Nillian

She is the best (and worst) person to help you sneak out.

She will willingly park her car down the street, leave the passenger door open, and blast music to distract the neighborhood while you climb out the window.

When Jae-jun notices you came home past curfew, Sa-ra will stand right next to you and completely gaslight him with total confidence.

"Jae-jun, your eyes are failing you, she’s been sitting on the couch for two hours."

She is a terrible life coach

Her advice for dealing with stress or anxiety is always incredibly unhinged.

"If the thoughts get too loud, sweetie, just scream at a wall."

​She will forge your dad’s signature on school absence notes with terrifying accuracy.

She once pulled you out of a grueling math midterm just because she wanted someone to go look at a modern art museum with her.

Neither of you can cook to save your lives.

When Sa-ra babysits, a typical dinner consists of ordering $200 worth of food via delivery, eating them directly off the floor, and leaving the mountain of pink boxes for Jae-jun to find.

Both of you have a Jae-jun Mocking Sessions.

You two will put on his oversized designer sunglasses, drape yourselves dramatically across the sofa in identical, exhausted poses, and take turns doing impressions of his angry, veins-popping voice.

No matter how deep in her own head or her addictions she is, if you call her and say, "Sa-ra, I need you," she snaps out of it instantly to come get you.

You are one of the very few anchors she has to reality.

When Jae-jun goes too far with his temper and yells at you, Sa-ra is the only one who isn't afraid to step right between you two, throw her hands on her hips, and snap, "Shut up, Jae-jun, you're ruining her vibe."

She will never admit it to Jae-jun, but she genuinely loves being your person.

She was different, yet the same. Her face was sharper, her features more mature, but those eyes... those deep, searching eyes were exactly as I remembered. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze, her presence pulling me into a vortex of emotions I hadn't prepared for.

"Dong-eun . . . " I breathed, barely able to say her name.

Her lips curved into a small, soft smile, one that carried both warmth and something darker-a secret she held close to her chest. "It's been a while."

I blinked, still trying to process the fact that she was standing in front of me. "Yeah... it really has. I... I can't believe it's you."

"May I sit?" she asked, her tone calm but tinged with something I couldn't quite place.

"Of course," I said quickly, gesturing to the chair across from me.

She sat down gracefully, her movements deliberate, as if she had all the time in the world. For a moment, we just stared at each other, the weight of unspoken words filling the space between us.

"How have you been?" she asked, her voice gentle but probing.

I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. "I've... been okay. Life's been busy. What about you? What are you doing now?"

Her face softened further, and for a brief moment, she looked almost vulnerable. "I'm doing fine," she replied. "Life has been... complicated, but I'm managing. I didn't expect to see you here."

I laughed nervously, rubbing the back of my neck. "Yeah, it's crazy. I never thought-" I stopped myself, my throat tightening as the questions I had buried for so long bubbled to the surface. "Dong-eun... why did you leave without telling me?"

Her smile faltered.

I pressed on, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "One day, you were just... gone. I came to school, and they told me you dropped out. I waited for you to call, to explain why you left without telling me, but you didn't. All I had was that note you left at my house. It wasn't even a real goodbye."

Her eyes flickered with something-regret, pain, maybe guilt. She looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"That's not an answer, Dong-eun," I said, my voice trembling. "Why didn't you tell me? We were friends... I thought we were closer than that."

She took a deep breath, her gaze finally meeting mine. "I had to leave," she said simply. "It wasn't safe for me anymore. They made my life hell. Yeon-jin, Sa-ra, Hye-jeong, Jae-joon, Myeong-oh... all of them. They weren't just bullying me. They were trying to destroy me. And I couldn't... I couldn't let them drag you down with me."

I stared at her, stunned. "Me? What are you talking about?"

"They hated that you cared about me," she said, her voice growing steadier. "That you were my friend. It made them jealous. And they thought if they pushed me out, they'd have you all to themselves."

I felt a chill run down my spine. "Dong-eun..."

She smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I left because I thought it was the only way to protect you. I didn't want them to hurt you the way they hurt me."

I didn't know what to say. The weight of her words hung heavily in the air, filling the silence between us.

