i-cant-stand-you-but-also

[i-cant-stand-you-but-also]

Chapter 6 – "Blurring lines and Burnt Toast"

The smell of something vaguely resembling toast drifted through the kitchen- burnt, slightly suspicious, but technically edible.

Min-ji stood over the toaster in my oversized hoodie, poking at the slices like they’d personally offended her. “This toaster has a vendetta. I swear it skips medium and goes straight to hellfire.”

I leaned against the counter, sipping my coffee. “It’s not the toaster. You just lack restraint.”

She turned, dramatically flipping her spatula like a mic. “Ma’am, I’ve been awake for ten minutes. I’m functioning on fumes and blind confidence.”

I grinned into my mug. “You say that like it’s new.”

We settled down at the tiny kitchen table with our toast (hers tragic, mine triumphant), and for a few minutes, it was just the familiar quiet of two people used to each other’s chewing noises.

Then Min-ji looked at me over her cup. “So. Tell me about the media club.”

I stretched my legs out, brushing hers under the table. “It’s actually been... good? The meetings, project teams, everything. Vision Seoul kicked off a lot, and now the campus is kind of buzzing. I’m leading the creative branch for the upcoming outreach campaign.”

Her eyes lit up. “Wait-you leading something in public without self-combusting? My girl’s glowing up.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t jinx it. It’s low-key. But yeah. I’m busy, and it feels... right.”

“And the sunbae?”

I paused. Then answered plainly. “I told him I don’t have space for new friends right now. Especially not ones with confusing pasts and weird smiles. I said I need to focus on my work.”

Min-ji raised both eyebrows. “Damn. Straight to the ‘it’s not me, it’s you, but also it’s me’ speech.”

“I was tired of pretending like I didn’t know what he wanted. Or like I might want it too.” I traced the rim of my mug. “He wasn’t cruel this time, but I don’t owe him anything.”

Min-ji gave a slow, approving nod. “Proud of you.”

I smirked. “Even if I’m emotionally constipated?”

“Especially then.”

We both laughed, and for a beat, the room felt easier-like the part of growing up where everything is messy but oddly fine.

Then she asked, like she was asking about the weather, “And Seung-cheol?”

I choked on my toast. “What about him?”

“Oh come on. You’re telling me you two aren’t at least thinking about thinking about each other?”

“I don’t know,” I said, too quickly. “He’s just... always there. He checks in, walks me home, saves the good seats in class. We study together sometimes, argue constantly, laugh a lot. But it’s just-”

Min-ji made a face. “Just what, exactly?”

“Friendship?” I offered weakly.

“You sure? You don’t look sure. You look like you just guessed on a pop quiz.”

I sighed. “It’s confusing. We haven’t done anything-no flirting, no confessions, nothing... dramatic. But sometimes it’s like-”

“-like someone hit pause in the air?” she offered softly. “And you’re the only two people left in the room?”

I stared. “How do you do that?”

“I watch dramas,” she said proudly. “Also, I know your face. You’re halfway into a crush and too scared to admit it because you think liking him will break the friendship.”

“Maybe,” I said, voice quiet. “But I really like how things are. I don’t want to ruin it.”

Min-ji reached out and squeezed my hand. “You’re not going to ruin anything by feeling something real. Just... don’t overthink the quiet. Sometimes quiet is just waiting for someone to speak first.”

I let that sit with me. The weight and truth of it.

After a moment, I looked up. “Your parents... took it okay? About you being back?”

She nodded, playing with her toast crumbs. “Surprisingly. My dad said I should figure things out on my own this time. Mom told me to come back when I’m ready, but not because I felt guilty. It was actually... kind of freeing.”

I smiled. “You didn’t want to move back, though.”

“No,” she admitted. “Didn’t want to burden them. So-until I find a job and a place, I’m crashing here. If that’s okay.”

I threw a crumb at her. “Dumbass. This is your place too now.”

She grinned. “Careful. I’ll start redecorating your half of the closet.”

“As long as you stop setting my toaster on fire.”

We stood up together, moving to rinse the dishes.

“Oh,” she said suddenly. “I have that interview today. Marketing.”

My eyes widened. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“I was letting you have your main character moment first.”

I gave her a mock-bow. “Well, thank you. Now go be a queen. You’ve got this.”

She paused at the door, half-turned. “And hey-about Seungcheol? Don’t run from it just because it’s not obvious. Real things sneak up on you.”

She winked, then left me there, half-laughing, heart spinning, toast still warm.

______________________________________________________________

The classroom was quiet-too quiet for a Tuesday.

Sun-hee furiously underlined the phrase critical discourse analysis for the third time. Across the row, a pen tapped lightly on her notebook.

She glanced sideways. “Stop.”

“I’m bored,” Seung-cheol whispered.

“Be bored silently.”

He grinned. “Are you even listening?”

“To the professor? No.”

“Same. What does 'hegemonic power structure' even mean?”

She scribbled something on the corner of her notes and shoved it toward him.

It read: It means stop talking before we both fail.

