Every swipe just grazes it, eliciting squeals from her.

“F–fuck.” Haewon cries out, starting to get lost in her immediate pleasure, “Ah.”, and your enthusiasm. “Just f-five minutes babe.”

Mouth busy in a sinful act, you hum an affirmative note out. Her vagina is now coated with your saliva, mixed with her lubricant. And with each time you pull yourself out, there’s sometimes a string of the cocktail connecting your lips to her sex - a thread between you and her.

At first, it’s a savoring session of her taste, for you, but as her wailing grows louder, you can only be curious about the limit. And without hesitation, you give her clitoris a brush - the same way you suck her nipple. As your lips contact, delicate, her moans would reach such a forte to the point you’re quite sure that everyone in the dorm would be able to hear.

Conspiring her frustration, “Want a few more, babe?”, you retreat your ministrations to her pale thighs, making a few marks here and there, robbing the pleasure that was once hers.

“Fuck you.” Haewon groans out. “Please, keep eating my pussy, please.”

You bring your fingers into play, caressing her inner trunks. And, with instinct, you slip yourself under her ass. Your eyes are still locking on her wet hole, and she seems to gush out streams of honey now. “Y–You are f–fucking insuf–” She moans out as you relentlessly withholding the release she deserves.

“Can’t hear with my hands under your ass, babe” It’s as if something possessed you into a womanizer, a shot of complacency.

Haewon would be able to muster up her remaining inhibition to define you with an adjective. “I–Insufferable.”

“That’s a little mean.” Your hands give her firm butt a squeeze, feeling the soft flesh. This is probably how Indiana Jones felt when he got his hand on the golden idol: like an ascendant. “Considering how soft your ass is.” You lick just beside the spot, motioning parallel to the pink labia.

Haewon groans in frustration, climax stolen by a thief. “Sh–shut the fuck up and put that tongue to use!” In forte, all the pent up energy can crush you into bits and pieces in minutes, while you are still drawing circles around your supposed target, pushing her to the edge of wrath, right before it turns into destruction. “FUCK!”

You are actually scared of her now, and perhaps the complaints of her neighbors about some tenant bossing a guest around in the nocturne. So, complying, you put your tongue to use, taking another sample of the mixture, tasting her and yourself again.

“Good boy, yeah, like that.” She whimpered out, being put back en route to paradise.

Constant pace, don’t go too fast. You tell yourself an advice you’ve read somewhere years ago, and you do as it says. You try to keep the speed the same, but it’s starting to get harder as Haewon decides that she needs something to hold on to, which is, unfortunately, your head. I once had a guy go too fast when I told him I’m gonna cum, and that was the ride down, my mood died completely. A comment you’ve seen somewhere pops up.

Your jaw can never get tired, if it is to devour her into ecstasy. But the force pressed upon your head is starting to be a double-edged sword to her, a place to hold on to, and the act that might close the golden gate.

The five minutes she gave earlier might come into use.

“B—babe.” You cry out between licks, voice muffled. “I wanna use my cock now.”

Haewon lets go of the grip she has in your hair locks, as she looks down from her lying position. “Really?” Expectations running high, she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” She thwarts her arm along the bed for a little while, a little lost, until she catches her colorful spot-covered pillow. And without any word, you help Haewon lift her hips up to insert the fluffy object below, bringing her puckered hole into your focus.

Tranced, “Can I taste it?” the words fell out without any restrictions.

“Don’t fucking kiss me again if you do; I don’t wanna taste my asshole.” Haewon commands, trying to regain her composure. “Maybe another day.”

You whine out. “Ugh, fine.” Before getting on your knees for the main event.

You use her spread thighs as a handle while aiming with your eyes. You line up your twitching digit on the center, resting it on her now-swollen clit. And a small whimper from Haewon would reach your ear, fueling your fire.

“You want this inside you, huh?” You tease, sliding your shaft against her core from the outside, glazing yourself with her honey resting on the nub.

“Fuck… yeah, I—I want it inside.” Haewon chokes out at your heavenly connection; her attempt at putting any façade is crumbling.

Slowly, your rod still above her center, you traverse your hands up her immaculate legs, onto her stomach. Her breaths are now short, out of any earlier rhythm, as your touch starts to overwhelm her senses. “F—fuck.” You’d only move upwards, creeping up her beautiful chest, until they are up for your hands to conquer. She’s yours now.

Now, you have her tits as a grip, ever so carefully fondling them while slowly juggling the movements: your hands squeezing, your hip thrusting, and your upper body leaning in to see her giving in closer and closer. It’s all there, eyes fluttering, lips shaking, loud moaning, and her whole firm frame writhing under you.

You aren’t going in for a kiss, really, but she forces you nonetheless. Hands gripping the sides of your head, Haewon would scream from the overstimulation, all restricted in your mouths, into you, letting out any control she has left.

“Babe.” You mutter out. And even slightly distorted by fervor, she’d break off from the locks under your voice.

Mouth agape, she looks into your eyes, using the final bit of her inhibition to predict your next words. “You can put it in, baby.” And you can only smile.

You guide your rod down to her engine, but neither of you has ever been more ready to ignite the moans. Your left hand has her thigh on the same side as a handle.