After what felt like an eternity, she stood up. "I should go," she said softly. "But... it was really nice seeing you again."

"Wait," I said quickly, not ready to let her leave. "Do you... do you have a number I can reach you at?"

Her expression brightened, just a little. "Of course."

We exchanged numbers, her fingers brushing mine as she handed me her phone. It was such a small gesture, but it sent a shiver through me.

"Take care of yourself," she said as she slipped her phone into her bag. "And... if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call me."

"You too," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

The door to the coffee shop closed behind her, but I couldn't stop staring, the ghost of her presence lingering like an ache in my chest. My phone sat on the table, her number now saved in my contacts. I suddenly found myself drawn back to the past, to a night I thought I had long buried.

It had been late, long after my parents had gone to bed. The soft hum of the television filled the living room as I lay on the couch, flipping aimlessly through channels. The knock at the door startled me, sharp and urgent, breaking the quiet of the night.

I frowned, glancing at the clock. It was almost midnight. Who could it be at this hour?

Curiosity-and a faint twinge of concern-propelled me to the door. I opened it cautiously, my heart lurching when I saw who was standing there.

"Dong-eun?"

She looked terrible. Her school uniform was wrinkled and torn in places, her arms clutching herself tightly as if trying to hold herself together. Her usually neat hair was disheveled, and her face was pale, except for the faint bruising near her cheekbone. But what stood out most were her arms-red, angry burns and dried blood marring her skin.

"Can I... stay here tonight?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

My heart shattered at the sight of her, and I quickly stepped aside. "Of course. Come in."

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting behind her as if expecting someone to be watching, before stepping inside.

The warmth of my house felt like a stark contrast to her trembling form. I led her to my room, shutting the door quietly behind us. She stood in the center of the room, clutching her arms, her eyes avoiding mine.

"Sit down," I said gently, guiding her to the edge of my bed. "What happened, Dong-eun?"

She didn't answer, her gaze fixed on the floor.

I didn't press her. Instead, I rummaged through my dresser, pulling out a soft sweater and a pair of sweatpants. "Here, change into these," I said, handing them to her. "I'll get the first aid kit."

When I returned, she was sitting on the bed, dressed in my clothes. They hung loosely on her small frame, but she looked more comfortable. She glanced up at me, her expression unreadable as I knelt in front of her, opening the kit.

"This might sting," I warned as I gently cleaned the wounds on her arms.

She flinched slightly but didn't pull away, her eyes watching me intently as I worked.

"Who did this to you?" I asked softly, even though I already had a sinking suspicion.

She didn't answer, her lips pressing into a thin line.

I sighed, wrapping her arms carefully in gauze. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. But you're safe here, okay?"

Her eyes softened, and for the first time that night, I saw a flicker of vulnerability in her gaze.

After cleaning her wounds, I led her to the small dining table in the kitchen and set a plate of leftovers in front of her. She ate slowly, her movements mechanical, as if she was forcing herself to finish.

Once she was done, I set up the inflatable bed in my room, grabbing a couple of blankets and one of my pillows.

"Here," I said, patting the makeshift bed. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing."

She nodded silently, sitting down on the edge.

"If you need anything, wake me up, okay?"

"Thank you," she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion.

I hesitated for a moment, then reached out, squeezing her hand gently. "You don't have to thank me, Dong-eun. That's what friends are for."

When I woke the next morning, the first thing I noticed was how quiet the room was. Too quiet.

I sat up, my eyes immediately falling on the inflatable bed. The blankets were neatly folded, the clothes I had lent her placed in a careful pile on my desk.

But she was gone.

My heart sank as I noticed the small piece of paper lying atop the clothes.

I'm sorry. Thank you for everything.

I jumped out of bed, calling her name as I searched the house, but she was nowhere to be found.

That was the last time I saw her.

I stared out the coffee shop window, her note etched in my memory like a scar. Seeing her again had stirred up so many emotions I thought I had buried-anger, confusion, sadness, and something I couldn't quite name.

I had spent years trying to convince myself that Dong-eun's decision to leave had been hers alone, that she had done it for herself, to escape the torment she endured. But now, after seeing her again, after hearing her say it in her own words, I knew the truth.