He smirked and wrote back: Admit it. You’d miss me.

Sun-hee rolled her eyes but her mouth twitched.

Then came the voice from the front.

“If the couple in the back is done flirting, maybe we can continue?”

Their heads snapped up in sync. The professor didn’t even look at them.

The class erupted in low chuckles and a loud, dramatic “Ooooohhh!” from the guy two rows ahead.

Sun-hee went still.

Next to her, Seungcheol had covered his entire face with his sleeve.

Her cheeks were burning. She stared hard at the textbook like it might save her life.

Neither of them said a word for the rest of class.

______________________________________________________________

“I still can’t believe she called us a couple,” Seung-cheol muttered later.

They should hurry, because they were already late to their meet with friends, but of course, instead, they bickered the whole way.

Sun-hee made a strangled sound. “I’m transferring schools.”

“You’re not that embarrassed.”

“I am. My soul left my body.”

“I mean… it was kinda funny.”

She shoved him lightly. “You’re not helping.”

He grinned. “Still. Made it feel official, huh?”

She gave him a look.

He raised both hands. “Kidding. Mostly.”

That night, karaoke was chaos.

Jun-ho cried during a trot song, Na-kyung screamed her way through half of BLACKPINK, and Seung-cheol absolutely murdered a rap verse from 2012 like it was a war crime. Sun-hee couldn’t stop laughing.

They drank too much. Way too much.

By 1 a.m., someone suggested sleeping over at Seung-cheol’s place because Nakyung was falling asleep in a karaoke booth and Junho had tried to pay a trash can.

______________________________________________________________

Sun-hee blinked at his bedroom wall. “Why’s your room so clean?”

“I cleaned it last month.”

“Liar.”

“You wound me.”

They were both tipsy. She tugged at her sweater, groaning. “It’s stuck-ugh, help me.”

“Wait-don’t pull, your hair-” He leaned in, squinting. “It’s caught in my shirt button.”

“Rip it.”

“This shirt is from Uniqlo. Show some respect.”

Pop.

The button flew off, pinged against the wall, and landed somewhere behind them.

They froze.

His shirt was half open. (a/n i know this doesn’t make sense leave me alone)

So were her eyes.

“Holy sh-it’s real,” she said under her breath, staring. “You actually have abs?”

He looked at her, confused. “Did you think I was lying?”

“I just-I didn’t know you were hiding a whole washboard under there.”

Seung-cheol looked vaguely alarmed. “Can you not say that while looking at me like that?”

She blinked. “Like what?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Never mind.”

Then she pulled out a lipstick.

“What are you doing?”

“Drawing tic-tac-toe.”

He laughed, nervous. “On me?”

“You’ve got a whole abs grid. It’s begging for it.”

“That’s not how this works. You need nine squares.”

“Improvise. Six is fine.”

“That defeats the purpose.”

“You’re stupid if you think I want to play for the game mechanics.”

Seung-cheol stared at her like she was an alien. “You are the most confusing person I know.”

“Flattered,” she said, already drawing the lines across his stomach. “Okay, I’m X. You’re O.”

“You are so drunk.”

“You’re letting me do this.”

“I’m also drunk.”

                                              ___________

By the time she won round two, his abs had three lipstick-streaked squares and she was doubled over laughing.

“God, we’re so dumb,” she gasped.

“I can’t believe I let you tic-tac-toe my body.”

“I can’t believe you only have six abs. Slacker.”

“Excuse me, these took effort.”

She leaned forward, wiping at the lipstick with a tissue that immediately smudged it more. “Oops.”

“Great. Now I look like I lost a paintball match.”

Sun-hee was still laughing. “Worth it.”

They collapsed back against the floor, both staring at the ceiling, breaths slowly evening out.

His voice was quiet. “You’re staying over?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“Cool.”

A beat.

“You’re warm,” she murmured.

“You smell like soju and strawberry gloss,” he whispered.

“I like your room.”

“I like you in my room.”

She didn’t answer. She just shifted closer, arm brushing his. Their hands didn’t quite touch.

And somewhere in the haze of soft breathing and drunken warmth, they drifted off, pulling into each other’s arms.

Not quite sure what they were anymore.

But unwilling to pull away.

[i-cant-stand-you-but-also]

Chapter 5: Of Hangovers, Hoodies, and Honesty (Kind of)

The morning sun punched through the blinds like it had a personal grudge.

I groaned, dramatically rolled over-and hit something solid.

“Jesus-!”

Min-ji blinked at me, hair in a violent halo, face smushed into the corner of my pillow. “Did you just elbow me?”

“I thought you were a demon,” I croaked.

She yawned. “I am. A sleepy one.”

We stared at each other for a second before simultaneously breaking into laughter. Our heads hurt. Our throats were dry. One of us definitely kicked off the blanket war at 3 a.m.

But it felt… good. Like a hangover made of safety.

“Do you remember what you told me last night?” she asked, voice half-muffled by the duvet.

I pulled the covers over my head. “Nope. Denial is a self-care practice.”