Wet, indeed, she welcomes you. The excessive preparation gives easy access, and you become the same groaning lump as she was, swallowed by rapture. In the wake of bliss, you tilt your head down until the sight of your disappearing cock is in the frame, inch by inch. 

The insides of her tighten when you reach halfway, and you can feel your tip grazing a rough patch. “Fuck!” Haewon’s body tenses up, and she lets out a higher note than usual. You also pitch a sound lower than hers, but also noticeably higher than your regular octave.

You slowly bury yourself up to the hilt, now able to let go of your flesh. Haewon stutters a moan out when your patch makes contact with her. 

“S–Seems like you can handle all of me, babe.” Your voice is quivering, without any movement to your body. You keep yourself whole with her.

Haewon can only whimper in response. 

“I-I’ll start fucking you now.” You say as you start to grind your hips back. Haewon nods, giving you the right to control the pace.

Your cock, at an agonizing speed, comes back into view. You can feel the muscles inside gripping you and how the rough patch grazes the top of your digit, evoking staccatos from her. God, anyone would kill to be in your position right now.

And at the halfway point, it’s where you push back in again, still carefully. Haewon surrenders any power she has now, with her g-spot being pleasured by another person for the first time. The suffocating squeeze she has on you persists, sending waves of pleasure around your dick.

It becomes a loop: retreat and thrust, retreat and thrust, and you finally find your rhythm. It’s ecstatic - the way her flesh embraces you. You repay her accommodation with a little angling, aiming for the sensitive patch in the second step. Both of you are lost now, blinded by the passionate endeavor you’re engaging in.

Haewon’s brain can only register euphoria, howling as your tip brushes against the g-spot. And you are no better, bucking hips back and forth, chasing your release while huffing out such notes you could hit before the existence of your Adam’s apple. The only concern now is that your roller coaster would reach its peak before hers.

“Hey, I t–think I’m gonna c–cum now.” Haewon’s words came out tattered, divided by exaltations in her groans. It's a heaven’s message, as you can also feel your climax close by.

Keep your pace; don’t go faster.

You make no attempt to go rougher with your drilling; she’s already a blushing, wailing mess under Allegro Vivace. You can also feel a knot starting to form inside of you, begging to be untangled. “M–Me too, babe.”

Haewon’s moans become even louder than the oral session minutes ago; her orgasm is close by. You can feel the way her vagina contracts around your movements, and you aren’t far from it, either.

Two lost souls search for intimacy, and they eventually find each other. And the mistakes they’ve made don't matter anymore. The people they’ve passed through, either able to find solace or dissonance, have become nothing more than a plot device to drive them forward, for them to meet. And even if the future remains clouded, it’s just them at this exact moment, becoming each other’s sanctuary.

“FUCK!” Haewon cries out. As her hip convulses, bending your digit slightly. She pulls her legs back, feet touching her pale ass before they go up in the air. Haewon cums, violent, ferocious, cathartic. Her whole body tenses up; her tits are shaking. Her walls tighten around you, begging to milk every upcoming drop of you until dry. 

You take in the view but can only register a few words to describe how you feel right now: fuck, and god. She screams from the top of her lungs to accommodate such pleasure. And isn’t it a symphony that’s so pleasing to hear, knowing that they are products of your doings?

Haewon’s breathing starts to slow down, but seeing how she becomes undone beneath, you quicken your thrusts to chase the high you’re anticipating. “Fuck!” Under sensitivity, Haewon squeals.

“Do you want me to slow down, babe? I can still cum no matter the pace.” With care, you ask.

“I–I wanna t–try.” Her syllables come out in stutters, “Keep going.”,  as your length rams into her cunt even faster than before her high.

You keep your fast, lively tempo, and that seems to be the right choice. You can play the melody faster, yet you already fail to register all the fucks and shits, Haewon mutters out while being pounded. You’re guided by your intuition at this point. It builds up inside your stomach, calling to be broken free. You feel your legs wobbling like jello, and your awareness of whether there’s any left, opposite Haewon’s, has left your body already.

And with a single, final thrust, “FUCK!” you bend yourself down to capture her lips, screeching all the satisfaction from your high into her mouth. Spurts of cum released into her welcoming cunt, while you basically buried yourself inside her, twitching under orgasm. Haewon moans into your mouth at each of your vibrations. Lustful, your tongues are swirling inside each other’s mouth, tasting each other as much as you can.

Thick cum is still discharged into her, painting her insides with white. And slowly, you start to slide down from the precipice. Your cock still twitches inside her cunt; the remaining cum only dribbles out from the hardness now. The kiss remains magnetic; you two are too hungry for each other. You can only taste the mint candy from earlier.

Finally, it breaks, a string of saliva connects your lips together, as both of you are bathed in the afterglow. Haewon’s face is drenched from her own sweat, panting, and smiling. “I love you.” She mouths, trying to make sense of her heart rhythm, soft breaths touching your face.

You’re still panting, attempting to take in her words. Even if they’re the same as from the beginning, when the clothes are still barriers between you, it sears you this time. A lock has been solved, yet you are still questioning the contents inside the box.

Then, you realize that it’s your heart, “I love you too, babe.”, and it can explode right here. Love floods, lust flows, binding you two together, in the vast sea of possibilities.