She hadn't just dropped out to save herself. She had done it for me.

Sa-ra, ever the observant one, let out a low hum as she tilted her head. "They don't really look like your style. Someone special give them to you?" Her words were laced with amusement, as though she already knew the answer.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling like a spotlight had been turned on you. "Uh... Jae-joon gave them to me a while ago," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "I just... never got around to wearing them until now."

Hye-jeong's eyes widened, and she leaned back with a playful grin. "What? You wore them just for me, didn't you?" she teased, though her tone was light, there was a flicker of something more serious in her gaze.

Sa-ra snorted, resting her elbow on the table and propping her chin on her hand. "Oh, please," she said, her voice dripping with mockery. "If anything, you're wearing them because Jae-joon wouldn't shut up about it, right?"

You sighed, nodding slightly. "He's been pestering me for weeks to wear the things he gives me. He wouldn't let it go."

At this, Hye-jeong's smile faltered, and she frowned slightly. "Really? Jae-joon's never given me clothes or shoes," she muttered, her tone tinged with bitterness.

Sa-ra smirked, her voice low and taunting. "Maybe you're not his type."

Hye-jeong shot her a glare but decided to not anything else.

The rest of the meal passed with forced pleasantries, but the tension lingered, unspoken yet palpable. As you parted ways with the trio and headed home, you couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that the seemingly harmless exchange.

Later that night, Yeon-jin sat in her sleek car, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against her phone. She dialed Jeon Jae-joon's number, her jaw clenched tightly as the line rang.

When he finally picked up, his tone was casual, almost amused. "Yeon-jin. What a surprise."

"Cut the crap," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "Did you do this on purpose?"

Jae-joon's chuckle came through the line, infuriatingly calm. "You'll have to be more specific, Yeon-jin. I'm not a mind reader."

"The shoes," she snapped. "You knew we were hanging out today. Did you make them wear those shoes on purpose just to piss me off?"

There was a pause on the other end, and she could practically hear the smug smile in his voice when he finally spoke. "Who knows?" he said, his tone deliberately vague.

Yeon-jin's grip on the phone tightened, her nails digging into the leather steering wheel. "You're pathetic," she spat before hanging up abruptly, her blood boiling.

Meanwhile, back at his apartment, Jae-joon smirked as he set his phone down, clearly pleased with himself. He leaned back in his chair, a sense of satisfaction washing over him.

“There,” you say, stepping back to admire your work. “Perfect.”

“Perfect?” he repeats flatly. “I look ridiculous.”

“You look adorable,” you correct. “Now stop frowning. That causes wrinkles.”

He gives you a slow, offended blink. “I do not have wrinkles.”

“You will if you keep making that face.”

“I’m only making this face because you’re doing—” He gestures vaguely to the assortment of products spread across the coffee table. “—whatever… this is.”

“It’s called skincare, Appa. It’s for your benefit.”

He mutters something in Korean under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a complaint about having a disrespectful child.

You decide to ignore it.

This all started because he’d made the fatal mistake of commenting on your “weird little potions” while passing by your room earlier. The second he said the words, you turned around slowly—like the villain in a horror movie—and he immediately knew he messed up.

Now here he was, trapped.

You pat his cheek gently. He flinches like you hit him with a frying pan.

“Relax,” you say, grabbing your cleanser. “Step one: we’re washing your face.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Why? I washed it this morning.”

“It’s nighttime. All day you’ve been outside. Pollution, sweat, grime, dust—”

“I do not sweat.”

“Lies.”

He sighs loudly, head tipping back against the couch like he’s regretting every life choice he has ever made.

“Lean forward,” you tell him.

He leans back farther.

“Appa.”

He leans a little more.

“APPAAA.”

He makes a low sound—half groan, half whine—but finally sits up and reluctantly holds still. You massage the cleanser on his skin. He freezes.

“You’re being dramatic,” you say.

“I’m being violated.”

“Violated?” You laugh. “Appa, it’s face wash. This is literally the cleanest violence ever.”

He lifts one eye, staring at you with the expression he usually uses on people who owe him money.