She yanked them back. “You said-and I quote-‘If Seung-cheol sighs at me one more time, I’m legally allowed to throw a camera at him.’”

I groaned into the mattress. “I was being metaphorical.”

Min-ji raised a brow. “You threw lettuce at him, Sun-hee. Metaphor left the chat.”

Min-ji tilted her head at me, eyes still sleepy but sharp. “Okay. Spill. Something’s clearly up.”

I hesitated. Then exhaled. “He’s back.”

She blinked. “Who?”

I gave her a look. “You know who.”

Her whole body stilled. “...No.”

I nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Ji-hwan?”

I didn’t say anything. Just stared at the ceiling.

Min-ji shot up like someone had electrocuted her spine. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That emotionally unavailable, self-important human red flag is back on campus?!”

I nodded again, weakly.

“Oh, hell no,” she muttered, rubbing her face. “I swear, if I see that man, I’m committing at least one crime. Small. Maybe medium.”

I smiled, despite the headache. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

She glared at me, then suddenly pulled me into a hug. A real one this time-no sarcasm, no cursing, just warmth and arms wrapped tight.

“You’re not doing that again,” she said into my shoulder. “You’re not spiraling over him again. I’m here. We’re okay. You’re okay.”

I closed my eyes. Let myself believe her, just for a second. ________________

Outside the lecture hall, the late afternoon air clung to our skin like leftover humidity no one asked for.

Seungcheol fell into step beside me, neither of us speaking for a few seconds.

“So,” he said, glancing at me. “That was a brutal class.”

“You looked half dead by the forty-minute mark,” I said, smirking.

“I was spiritually absent. My soul left through the emergency exit.”

A laugh slipped out of me. He smiled, and for a second, the weirdness from Vision Seoul seemed to crack a little.

We paused at the stairwell landing. He shifted his bag on his shoulder.

“You got time before your next thing?”

I raised a brow. “Define ‘thing.’”

“I mean, want to get food before the next club meeting? I’m starving, and it feels weird not yelling at you across a table.”

“Flattering.”

“Come on, I’m buying.”

That did it. “Only because I’m broke.”

We ended up at a corner booth in a tiny dumpling place two blocks down. It was quiet, a little dim, the kind of spot no one would really look for unless they already knew it existed.

Halfway through our food-steamed mandu, spicy tteokbokki, and a bottle of shared Sprite-he looked up and said it.

“So... can I ask you something honestly?”

I paused mid-chew. “This already sounds like something I’m going to regret saying yes to.”

He gave a small smile. “That senior. The one from Vision Seoul. The one you said was... in the picture. What’s the deal with him?”

My chopsticks hovered. My throat tightened.

I put them down gently. “That’s not a fun story.”

“I figured.”

I stared at the bubbling tteokbokki for a second longer, then let out a breath. “We went to the same high school. I liked him for the entire first year.”

Cheol stayed quiet, eyes on me, not pushing.

“He was... kind. The kind of guy who held doors open and remembered your favorite snack and smiled at everyone. I thought he didn’t like me. Turns out he was just nice to everyone. I was painfully delusional.”

A short, bitter laugh escaped. “But when we hit second year and he became a third year... things changed. He started paying attention. Like, real attention. Walked me to class, waited after club hours, held my hand. One day he asked me out for a late dinner, and we just... had a thing. For like three weeks. It felt like something.”

I swallowed.

“Then we kissed. Well, made out, if I’m being accurate. It wasn’t meaningless, at least not for me.”

Cheol didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt, just waited.

“One day, I’m in the hallway, heading back from the library, and I hear him with his friends. He’s laughing, saying things like... like ‘I told you she was easy.’ Said I’d been chasing him for a year and that he kissed me to shut me up. He said I begged him to sleep with me, but he ‘let me off’ with a kiss instead.”

I blinked once. Twice. “I felt like I was underwater. Like the whole hallway just blurred out. I confronted him, and he had the audacity to laugh. Said, ‘That’s just how guys talk.’ Like it wasn’t a big deal.”

Seungcheol’s jaw was tight now. Hands still. Silent fury laced his posture.

“I should’ve punched him,” I muttered. “But I didn’t. I said my piece and walked away. I didn’t want to give him a scene to mock again. Min-ji’s still ready to commit war crimes on my behalf. But me... I forgave him. Or I told myself I did.”

I looked up at Cheol. “Now he’s back. Acting like we’re old friends. Like none of that happened. And the worst part is... I still smile back. Because it’s easier than starting over with anger.”

The silence between us shifted.

Then, softly: “You know,” Cheol said, “you’re the only person I know who makes survival sound graceful.”

That caught me off guard.

He kept going. “What he did was disgusting. I’m not going to say I understand it. But I get it-why you forgave. It’s not weakness. It’s how strong people trick themselves into staying sane.”

I blinked quickly. Looked away.

“Sorry if this ruins the food,” I said.

He nudged a dumpling toward me. “Are you kidding? This just makes me want to buy you another round.”