Haewon smiles before pulling you into another kiss. This one is much less passionate than the ones preceding, but it’s, nonetheless, affectionate. The way she captures your lips is too confident for you to be unsure about the attachment she gives you, and that might be the first time in your life that you’re so certain of someone else’s love, and her name is Oh Hae-Won.

Exhausted and spent, you let yourself fall onto her side, looking up. Your left arm is resting on her collarbones. “Fuck.” Your vocabulary seems to shrink under ecstasy as the cadence rings too loud for you to think properly.

“That was fun.” Haewon scoffs, before turning her bare frame towards you, head resting on her hand. “We should do this more often.”

“Should? I’m fucking you everywhere, babe.” You reaffirm with a simper.

“Shit.” Haewon chuckles before seeming to remember something. She quickly gets up from the bed. “I’ll go pissing first. It’s this–”

“UTI. Yeah, I’ve read about it.” You cut her off to show off your knowledge of sex education. “Can we cuddle after?” You plead, attempting to make a cute face.

“Sure.” She laughs, pointing at you. “If you don’t mind having your back getting a bit wet.”, and you can only smile back at her. Haewon would saunter out to her bathroom with a slight limp, managing to sway her reddened cheeks. Fuck. 

And despite the low light, you can see drops of your cum, dribbling a shine down her legs. “Are you going to clean th–”

“No.” She winks before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving a trail of nectar in her path.

You bite your lip in another rise of your arousal.

–

You hear the sound of tap water running from inside the bathroom before the lock clicks. Haewon appears in front of your eyes again, still naked.

“I kept the promise.” She says.

Immediately, still on her bed, you press your vision down her body. Her pussy remains glistened with your white cum, mixed with her tangy lubricant. Perhaps your saliva is also blended into the liquid.

“God, Haewon.” Again, your mind goes blank. “It has been just five minutes. I really can’t do that.”

Haewon chuckles, swaying her alluring hips closer to you. “I know.” Before she pounces you on the bed, staining the sheets with your fluids. Haewon prints a few kisses here and there, usually in the proximity of your lips and neck. And, in disbelief, you watch over her body to see that the five-minute gap is enough for your cock to be ready again.

“Fuck.”

Haewon’s glance follows yours to your erection.

“Another round, babe?”

–

Six: Just Another Girl

–

Now why can’t I sleep at night?

And why don’t the moon look right?

–

Sunlight peeks through the gap in your curtains, casting on the blanket that’s covering any visual hints of last night’s debauchery. Her arms retain their restrictive nature, an environment you’d enthusiastically enlist for. Her fingers barely interlocking on your heart, feeling the thrumming lullaby she holds on to like the greatest hits.

Her chest is pressed against your back, and the fact that you notice this (and how you savored their peaks last night with such unbeatable hunger) only entices your morning wood to last longer than it should’ve. You snuggle into her embrace further, establishing yourself as hers and pressing yourself into her perky breasts even harder, wanting to feel every inch of them.

“Hmm?” Haewon finally wakes up, fading her tightness wrapped around you.

Slightly panicked, you grab her escaping hand onto your warm skin. “Hey.” And you greeted her.

Haewon chuckles. “Oh, this boy needs a hug, huh?”

You close your eyes and hum in agreement, since her embrace becomes another gesture you’ve grown to love now, even if it was discovered just a few minutes ago.

“How was last night, my baby boy?” She questioned you with a tiny simper.

You can only chuckle along. “Cathartic, babe, but I’m not doing the whole mommy thing right now.”

Haewon laughs. “Okay, fine, I’ll ask you properly later, though.”

The cuddle went on for minutes. You are unwilling to let her go after such intimacy you had. After a while, you notice the scar on your chest. This may be the time you show her, but you need bravery. And you’re not sure if love could muster it up.

[A paragraph demonstrating Haewon’s good influence on you and how you’ve influenced her]

“I wanna tell you something, with us being this bare and such.” You gathered a little courage to speak up, adamantly attempting to show her your so-called scar. 

Haewon would let out a tiny chuckle at your cheap joke. “Unload them to me, babe.” She lets out another tiny chuckle, resting her head on a makeshift stand of her fist. You can’t help but join along with her.

“Oh my god, fuck you.” You said, along with a laugh.

“You just did.” 

“Okay, okay, I’ll start now, don't distract me this ti—" You let out a small giggle, as she’s still soaked in her own hilarity. “It’s like seven years of story; trust me, it’s more fun than you’d think.”

“Seven years? Is it like, a long-term heartbreak or something, and what’s with you making everything into a story, catastrophic or not.” Haewon asks.

“Well—” You contemplate - whether to spoil the ending for her or not, but she can probably guess by the way you purposefully hold out the information in lieu of instantly answering. “Seven years ago, in late April, I just started high school.”

You can see the late morning sunlight reflected in her eyes, single-minded on your tale.

“You want me to close the curtains first?” You direct your thumb toward the gap.

“No need, plus, you look better with the light.” She smiles, sincerity can be felt from it, maybe it’s the way the light drapes on your right half of her face.

“Thanks, babe, okay, where was I— Yeah, seven years ago, late April, high school.”

–

“And then I met you.”

“You know that you’re the asshole in this one, right?” Haewon hits you with such a question.