“I don’t like things on my face,” he says, voice low, like he’s confessing a dark secret.

“You wear sunglasses.”

“That’s different.”

You wipe the cleanser away with a warm towel, and he melts into it so subtly you almost miss it.

“There it is,” you tease. “You like it.”

“No,” he replies instantly. Too quickly. Suspiciously quickly. You grab the toner next. He watches the cotton pad like it’s a weapon.

“What does that do?”

“It balances your skin.”

“It needs balancing?”

“Yes.”

He scoffs, sitting up straighter. “My skin is already perfect.”

You stare at him.

“Appa. Look at me.”

He refuses.

“Look at me.”

He finally glances over, chin tilted stubbornly.

“You have dry patches,” you say.

He gasps. Actually gasps.

“Take it back.”

“Take back the fact that you have dry skin?”

“Yes.”

“I’m literally looking at it.”

“No you’re not.”

You gently press the toner onto his cheek; he hisses like a cat.

“Cold!”

“It’s room temperature.”

“It’s emotional coldness.”

“Oh my God…”

You lift the little dropper bottle.

“Now, serum.”

“Serum?” He repeats the word like you just said “poison.”

“It hydrates and brightens.”

“My face is already bright,” he argues. “Women stare at me when I walk past them.”

You roll your eyes. “Relax, Narcissus. This just helps your skin stay healthy.”

He lets out a long, suffering sigh, one hand coming up to cover the side of his face.

You pull the hand away.

“Appa!”

“What?”

“You can't touch your face during a skincare routine!”

His expression sharpens. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll mess it up!”

He acts like you’ve insulted the concept of ‘touch’ itself, scoffing dramatically.

Still, he puts his hands in his lap like a scolded child.

“This is humiliating,” he mutters.

“You love me,” you say simply.

He pauses.

The complaining quiets.

“…Yes. I do,” he says softly.

You blink, surprised. Normally he’d deflect that with some comment about being an elite single father who doesn’t need feelings. You smile and apply the serum—warm, gentle pressure on his cheekbones. He doesn’t flinch this time.

“Hm,” he murmurs. “This one feels… nice.”

“It’s hydrating.”

“It’s expensive.”

“Yes.”

“And you use this every day?”

“Yes.”

“…I need to make more money.”

You snort.

Then you lift the sheet mask. Jeon Jae-joon absolutely recoils.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“APPA.”

He shakes his head violently. “That is a wet piece of paper. I’m not putting that on my face.”

“It’s not paper.”

“Then what is it? Huh? WHAT IS IT? It looks like a melted ghost.”

“It’s moisturizing!”

“It’s moist,” he corrects. “Too moist.”

You unroll it with patient hands.

He watches in quiet horror.

“Appa,” you say sweetly. “Be honest. Are you scared?”

He scoffs. “I’m a grown man.”

You raise the mask.

He leans back.

You raise it higher.

He leans farther.

“Appa…”

He narrows his eyes.

You suddenly lunge with the mask.

He lets out the most offended gasp you’ve heard in your life as the cold sheet hits his skin.

“AH—IT’S FREEZING!”

“It’s good for your pores!”

“My pores are fine!”

“You don’t even know what pores are.”

“That’s personal.”

You smooth the mask onto his face, adjusting the eye holes because he refuses to help. He sits there stiffly—completely rigid—like he’s posing for an unwanted mugshot. You press the last corner down, and he gives a pitiful little noise.

“Appa?” you say softly.

“…What.”

“You okay?”

“No.”

You giggle, and his brows twitch under the mask. You lean back against the couch, admiring your work: Tall, intense Jeon Jae-joon sitting rigidly with a floppy sheet mask, bunny-ear headband, and a withering glare.

“Appa,” you say suddenly, unable to help yourself.

He makes a low warning sound. “What.”

“Do you…” You bite your lip to hold in laughter. “…feel Bonita?”

He freezes.

The house is silent.

Then—slowly—he turns his head toward you. The face mask shifts slightly, making him look even more ridiculous.

“…What did you just say to me?”

You break. You break HARD. You fall sideways onto the couch, laughing until your stomach hurts. He stares at you, betrayal written across every visible inch of sheet-masked skin.