[i-cant-stand-you-but-also]

I can't stand you (but also)

Chapter 4: Soju, Bruises, and a Little Bit of Pride

It was just a media collab meeting.

Not war.

Not a trauma trigger.

Just... a university-level logistics meeting.

Then why was I nervously stirring my iced coffee like it held the meaning of life?

I shot a side glance at Kang Seung-cheol, sitting two chairs away. He was chewing on his straw wrapper, his leg bouncing subtly under the table. He wasn’t looking at me. Not that I cared.

...Except I kind of did.

Because every time the intern from Vision Seoul-Yoon Ji-hwan sunbae-opened his mouth, Seung-cheol’s eyes twitched like he was about to snap his pen in half.

I mean, I wasn’t exactly relaxed either. Ji-hwan sunbae being here? As a media intern for the same collab we were prepping for? I should’ve expected this from his message, but it still felt like a personal attack from the universe.

The meeting itself wasn’t bad. The project was massive.

Vision Seoul, a city-sponsored student showcase, featuring talent from universities across Seoul-film, photography, live performance, even fashion and tech. Our department had landed one of the prime exhibition slots, and the media team was running the promotion campaign in partnership with Vision Seoul’s media interns.

Basically, it was a big freaking deal.

“So our first shoot will be at Yeouido Park next weekend,” Joon-ho hyung explained, tapping the whiteboard with his marker. “Outdoor promo. Drone shots. Crowd engagement. We’ll team up for logistics and concept planning.”

Of course, fate (and Na-kyung’s chaotic matchmaking tendencies) paired me with Seung-cheol and sun bae.

He didn’t protest. Neither did I. We just nodded stiffly, like we were corporate rivals forced into an alliance.

Ji-hwan sunbae gave me a soft smile across the room.

I returned it, barely.

Things were tense, but manageable. Until someone spilled a box of folded tripods during cleanup.

It was like dominoes. One tripod leg clipped the corner of the supply cart, which jolted, which then rolled forward into Ji-hwan and Seung-cheol as they were carrying a lighting case together.

Both guys yelped as it banged into their shins.

“Oh my god-are you okay?!” I dropped the cables I was sorting and rushed over.

Seung-cheol grunted and leaned against the wall. “It’s fine. Just... dramatic lighting trauma….ow…..OW”

I didn’t even know what that meant.

Ji-hwan brushed himself off. “It’s nothing. Just a bump.”

But I wasn’t looking at him.

I crouched in front of Seung-cheol and tugged his jeans up slightly to check. “That’s swelling,” I muttered. “You’re putting weight on it wrong. God, where’s the first aid kit-”

“I’m literally fine,” he said, but his voice had softened.

Meanwhile, Ji-hwan sunbae stood politely to the side, watching.

I turned to him too, because manners exist. “Sunbae, are you hurt anywhere?”

“No, I’m good,” he replied with a gentle smile. “But thank you, Sun-hee.”

I nodded politely... and turned back to Cheol, who was now smirking like he’d just won a prizefight.

“I said I was fine.. but if you insist on an ice pack, pain killers and a ride home, stat, I will permit you,” he said, almost in tears while he smiled like he’d lost his mind.

That night, we all split off after a casual dinner. I went home early, blaming editing fatigue. Truthfully, I needed space.

Space to think about why Seung-cheol’s limp was bothering me.

Why I kept noticing how often he bickered, but also held doors open for me. Or slid an extra bottle of water toward me during long meetings. Or took notes on my behalf when I forgot my laptop charger.

He was infuriating. But he was... watching. In the quietest ways.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.

It’s almost midnight when I finally settle down in my room, the lights dimmed to a warm glow, my legs curled up beneath me, and my brain working overtime. I keep playing the same scene over and over again in my head-Seungcheol, the scooty, the lean-in, the-

Nope. I smack my cheeks lightly. “Snap out of it, Kim Sun-hee. You need sleep. Not delusion.”

Just as I reach for my phone to doom-scroll the confusion away, a sudden THUD echoes from the front door. Loud enough to jolt my soul clean out of my body.

My heart jumps into my throat. Was that the door?

Then something metallic rattles, followed by a second, more suspicious THUMP.

I freeze.

Okay. Okay okay okay. This is fine. This is Korea. Safe Korea. No serial killers. Probably.

I reach for the deadliest object on my vanity: a large pink hairbrush in the shape of a cartoon cat. Perfect. Just what I need to fight off a burglar.

I tiptoe to the door with no survival instincts, brush raised dramatically-

“YOU’RE GONNA KILL ME WITH THAT?” a very familiar voice screams. “UNBELIEVABLE. I CAME HOME TO LOVE, NOT VIOLENCE.”

I drop the brush.

“MIN-JI?!”

There she is. Kang Min-ji. My childhood best friend. Standing in my doorway with two monstrous suitcases, a crossbody bag that could double as camping gear, and an alarming amount of beer cans poking out of a plastic bag.