Certainty of a weeping eluded, “Fuck, not even a single tear?”

“Wow, this lack of self-awareness is concerning, babe, and this is out of love.” She scoffs. “You’re the bad guy here.”

“Look, I’ve been telling myself about the same statement since that day, so yeah, Haewon, I’m aware that I’m the asshole in this story.”

“Were you hurt by it or something?” Haewon asks with genuine curiosity, she caught the sadness in your tone, yet unable to make sense of it. Her head remains resting on her fist, albeit making a ninety degrees apart from you.

“I— yeah, I know it was my fault, but—“ You avert her gaze, staring at the blanket covering her midriff. “It was five years, almost. And it still hurts sometimes whenever I see something that reminds me of her.”

Haewon would give you a blank expression; her next words are unpredictable.

“I kinda— get the idea? You can’t deal with college life, so she becomes a–no, the source for you to vent shit. And one day, it became too much, with that fight making it wor–no, apparent.” It’s nothing short of incredible that she gets all of it within the first iteration and gives you the much-needed feedback (even if you’ve already considered this possibility). 

“And she wants you to get better. She didn’t think she could be the person you could rely on anymore. This is how I see it.” With ease, Haewon recounts the most plausible explanation, the one you’ve been avoiding accepting.

“Yeah, it’s…” You resist the urge to argue with her point, realizing that such emotional manipulation cannot work. Perhaps the amount of self-awareness poured in just doesn’t work anymore. “You’re right.”

“There’re some points that I… kinda understand you? Like the whole being insecure stuff, but all of this is just a shitshow, babe. You even write a fic about it.” A tiny simper leaves her mouth.

“Spielberg made a film about his parent’s divorce; Taylor Swift has, well…”

“Steven’s was like… sixty years? And I think Taylor can be an asshole, to be honest, aside from All Too Well.” Haewon replied without a delay.

“Agree to disagree.” You can only sigh afterward, and maybe it’s the way your breath taps on her chest more heavily than it should or the way you avert the eye contact you’ve been maintaining.

“Hey, are you okay?” Her doe eyes hints concern, while the fingers lightly caress your cheek.

Destined, your tears well up just a little, but enough for you to detect and hold back. “Kinda.”

Haewon lets out a sigh, the back of her free fingers still fondling your cheek. “I’m sure you’ve changed.”

“It's been more than two years now.” Your lips quiver. “B–But telling you here, it’s just…”

Like the first time with your therapist, like the first time you tell your colleagues, your tears are always on the hinge as the story ends.

“I know I can’t fix it - this whole weird love-hate relationship of yours.” She finally sits up. “But I know you aren’t the person you were.” Your cheeks are suddenly cupped by both of her hands. “And as long as you… try to be better, I’ll be with you.” Haewon ends her speech with a caring look.

Nothing in her deliverance is poetry-worthy; they’re basic quotes you’d find in the self-help books. Though, the words not coming from some self-centered guy melts the cynic inside you, and that’s when tears start to fall.

“I also know that it hurts, even if you’re the one who’s wrong.” She softly cheers up.

Through the sobs, “Y–You’re quite di–direct, babe.” You try to wipe the tears off your watering eyes.

She lets out a sympathetic titter. “I’m not the best at this, sorry.”

“I-It’s fine. Thanks for being here.” You succumb to the lamentation, crying your heart out, as Haewon embraces you. Maybe it’s the way you’re naked on someone else’s bed, maybe it’s the way her chest presses up against your chin, or perhaps it’s the way she puts her leg over yours as if she’s using a side pillow, but you’ve never felt more vulnerable in your life. And you’re probably being engulfed by it under the right person.

–

Epilogue: Keeping Tabs

–

I wish I never met you.

You are the worst thing that I’m still

Keeping tabs on for some stupid reason.

–

“It’s quite a lot of stations, babe. Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah–”

It was your birthday two days ago. How old are you now, twenty-five? Three years after graduation, you rejected a job offer from Japan because you didn't want to leave your girlfriend. Not that it was a wrong choice, since the number of fights, sex, and after-fight, angry, heated sex between you and Haewon sits on the average rate. 

Further, not having to buy a plane ticket every time you want to see your parents, or your friends is definitely a plus. Just a few hours after the plane landed in Narita, you want to break Japan’s immigration law. God, those streets are miles better than what you have at home.

It seems that trying to reach Odaiba Beach from Meguro Sky Garden takes an hour, plus walking. Sure, it’s ninety minutes to sunset, but you can feel doubts in her voice and your own. It’s the few final days, and all of your words hyping this exact place up only make her feral.

“Maybe we can make it if we start walking now, instead of like– arguing over this.”

Haewon shoots you a glare. “This trip would go to waste if we can’t make it before sunset.” And she takes a step towards you, pointing at your chest. The sun still casts a long shadow of her on the ground.

“Waste?” You arch your eyebrows. “Says the one who spent a whole fucking day at Shinjuku to sweep Uniqlo’s stocks.”

The wind blows over the metal fence, assorted colors of leaves swirling around you.

Her eyes remain fixated on you, before giving an apologetic expression. “Yeah that’s fair. It’s a bit of a quickfire for me on that.” 

You snap a photo of her before replying. “Those cardigans are cheaper here anyway, don’t worry.”