“You think you’re funny,” he says.

“I KNOW I’m funny,” you wheeze.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters, turning away dramatically, like a diva modeling disappointment.

A few minutes pass while the mask sets.

You scroll through your phone, but out of the corner of your eye, you notice him glancing over at you every so often.

Finally he speaks.

“You do this every night?”

“Pretty much,” you answer.

“Why?”

You shrug. “It helps me unwind. Makes me feel better about myself. Makes me feel… I don’t know. Taken care of.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then he nods slowly.

“So it helps your confidence.”

“Yeah.”

His hand lifts—hesitates—then rests gently on your knee.

You look up at him.

The mask makes him look ridiculous, but his voice is soft, completely genuine.

“You don’t need any of this to be beautiful,” he says. “But… if it makes you happy, then…”

He looks down, embarrassed.

“…I want to understand it.”

Your chest tightens.

You didn’t expect him to say something like that. Not from the man who acts allergic to emotions on a normal day.

“Thanks, Appa.”

He grunts. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird!”

“I was being heartfelt! You’re supposed to accept it and move on!”

You laugh again, leaning your head on his shoulder. He pretends to ignore it, but his posture softens just a little.

“Okay,” you say, reaching for the edge of the mask. “Time to take it off.”

“No—wait—”

You peel it off slowly.

He lets out a dramatic gasp as if you’ve just ripped part of his soul away.

“Appa, it’s not wax.”

“My face feels… slippery.”

“That’s good. That means it worked.”

He sits there, touching his cheek like he's trying to figure out if his own face is still attached.

“…It feels soft.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

You grab the moisturizer.

“What is that one?”

“Cream.”

“Does it end?”

“Eventually.”

He groans loudly.

You scoop a bit on your finger and tap it onto his cheeks. He closes his eyes reluctantly, and you massage it in.

Then, without warning, he asks:

“…Am I glowing?”

You pause.

Slowly, you look at him.

Oh no.

The monster has awoken.

“Yes,” you admit. “Your skin actually looks really good right now.”

He sits straighter, clearing his throat in an attempt to hide the pride blooming on his face.

“As it should,” he mumbles. “My genetics are superior.”

You smack his arm.

You reach for the lip balm.

“Absolutely not,” he says instantly.

“You need it.”

“I do not.”

“You have chapped lips.”

He gasps again—deeply offended. “TAKE IT BACK.”

“No.”

“My lips are perfect.”

“Well they’re about to be moisturized, too.”

“Y/n—NO—”

Too late. You swipe the lip balm across his mouth.

He sits there stunned.

“…This is humiliating,” he whispers.

“You look pretty.”

“Don’t.”

“Handsome.”

His jaw relaxes a little.

“…Continue.”

You hold up your phone camera like a mirror.

“Ready to see your new glowing skin?”

He gives a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. Show me.”

You turn the screen toward him.

He blinks.

Then he tilts his head.

Then his eyes widen very slightly.

“…That’s me?”

“Yep.”

“…I look…”

“Handsome?”

He squints at the reflection.

Then—quietly, reluctantly—he nods.

“…Yes. Very.”

You burst out laughing.

He immediately scowls. “Why are you laughing?!”

“You—" you gasp—"you actually like it!”

“No. I appreciate the… quality of the results. That’s all. This is simply objective observation.”

“Sure, Appa.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“You’re glowing.”

“I swear—”

“You feel Bonita now?”

“Y/N—!!”

He tries to stand up, but you grab his sleeve.

“Wait! We have to pack up everything—”

“Absolutely not.” He shoves his hands in his pockets like he’s ending the conversation. “I’m never doing this again.”

The next night?

He appears in your doorway at 9:27 PM sharp.

“…Do the thing,” he grumbles.

You grin.

“The skincare routine?”

“No,” he snaps. “The… glowing thing.”

“You mean skincare.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Just—make me Bonita again.”

You choke on your own breath.

He points a threatening finger. “Tell anyone, and I will deny everything.”

You smile sweetly.

“You feel Bonita.”

He closes his eyes in defeat. “…I feel Bonita.”