���I thought someone broke in!” I yell, smacking her shoulder and immediately pulling her into a hug. “Why are you sneaking in like a raccoon with baggage?”

She groans dramatically into my shoulder. “Because I AM a raccoon with baggage. Emotional and literal.”

We pull apart. I swat her again. “You absolute menace. You didn’t even text. What is happening?!”

“I needed the element of surprise,” she says, stepping in like she owns the place. “Also, I lost my Korean SIM card. And my will to live. So.”

She drops her luggage with a loud THUMP and immediately starts peeling off her jacket, scanning my room like she’s judging if it still smells like lemon candles and childhood dreams.

“I cannot believe this,” I mumble, half-laughing, half-crying. “You’re back? Like back-back? Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Min-ji flops onto my bed with a dramatic sigh. “Because I didn’t even know until yesterday.”

I blink. “Huh?”

She tosses a can of beer at me (I catch it with the grace of a limp noodle) and cracks one open herself. “I broke up with Jihoon.”

My eyes widen. “What?!”

“Yup. Two years. Over. Just like that.” She sips. “Caught him cheating with a girl from his lab. They lived together. Correction: we lived together. But now he lives somewhere with trash and I live nowhere.”

My jaw drops. “You didn’t tell me?!”

“I didn’t tell anyone.” She shrugs. “It was too pathetic. I just… I hated being in that house. Couldn’t find a new place I liked. My semester ended last week. And one night, I looked around, packed my favorite stuff, sold the rest, and came here.”

I reach over and smack her thigh. “And didn’t tell your parents either?!”

“They’ll live,” she mumbles. “Hopefully not in this apartment, though. Please don’t make me go there. I’m fragile.”

I grab her hand. “You absolute chaos gremlin. You can stay here. Obviously.”

“I knew you'd say that,” she smiles, eyes softening. “That’s why I brought all my skin care and three pairs of shoes.”

We sit in silence for a moment. Beer cans sweating in our hands. Then I pull her into a hug again, tighter this time.

“You went through all that alone?” My voice cracks a little. “Why didn’t you say something, Min-ji? I would’ve flown to the U.S. and stabbed him myself.”

“I know,” she whispers into my shoulder. “That’s why I didn’t. I didn’t want to see you cry and stab someone on international soil.”

We laugh, but it’s wet around the edges.

Eventually, she gets up and changes into one of my oversized t-shirts and fuzzy socks. We lie down side by side on my bed, limbs tangled like we’re fifteen again and hiding from the world.

She hums softly. “You know… I missed this more than anything.”

“Me too.”

I run my fingers through her hair like I used to, and she sighs into the pillow.

“Hey, Sun-hee?”

“Yeah?”

“I know I just got back, but… what’s going on with you and that tall, grumpy guy who looks like he’s suppressing generational trauma?”

I snort. “Don’t start.”

She giggles. “Just saying. The tension was tangible. Like, fanfiction level.”

I throw a pillow at her face. “Goodnight, Min-ji.”

“Goodnight, wifey.”

[i-cant-stand-you-but-also]

I can't stand you (but also)

Chapter 3: Close, But Not Quite

We were inches away.

Breath mingling. The air between us tight. My heart hammering like I’d swallowed a bass drum. His hand was still on my back. My hand curled against his chest. He was leaning in, and so was I, and—

“Sun-hee?”

My spine straightened like I’d been tasered.

That voice.

I took one slow, startled step back. Seung-cheol blinked, still foggy-eyed, and turned toward the sound with me.

And standing there, under the flickering streetlight, holding a convenience store bag and looking far too familiar for comfort, was:

Yoon Ji-hwan.

My mouth opened. Then hiccuped.

Then—clang—my bottle of hangover medicine, keun hangover (you know, that little brown bottle all college kids swear by), slipped right out of my hand and hit the sidewalk.

Well. That’s one way to sober up.

Ji-hwan smiled, like he always did—confident, casual, like time had never passed. His face hadn’t changed. Neither had that voice.

“Wow. Is that really you?” he said, stepping closer. “Damn, Sun-hee... you’ve gotten pretty.”

I took a sharp step back. Away from Seung-cheol this time.

“Sunbae,” I said, forcing a smile as polite as a resume. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Small world, huh?” He grinned like we were just old classmates bumping into each other during exams.

My voice came out light, too light. “Just a team dinner. For the media group.”

He nodded, eyes flicking to Seung-cheol. “Oh? Is this your boyfriend?”

I sputtered. “No! I mean—not really. He’s a classma—well, a friend.” Seung-cheol’s expression was unreadable, but his jaw had tensed ever so slightly.

“Nice to meet you,” Ji-hwan said, giving a short, deliberate nod to Seung-cheol. “I’m Yoon Ji-hwan, Sun-hee’s sunbae.”

Seung-cheol mirrored the nod. “Kang Seung-cheol.”

They shook hands. Tension lingered in the air, thicker than a fog machine on idol music show night.

“Well, it’s getting late,” Seung-cheol said finally, voice steady but firm. “We should get going.”