She reaches for your camera, X-E4, examining the image of her, and smiles. “Let’s go.” Before leading you, handheld, to the elevator down from the garden.

–

“God.”

“It seems like we’re here at the right time” You speak, before taking another photo of Haewon, showered under the orange of the setting sun.

Haewon is left speechless at the sight in front of her: Rainbow Bridge, salmon sky from the sunset, tinged with clouds, some purple, red, orange. You think it’s probably from some kind of refraction. People aren’t scarce, but to say that there’s a crowd is an overstatement. It’s pretty much the same as in your memory from five years ago. How are the people in my photos doing now?

Similar to the last time, when the breakup was just over a month, you take in the view. It’s just that you aren’t basked in melancholy anymore. Sure, you’re still keeping tabs on her every few months, but it’s nothing more than a blocklist check. You aren’t ready to face Minji, really, and not seeing each other again would be a kind gesture by the gods. However, the hate etched into your wrists isn’t quite as visible anymore.

Still, you can’t play down her impact on your life. In spite of the indirect nature of the teachings, you learned how to love and what to do with one.

“I’ll be back, babe. I’ll see if I can swim to the bridge from here.” Haewon speaks out, like the first encounter, snapping you out of your trance.

Shook, “I’ll wait here; make sure not to get swept into the sea.”, and you joke, smiling.

“See ya.” Haewon grins back, gesturing a goodbye, before stepping out towards the water.

–

[A few paragraphs leading up to the encounter with Minji again; yeah, it’s a little anticlimactic for you to see this in your first read, sorry]

You failed to say a word to her, and there may not be any second chance for this.

It’s funny, miles away from where you’ve feared most. No soul in the world would’ve expected this. 

The sun continues on its path, too busy rushing to make its predetermined setting time, ergo apathetic to the colors it casts onto the sky and the way Minji is elegantly bathed by it. Her features are frozen, you alike, mouth slightly ajar. Waves crashing onto the sand keep filling in the silence between you, each encouraging your heart to push out a syllable you’re choking. There’s no battle on who would give in to snapping back into reality first since the argument on the encounter being a dream is too plausible.

Though less often as time goes on, Minji has been your recurring nocturnal figure. Occasionally, she appears as the one who has disregarded your cries during those final days – unresponsive, cold, unaware of your collapse. If not, it’s you and her enamored in what you’ve always wanted her to see, conversing like high school students again. Either way, you usually classify the world surrounding you as nightmares after the alarms are off, almost always with tears welling and ragged breaths, as if her presence alone is enough to give vitality to your nights.

But if this is a lucid dream, both of you would’ve laughed by now, under the Odaiba Beach sunset. Memories are washed away into the sea, making way for you to run along the shoreline, free from any grievances. You wouldn’t go as far as saying that it could’ve been her on the flight here with you, even if the potential of it touches you in more than one way.

The bewilderment of meeting her in where’s supposed to be your sanctuary hasn’t faded one bit. It clouds the fact that she has preserved her high ponytail. She grips her denim jacket ever so tightly while slightly parting aside from the center, revealing a pitch-black turtleneck shirt beneath. The brown string crossing her body is holding her likely expensive handbag resting on the side of her hips. All of these are topped with beige, all-creased pants, undercut with sneakers of the same color, or not, you don’t seem to care anymore.

Voice notes and texts are woven into a tapestry, the one you and she cut as your paths diverged. Yet, your threads, somehow, have been remaining set to interlock with each other again after all this time. The track was divided into a parallel, just with a sea of hatred, sometimes reflecting a spark of care.

It’s still clear as day, the way she left you blind, likely without remorse, any glimmer of hope was eradicated with blocks on social media. The way you tell the version of your story enough times for you to find the median and average spot where people would start to cry. And not that you were left unshaken with each iteration; you just stop before giving in to the sorrow hanging off the edge of your tear ducts. And at one point, it became another tale, a cult classic to you.

Still, this is no place and time to assert your wounds anymore. It’s Tokyo, and five years have passed. Getting one over her shouldn’t matter anymore, you know that. What’s left to achieve in triumph is just plunging the dagger into yourself once more, revisiting how shaken you have been without her for all these years. And three, you’re the one on the wrong side.

Plus, it’s not so awful that she left, even if it casts you in a state of bereft in the first few months. You deleted her photos, and both of you blocked each other. You learned to collect yourself up again, shredding what was once shared while coming to terms with the ones rooted in the essence of you, learning to let them be shared with others. The cadence doesn’t entirely sound like it was, yet it’s what you’ve accepted as days pass.

You still hate her; it’s a known fact. I fucking hate you rings true to this day - a half-thought during a fire burned into your wrists, calling out to be crossed off. Guilt, shame, and self-loathing have been rooting off it, yet you can’t bleed the source out.

In the shadows that the sun cast, you feel a twitch in the corner of your mouth - the determination to conceal any hints of glee at her presence is trying to keep itself afloat. Another gulp in your throat only delays the inevitable; your cheek is trembling from an unknown feeling. It’s teasing the brim. It’s tasting the uncertainty. It’s towering over your hatred. And it brings the nocturnal summer wind that embraced you on the first day at high school, the day she picked up her name tag when everything was in the right place.

“Kim Min-Ji.” Your teacher called as she stood up to pick up her name tag.

“I like you.”

And it flows through you–

“Him? Not really.”

“God, you suck at badminton.” You did “outscore” her by quite a margin (twenty-one to six).

–all the words you’ve said–

“I’ll probably be a doctor. You haven’t chosen yours yet?”

–all the words she has said–

“I think she’s the one.” (She wasn’t.)

“These early mornings are killing me.” Her high school project was killing her.

“Yeah, I can’t be bothered with all this studying. I’ll probably make some nice portfolio and pray.”

–all the dreams drawn together–

“If someone wants to enter here, they can just look at these pics and follow the instructions. It might not be for everyone, I guess. I still wish I could help them, though.”

“I really fucked up a lot during quarantine, like my mental state was dwindling.”

“Now I’m going to be a tired doctor all my life.” She scoffs, downplaying her success.

“This place is filled with rich people.”

–all the struggles vented–

“God, I look so pretty in this.” The red lipstick looks good on her; you wish you knew the exact shade.

“We need to recreate this photo; you stand here.”

“See ya.” She said, not knowing it would be the last time you would see each other face to face.

“Really fucking drunk right nowww, just wanna say you’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had, like definitely top five, haha.” It was a drunk text in a bar under the blaring music.

–all the love proclaimed–

“I’ll probably have to study another year. You’re still invited to my graduation, though. We’d be like twenty-six by then, right?” 

“I’m sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have done that, too.”

“I fucking hate you.” The line that became a part of you ever since.

–and the ending.

“Don’t message me anymore; just go live your life separately. Have a pleasant life.”

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Delete Permanently

It’s as if someone made a supercut of you two.

It's excruciating, the way it seeps through your brain, the same one that hung you to be ravaged by the abyss. A wave of serotonin washes over your face, sheathed within the Tokyo Bay’s serenity. And a smile forms, over five years of her name being a crucifixion. It’s you breaking the cadence, and you can only beg her to accept it.

Alas, you have never been in the position to ask for anything. You’ve always been the convict in the sad songs supposed to bury you under their alphabets, robbing the sorrow you meant to drown into. You are her mistake, one that she’s likely so enthusiastic to cross off in her diary.

Yet, under the setting sun, in such a foreign place, and after years of it, maybe she forgets, maybe she forgives, or perhaps she doesn’t care about it. But if even it is written in the sand of Odaiba Beach, it would also be etched on the same wound you see on your pulse, that Kim Min-Ji reciprocates your smile, with a chuckle even, back bent forward the same way you remember to accommodate such elation.

And free from conviction, you are. It’s not the late-night, thumbs-on-keyboard kind of relationship anymore, neither being two free spirits against the world; it’s two people, unshackled from grudges. It’s the closure in the same veins of La La Land, a tapestry of love remains, despite the zeroes and ones translated as blocks, plus the frontal lobe chemicals interpreted as detestations. There has always been a part of you that cares - under the miles of self-loathing from guilt and the despise entrenched in you.

As cued, the setting sun is refracted in the drop of tear grazing your left cheek. She seems fine, even if she’s drowned in her droplets, thirty, forty, or fifty—you aren’t sure anymore—meters away from the idyllic waves. It won’t be the same, and it can never be. Years of walling each other out only dims any remaining glimmer. But here you are, under the Tokyo sun, laughing and crying on such an unfortunate encounter.

You aren’t fourteen again. It doesn’t feel like the first day or the first words of you two. It’s two grief-stricken adults with a shared past. Both cannot hold on to their grudges, though, just you being an asshole for having them.

You aren’t her mistake after all, and she’s not your mistake anymore.

And it’s not witty, but it would suffice.

“Hey.”

—

“That was her, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How was it? I see that you guys were kinda smiling.”

You ponder for a moment, a little too long before Haewon would ask again.

“It ends well, right?”

“I suppose so.”

—

I need to get over you.

minji remembered the first time she saw y/n, how her heart had skipped a beat. she's different, she’d always say, a soft smile on her lips as she looked at her. and it was true. y/n had a way of making her feel alive, like she was finally part of something bigger than herself.

but then, as time passed, those little things began to slowly creep in.

"can you please just pick up your clothes?" minji’s voice was sharper than she intended as she glanced at the mess on the floor. "i’ve asked you so many times."

y/n looked up from where she was sitting, a bit startled. "i’m sorry, i didn’t realize it bothered you that much. i’ll clean it up."

but the next day, the clothes were there again, and minji felt that familiar irritation build up inside her. she sighed heavily, not saying anything this time, but the silence spoke volumes.

as the weeks went by, the list of things that annoyed her seemed to quickly grow. "why are you always late? we were supposed to leave half an hour ago," she’d snap, trying to hide her frustration.

"i’m sorry, minji. i lost track of time," she’d reply, her tone apologetic but tinged with the exhaustion of repeating the same conversation over and over.

minji knew she was being unfair. she should have talked to y/n, should have explained how these little things were getting to her. but instead, she let them brew. "it’s nothing," she’d say when y/n asked if something was wrong, forcing a smile that never reached her eyes.

the distance between the two girls grew, and minji began to pull away. work became her refuge, a place where she didn’t have to think about the growing tension at home. i’m going to be late again tonight, she’d text y/n, even when she didn’t need to stay late. don’t wait up.

when she was home, the silence between the both of them was unbearable. the laughter that used to fill the space was gone, replaced by cold, strained conversations. minji would sit across from y/n at the dinner table, barely speaking, her mind elsewhere. she missed her—missed the way things used to be—but she didn’t know how to get back to that place.

one night, after another argument, she finally lost it. "why can’t you just be on time for once? why is everything such a struggle with you?"