Ji-hwan smiled, slow and easy. “Of course. But, hey, Sun-hee—can I get your number again? Just to catch up sometime?”

I hesitated. And then nodded, reluctantly. He handed me his phone. I typed it in.

“Well,” Ji-hwan said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Let’s not wait another year, yeah?”

I gave him the politest “sure, sure” smile I could manage. “Sure, sunbae.”

We walked in silence for a few beats. The street wasn’t crowded, but the air still buzzed with leftover energy. I glanced sideways at Seung-cheol, who was rubbing the back of his neck.

“So… uh. Where do you stay again?” he asked, voice a little softer than usual.

“Near Yeonhui-dong, like ten minutes past Yonsei’s back gate.”

He blinked. “You’re kidding. I live there too.”

“Wait, what?”

“We probably live two blocks away and just hate-walked past each other all semester.”

I snorted. “That… that actually sounds right.”

He called a cab. We sat in the back, not too close, not too far. A safe, awkward little gap. He looked out the window. I played with the ring on my index finger.

When we reached my street, I opened the door and turned to him.

“Thanks for… everything,” I said. “Tonight.”

He nodded. “Good night, Sun-hee.”

Back in my apartment, I sat in front of my vanity, slowly taking off my earrings. The tiny gold ones I always wore on presentation days. I stared at my reflection, but my brain was already somewhere else.

Ji-hwan sunbae. That voice, that smile, that effortless confidence. I hadn’t seen him in so long.

There was a strange tightness in my chest. Not good or bad. Just… tight.

I shook my head. “Nope. Not today.”

I turned away from the mirror, trying to shrug it off. But my mind betrayed me and drifted—to Seung-cheol.

The scooter. The way he pulled me close without thinking. His eyes, wide and startled, so close to mine I could count the flecks of brown.

The way I almost leaned in.

No. No, no. That wasn’t real. That was just… tension. Proximity. Alcohol. Physics. Whatever.

I walked into the bathroom to wash my face and picked up what I thought was my eye gel.

It was not my eye gel.

“AAAAH—OH MY GOD—”

It was my menthol face cream.

Straight. Into. My eye.

I danced around the bathroom, one eye shut, tears streaming.

“Oh my god get it together, Kim Sun-hee!” I groaned, slapping both cheeks lightly like I was starring in my own training montage.

By the time I was in bed, skin finally soothed, eye still twitching, my brain was running in circles.

Ji-hwan’s return.

Seung-cheol’s face, so close to mine.

The stupid almost-kiss that wasn’t.

I sighed, burrowed under my blanket, and whispered, “I need a new hobby.”

Sleep took me somewhere in between confusion and butterflies.

The next morning, I walked into campus like a girl on a mission. Coffee in hand. Head held high. Determined to forget all about scooter-catching, face-cupping, almost-kissing disasters.

And then—

“Oh, come on.”

There he was.

Standing right in front of the lecture hall door. Kang. Seung. Cheol.

In the daylight. Awake. Upright. Tragically sober.

My steps faltered. I genuinely considered turning around and pretending I’d walked into the wrong building.

He looked up just as I took a sip of coffee, and of course I choked on it.

“Morning,” he said, kind of soft. Almost… tentative.

I cleared my throat and nodded. “Hey.”

Okay. That was… surprisingly civil.

We stood there for a second longer than normal people should. A little awkward. A little unsure. But not hostile. Which was weird.

Na-kyung breezed past us, eyebrows raised so high they nearly left her face.

“Well, this is new,” she said. “You two haven’t tried to kill each other yet? Personal growth, I love that.”

I gave her a tight-lipped smile as she walked into class.

After an unusually quiet class (p.s: I took detailed notes to avoid looking in his direction), it was time for the lunch media team meeting.

We gathered in our usual spot—a slightly-too-small seminar room near the student union building.

Team leader Park Joon-ho sat at the head of the table, flipping through his iPad like the fate of the university depended on it.

Our assistant team leader, Han Na-kyung, passed around kimbap rolls and reminded everyone we were all overworked and underpaid (we weren’t paid at all).

“Alright,” Joon-ho said, tapping the screen. “Let’s get into it.”

“Agenda item one—promotion planning for the big one.” He grinned. “Vision: Seoul Festival 2025.”

A collective cheer went around the table.

The Vision Festival wasn’t just any event. It was the event. The pride of Yonsei University. Campus-wide, sponsor-backed, music-lights-glory kind of deal. If Seoul Fashion Week had a college cousin, this was it.

“It’s our biggest media project of the year,” Na-kyung added, eyes gleaming. “We’re partnering with Studio Prism again—they’ll be handling external production and marketing, and we’re managing all campus content.”

I sat up straighter, interest piqued despite myself. Studio Prism was no joke. They handled campaigns for legit idol groups. Some of their interns had gone straight to CJ ENM.

“This is our chance to really stand out,” Joon-ho said. “So let’s not half-ass anything.”

Everyone nodded. The mood had shifted—excitement humming under our skin.

But then—

“Hey,” Joon-ho said, glancing between me and Seung-cheol. “Did something happen between you two? You’ve barely looked at each other today.”

We both stiffened.

“No, no, we’re good!” I said, too fast.

“Yeah,” Seung-cheol added. “Just… tired.”

“Haha, no big deal,” I tacked on, smiling like a malfunctioning chatbot. “Drinks hit us hard last night.”

Na-kyung squinted. “You two didn’t hook up, right?”

“NO.” We said it in perfect unison.

Everyone laughed. Joon-ho looked mildly disappointed for the drama that wasn’t.

The meeting moved on, but I couldn’t quite relax. We wrapped up with planning duties—photo team, campus interviews, live updates, teaser trailers—and then came the usual cheesy morale boost.

“Let’s make this the best campaign the Vision Festival has ever seen,” Joon-ho said, raising his paper cup. “To a flawless media team collab!”

“Cheers!” everyone echoed, clinking cups filled with sad lukewarm coffee.

And then— Bzzzt. My phone lit up under the table.

Yoon Ji-hwan Sunbae Hey! I’ll be seeing you soon. I’m a media intern at Studio Prism this semester. You mentioned you’re in the campus media team, right? Are you part of the Vision:Seoul Festival project?

I stared at the screen.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I sighed, one long and dramatic exhale, and slumped in my seat.

“Great,” I muttered. “Just… perfect.”

[i-cant-stand-you-but-also]

I can't stand you (but also)

Chapter 2: Projects, Soju, and Something in Between

There’s a specific kind of horror that hits when you wake up and don’t remember how you got home - like your soul briefly left your body for a 3 a.m. street-side soju party and is now filing a missing report with your dignity.

I blinked at my ceiling, still wearing last night’s hoodie and one sock. My phone had 12% battery, 47 unread messages, and a blurry photo of me squinting at a samgyeopsal grill with my chopsticks raised like a weapon. In the background: Kang Seung-cheol, mid-eye roll.

Ugh.

Campus was still buzzing from last night’s welcome dinner. I could barely get to the Media Lab without someone snickering, “Did you really throw a lettuce wrap at him?”

“Yes,” I muttered to Na-kyung, who was walking beside me with a suspiciously large coffee.

“And you called him... what was it? Emotionally constipated?”

“I will drop out,” I said politely.

But there he was, already seated inside the lab, in his usual black hoodie and noise-canceling headphones, pretending not to see me.

Good. Because one thing was crystal clear after that disaster of a night: I did not like Kang Seung-cheol. Not his smugness, not his stupid symmetrical face, and definitely not the way he made my brain short-circuit mid-argument.

Avoid. Evade. Ghost. I was going full digital detox from him.

So naturally, the very next day, Professor Yoon announced we were going to be paired for a mid-semester media project.

“Sun-hee and Seung-cheol — you two will handle concept development and video direction.”

My brain short-circuited again. “Wait. No. I-I have an eye infection. I can’t look at him.”

But it was done. Our fates were sealed by a sadistic Excel spreadsheet.

The week that followed was pure agony. We met every day, usually in stony silence, surrounded by open laptops, camera equipment, and mutual resentment.

“Your script lacks narrative tension,” he muttered one afternoon without looking up.

“My tolerance for your existence lacks narrative reason,” I snapped.

Yet... there were moments.

Like when our hands brushed while adjusting the tripod. Or when we both reached for the same SD card and paused, eyes locking for half a second too long. The air felt weird then - not electric, not romantic - more like... static. Awkward static that buzzed in your ribs.

I ignored it.

Repeatedly. Aggressively.

That Friday, Joon-ho declared another team dinner. This time at a cozy pojangmacha near Hongdae. The kind with orange plastic tents, metal stools, and a warm grill in the middle.

The soju flowed. Fast. Faster than last time.

“I think he likes you,” Na-kyung whispered to me, nodding toward Seung-cheol, who was currently in a heated debate with Joon-ho about frame rates.

“He likes arguing with me. There’s a difference.”

Most of the team left by midnight. Joon-ho stumbled into a taxi. Na-kyung air-kissed me goodbye while recording one last Instagram story.

And then it was just us.

Me. Him. Half a bottle of soju. And a lot of silence.

Until he suddenly blurted out, “Why do you hate me so much?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You act like I murdered your dog.”

“You were rude on your first day!” I said, dramatically jabbing a fishcake skewer in his direction. “I was holding iced coffee, sir!”

“You tripped on my suitcase!”

“You parked it in the middle of a hallway like a monument to your ego!”

We were both slurring, hands flailing, voices just shy of shouting.

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” he mumbled. “It was my first day. I didn’t know anyone. And then you glared at me like I was the second coming of plagiarism.”

I stared at him. “You were so smug.”

“You were so loud.”

“You said my framing was crooked!”

“It was crooked!”

We sat in silence. Breathing. Flushed. Kind of vibrating.

Then, for reasons I’ll never understand, I reached out and cupped his face.

It was warm. Soft. And tragically symmetrical.