"minji, I’m trying," y/n shot back, hurt flashing in her eyes. "but it feels like no matter what i do, it’s never enough for you."

"you’re right," minji spat out, her voice rising. "it’s not enough. i don’t even know who or what we are anymore!"

the words hung in the air, harsh and unforgiving. minji saw the way they hit y/n, the way her face crumpled as if she had slapped her. but instead of backing down, she pressed on, too caught up in her own anger to see what she was doing. "maybe we’re just not right for each other."

y/n stared at her, disbelief and pain etched into every line of her face. "is that really what you think?" her voice was quiet, almost broken.

"i don’t know," minji replied, her own voice wavering now that the anger was starting to rise. "i just know i can’t keep doing this."

there was a long silence, the kind that felt like it stretched on forever. finally, y/n broke it, her voice trembling as she spoke. "if that’s how you feel, then maybe i should go."

minji felt a pang of regret, but her pride kept her from reaching out, from stopping y/n. "maybe you should."

y/n nodded slowly, the hurt in her eyes nearly unbearable to see. "goodbye, minji."

"goodbye," she whispered back, barely audible as she watched y/n turn and walk out the door. she wanted to call out to her, to take it all back, but the words wouldn’t come out. as the door closed behind y/n, minji stood there, the reality of what had just happened slowly dawning on her.

in the silence that followed, minji finally understood what she had done. she had pushed you away, let her frustrations and insecurities destroy the best thing that had ever happened to her. and now, it was much too late to fix it.

she sank onto the couch, burying her face in her hands as the tears she had been holding back finally fell. "what the hell did i do?" she whispered to the empty room, but there was no one left to hear her.

the relief she had thought she would feel never came. instead, all that remained was the empty ache of regret and the knowledge that she had destroyed what could have been a beautiful love. and as she sat there, alone with her thoughts, minji realized that she had only herself to blame.

a/n: happy birthday, chloepoo !!! @soobnotfound

“i don’t think i’ve ever even been within ten feet of jungwon. people will say anything if you’re the same age as someone else. or honestly, if they just think you’re shippable with them. how ridiculous is that,” minji snorts as she fingers the sapphire necklace thoughtlessly.

you try to laugh, nodding as your mind wanders. “yeah. so ridiculous.”

that night, you spent a good three hours searching up jungwon and fall down a rabbit hole of jungwon x minji ships on tiktok. you try to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach when you realize just how well jungwon and minji match each other.

leaders. thoughtful. kind. so incredibly beautiful.

you weren’t bad looking - you knew that. and you knew that minji loved every single part of you, no matter how much you got in your head about it. but it was different for her. she didn’t even think about things that deep.

“have you ever noticed how uneven my eyes are? it’s like they’re on separate floors on my face,” you said one day, as minji’s not on camera for a second because she’s washing her face after practice. minji ducks into frame, white foam still on her face from her cleanser as she looks at you incredulously.

“y/n, i don’t think so at all. honestly, i don’t even know what you’re talking about; your eyes look fine to me,” she says, before ducking out of frame once more to wash the rest of the foam off of her face. minji can still see that you’re not completely comforted yet and she holds up her phone at an incriminating angle, as though she was scrutinizing your face.

“y/n, i literally see the most beautiful pair of eyes that could ever exist. you’re too hard on yourself. i promise no one sees what you think that they do. all they see is how kind you are and how genuine you are,” minji says and she can see the small smile that you’re trying to fight away and she considers her girlfriend duties to be fulfilled. for the moment, at least.

but that was a year ago, before newjeans was formed and before you started seeing minji’s face more often on billboards than in the comfort of her arms on a quiet date in your apartment.

now, when you get insecure about the tiny little things you don’t like about yourself, you stare longingly at the phone that you’re waiting for to ring, hoping that your girlfriend will call and wash all your insecurities away.

she tries her best - she really does. minji calls you whenever she can, even if she has to call you at 3 in the morning in america so she can catch you before you head to class. she’ll send presents to your door instead of actually showing up because she doesn’t want to compromise your safety.

and she will never take off that necklace. that beautiful sapphire necklace that you gifted her on her 16th birthday, with your first paycheck. the one that has your initials carved into it on a tiny little dog tag that falls down her back.

but it feels a little colder in your apartment meant for love when minji isn’t there to shelter you in her arms and cover your eyes during scary movies. you can’t help but checking her location (which she had shared with you soon after she debuted) to see when she would get home. more often than not, you would fitfully fall asleep before you could see her arrive at home. and you watch a phone that won’t ring until ungodly hours.

when she does call, minji tries to be as lively and attentive as she was before she was being flown out to a different country almost everyday. but you can see the eye bags that give away just how hard she truly is working. and you force yourself to tell her goodbye before you really want to because you want her to get at least a couple hours of precious rest that she doesn’t get too often.

it’s all worth it, you try to tell yourself. when minji finally gets a couple hours where she isn’t forced to be doing something, and she manages to bundle herself up and sneak into your apartment, it is worth. even when she gets a call from her manager that she has to be at the hybe building within the next hour, while she can hold you, it’s worth it.

“this one is wrong too, y/n” minji circles the incorrect answer you wrote with her red marker. “you know, it’s mistakes like these that can make or break scores,” she looks to you and smiles before continuing to mark the practice test she specifically made for you.

you gaze at the dark haired girl in front of you. she held your hand, thumb gently caressing your knuckles. her eyebrows were creased as she concentrated on your test. she was sporting the baseball cap you always wore and was drowning in your favourite oversized hoodie that was almost twice the size as her. she’s unaware that you’d been staring at her this whole time, trying to study her and figure her out.

because honestly, minji kim is so fucking confusing.

your ears perk up when you hear a familiar voice coming from down the hallway. you take a quick look in the mirror that hung on your locker door, ensuring you looked somewhat presentable for the girl about to pass by you. you close the door just in time to find minji just a few steps from you.

“hey minji!” you beam a bright smile her way. “are we still good for later? i can order takeout if you-”

“mhm, i’ll meet you at the gate” she says robotically, not even bothering to reciprocate your smile which has now faded as you watch her walk past you without sparing another word or glance towards you.

oddly enough, that’s how minji always was with you in school. she never uttered more than a sentence towards you and rarely ever smiled in your direction. you noticed she wasn’t this cold to anyone else, and she definitely wasn’t like this whenever you two were along together in the comfort of your own home.

it was almost like a routine. once your front door closes, she’ll make her way into your arms to intoxicate herself with the smell of your cologne while she lets herself sink into you. she’s exhausted again, you’ll think to yourself as you peek down at the girl resting in your arms. “ready to study?” she’ll ask as she peels herself away from your body. then she’ll grab your hands and leads you to the dining table to start your tutoring session. that’s how it always was with minji. maybe she only knew how to love you behind closed doors, and you were okay with that if it meant getting to experience what it was like to be loved by her.

the sound of the doorbell causes you to nearly trip down the stairs as you make your way to the front entrance. when the person you’ve been expecting appears in front of you, you instantly hold up your test paper to the girl, making sure you’re flashing the big red 97% right in front of her eyes. she lets herself in and grabs it for herself, and you watch a smile grow as she flipped through each page before she excitedly starts jumping around.

“see, i knew you could do it! i’m so proud of you y/n,” she wraps her arms around your neck and tries to pull you in for a tight hug, but you take her arms off of you and push her away gently.

“minji wait, stop.” the girl backs down and creates some distance between you two, confusion making its way on her face. “what’s wrong y/n?”

“i don’t think it’s fair that you act like this around me now and then be a bitch again once you leave.”

the arm holding your test drops by her side as the other reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose, irritation and disappointment evident on her face. she lets out a deep sigh, “bro please, not this conversation again.”

“no bro. every time i try to bring this up, you always shut it down. can’t you see i’m tired of all your stupid games?” you spat. “whatever this is needs to stop because i can’t fucking understand you at all.”

“what games are you talking about? y/n, i’m here to tutor you just like you asked me to, so i don’t know where all of this is coming from.”

“oh my fucking god minji, what is wrong with you?” her expression remains blank, waiting for you to continue the conversation.

“why do you act like you don’t have feelings for me?” she nearly laughs at your question

“what the hell made you think i have feelings for you?”

you looked at her in disbelief. every word minji spoke to you, even if it had to be behind closed doors, were enough to make you believe she felt something for you too. hell, her voice alone was enough to have you kicking your feet and twirling your hair like some fool who was madly in love. you always disregarded how cold she would be in public and tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, always trying to give her any possible explanation for her attitude towards you whenever you weren’t being tutored, but now you don’t know what to think. if you were confused before, now you were just lost at this point.

“do you not see yourself when we’re alone together?”

“y/n, you need to stop overthinking how i act around you.”

“are you being for real right now? bro you-”

“honestly, i think you’re an idiot for thinking that i’d have any feelings for you.”

her words rang in your ears, echoing over and over like a broken record. there’s no way you misinterpreted how she was acting towards you. anyone who saw you two together would believe that you two were a thing. fuck, even you believed that something was there between the two of you.

“then why the fuck do you act like this when we’re alone?”

“act like what? you know friends can act like this too, y/n.”

“no, you know what? forget it. i think you should just go, i can study on my own,” you seethe through gritted teeth, fists tightly clenched as you fought the tears forming in your eyes.

“what, you’re getting rid of me? with finals aroun-”

“get out of my house, minji. please.” she opens her mouth in attempts to protest, but instead just accepts defeat and turns to leave.

she stands on your front porch and could hear you sobbing before being startled by the sound of glass shattering on the ground. for what seemed like hours, she internally debates whether she should go inside and check on you or just go straight home. she raises her fist to knock on the door but quickly changes her mind and chooses to make her way home because she knew the last thing you wanted was to see her right now.

minji is a smart girl. she’s a straight A student who knew how to solve problems that others had trouble doing, which is why you asked her to tutor you in the first place. now she was the one who was confused.