“You’re not that bad,” I slurred. “Still annoying. But not... murder-level annoying.”

“Thanks,” he deadpanned, lips twitching.

We shook hands like war generals forming a temporary ceasefire.

“Alliance,” I said solemnly.

“Alliance,” he agreed.

“I’ll take you home, ma'am,” he said confidently ten minutes later, except he was definitely drunker than I was and had no idea where my home was.

We stumbled out into the cold Hongdae night, laughing too loud, trying to walk straight.

“You walk like a baby giraffe,” I teased.

“You walk like you’re auditioning for a zombie film.”

We nearly tripped over a stack of delivery scooters. I turned to yell at one that zoomed past too fast, but another one came from the side and-

He yanked me back just in time.

I crashed into his chest. His arms around my waist. The city noises faded for a second.

My breath hitched.

His hand was still on my back. His face... close. Closer. His eyes dropped to my lips.

And then-

[i-cant-stand-you-but-also]

I can't stand you (but also)

Chapter 1: First Impressions Are for Fools

When people say “first impressions matter”, they probably never tripped over a guy’s suitcase and landed on his perfectly polished shoes in front of the entire Yonsei University media team.

That was how I met Kang Seung-cheol.

One second, I was speed-walking through the Student Union hallway with an iced Americano in one hand and my laptop bag swinging like a weapon on the other. The next, I was horizontal, face inches from the linoleum floor, my coffee airborne, and the new transfer student standing over me like some drama second lead with tragic piano music playing behind him.

“You should watch where you're going,” he’d said in this annoyingly calm tone, adjusting his round glasses like he was some kind of chaebol heir.

Excuse me?

“I should watch where I’m going?” I snapped, brushing off my jeans. “You parked your entire life’s baggage in the middle of the hallway!”

“My entire life’s baggage is a single suitcase.”

“Well, it has the energy of an emotional support hippo.”

We locked eyes. Him with his stiff posture and judgmental eyebrows. Me, seething and caffeineless.

It was war from that moment on.

The universe, in all its twisted humor, decided that Seung-cheol’s very first club application would be to the Media Production Team, also known as my holy temple, my safe space, the one thing keeping me from quitting my degree in communications.

And he got in.

Not because he was enthusiastic (he wasn't), or humble (definitely not). No, he got in because Park Joon-ho, our team leader with a heart of gold and zero radar for social awkwardness, thought “he had potential.”

“Sun-hee, help him settle in!” Joon-ho had said, patting my shoulder like I was being assigned to mentor a lost puppy.

“I’d rather mentor a cactus,” I muttered.

“You’re so funny,” he laughed, not realizing I was dead serious.

Next to him, Lee Na-kyung, our assistant team lead and part-time fashionista/full-time enabler, grinned at me like she was already shipping me with the enemy.

“He’s cute though,” she whispered. “In a mysterious, grumpy cat sort of way.”

I stared at her. “You need better taste in cats.”

The week blurred by with awkward team meetings, passive-aggressive script editing, and Seung-cheol making himself very comfortable at my editing station. But things really exploded on Friday night.

“Team dinner! Newbie welcome night!” Joon-ho declared like it was some national holiday. “Samgyeopsal and soju, let’s go!”

We ended up at a grill house in Sinchon, crammed around a long table that reeked of smoke, pork fat, and anticipation. Plates of meat were sizzling, side dishes piling up, and soju bottles multiplying like rabbits.

By the second hour, Joon-ho was telling everyone how he once edited a video so fast he dislocated a finger. Na-kyung was filming him for the team’s Instagram story. I was four shots in and trying to prove I could drink more than Seung-cheol, which is how you know I wasn’t sober.

He, for the record, was matching me drink for drink.

“Y-you think you’re better than me,” I slurred at him as I poked his arm with my chopsticks. “With your… your smooth Excel sheets and your… structural thinking!”

“I don’t think I’m better,” he replied, blinking slowly. “I know I’m better. Your camera framing is crooked.”

Gasps all around.

“You take that back!” I stood up, dramatically knocking over a lettuce wrap.

“No. Crooked.” He tilted his head. “Just like your sense of direction.”

“Oh, I’ll show you direction! I’ll direct you right out of this team!”

“Is that a threat or an edit note?”

Joon-ho was wheezing. Na-kyung was filming again. Someone at the end of the table yelled “KISS ALREADY!” and I may have thrown a pickled radish in that general direction.

Eventually, Seung-cheol slumped forward, head nearly on the grill (saved by Na-kyung’s quick reflexes), while I started a loud rant about The Tragedy of Camera 2 from last semester. Someone finally called taxis.

I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache, a new contact named “Crooked Boy 😒,” and a vague memory of poking someone’s face repeatedly while yelling “emotionally constipated.”

My phone buzzed. A text from Na-kyung:

you guys are ICONIC. also ur fight is trending on our private team groupchat. also pls don’t kill him during our video shoot next week 💀

I groaned into my pillow.

Welcome to the second semester. This was going to be hell.