shinysobi

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

I say nothing in response. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She did, actually.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“How would you know?”

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

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

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

He sighs, “never mind.”

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

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

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

“No one was staring at us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

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

“But I don’t.”

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

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

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

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

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

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

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

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

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

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

“How did you know that?”

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

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

“A welfare check?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably because I am.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

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

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

I shake my head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touche.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That seems self-deprecative.”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s nice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Meeting the parents already?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

“And?”

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

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

—

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

What’s the menu for today?

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

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

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

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

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

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

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

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

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

“I am not.”

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

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

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

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

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

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

Jeju?

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

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With the boys?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How—how did you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did this get so many views?”

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

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

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

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

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

—when’s the wedding?

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean by that?”

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

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

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

“And the rest?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

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

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

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

“You had Mingyu, right?”

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

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

I wish I never came here. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have no money.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cigarettes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

I say nothing in response. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She did, actually.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“How would you know?”

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

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

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

He sighs, “never mind.”

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

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

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

“No one was staring at us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

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

“But I don’t.”

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

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

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

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

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

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

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

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

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

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

“How did you know that?”

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

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

“A welfare check?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably because I am.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

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

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

I shake my head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touche.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That seems self-deprecative.”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s nice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

learning to be loved after forgetting what it feels like to be safe.

🥕 bae-sically fake. yoon jeonghan

a mylovesstuffs production...

You swear when you made up your fake relationship, you didn't know that someone worked at the coffee shop with the same name or that your family would go to check it out. Now everyone thinks you guys are actually together, and, well, pretending to be fake partners has never been so complicated. Jeonghan plays along, and even offers you a deal—100 days to let him try and woo your closed-off heart. masterlist

genre: fake dating au, modern au, romance, comedy, slice of life, slow burn, emotional healing

pairing: jeonghan × fem!reader

content: fake dating, post-breakup healing, strangers-to-partners dynamic, deal-making [100 days to woo], protective best friends [celeste, seungkwan], healthy family, intense ex-relationship trauma, food symbolism [carrots, broccoli, lunches], nice gestures [flowers, notes, meals], respect and gentle persistence, found family warmth, strong parent-daughter bond, empowering ceo, realistic emotional pacing

warnings: idr the specific warnings for this chp, so im adding all the things that this fic will have in this and future chapters. mentions of past emotional abuse/manipulation, toxic ex, grooming mentioned [non-graphic but explicit reference], cheating and infidelity [past, non-graphic], mentions of underage grooming [girls legal but barely, predatory behavior], emotional trauma and flashbacks, ptsd-like emotional responses, manipulation disguised as affection [past], reference to stalking/following for confirmation of infidelity, heartbreak and betrayal, gaslighting implications [in past relationship], alcohol consumption, mild cursing/swearing, themes of grief and emotional vulnerability, soft romantic tension, no smut [so far; not written yet], emotionally guarded reader, indirect trauma references, workplace sexism [called out], fluffy but with realistic emotional baggage

word count: 14,464 words

✦ in fiction we trust. love, celeste ˶ᵔ⤙ᵔ˶ first of all, tysm to yuki @eclipsaria and rae @nerdycheol for messing with their heads trying to figure out how to actually use the banner in this chapter — because i fucked up [well, not me technically, but technology… long story for another day]. they genuinely tried to help with every possible loophole they could think of, and i appreciate it sm. those days were a mess, and i still don’t understand how tumblr can share a meme but not a banner. anyway. huge thanks to ro @shinysobi and k @cheers-to-you-th for beta-ing and helping me revise this fic to the best version it could be. truly, without these two, i’d have gone insane trying to perfect it all by myself. i’m so, so grateful for their advice, revisions, and all the little tips that helped shape this chapter into what it is now. i could go on and on about how much they helped, but i’ll keep it short [before i get emotional lol]. last but not least, big thanks to k, ro, rae, and yuki for helping me name the ex [and not actually giving space to actual problematic ppl in my fic]. and a big bow to jj @iknowimanicon for letting me yap and brainstorm this fic on and on. btw, this beautiful beautiful banner by yuki!!

this fic went through a lot. i’ve written around 30k words so far [it still needs editing lol], and if this chapter isn’t as fun, i hope the next ones will make up for it. i really poured myself into this story, so i hope you enjoy. this is my submission for yuki’s 100 milestone collab! it’s also jeonghan’s part from my how do you fake it series ♡ i just changed the prompt a bit and included the 100 days — which honestly made it more interesting, imo. anyway, i hope you enjoy!

tag list: @metaphorandmoonlight @smiileflower @starlight-night0 @tokitosun @hanniescookie @woncheecks @suraandsugar @https-seishu @junniesoleilkth @aeerio @i-am-confused-about-life @syluslittlecrows @starstrawb @reiofsuns2001 @honeybear-taetae @atinygracie @nonbanhg @miriamkovacova @giverosespls @lalataitai @fragmentof-indifference @cowboylikemalika @salnovna @wooingmandy @binnielovie @sumzysworld @seungcheolsblackcard @matt-sturnioloo @soonyoonswoo @studioeisa @shinysobi

“I swear, Mom, I’m not getting married anytime soon,” you had said for what felt like the hundredth time. Your mother, however, didn't seem to hear you anymore, her eyes fixed on the wedding photo album you had been trying to avoid.

“You’re almost twenty-eight! Your cousin got married last month, and your aunt is already planning your other cousin’s wedding!” She sighed, flipping to yet another photo of the happy couple. “When will it be your turn?”

You pressed your lips together, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. She didn't get it. How could she? After the five-year relationship that ended in disaster, you hadn't exactly been eager to dive back into another serious relationship. And so, you said what you always said, a little more exasperated each time: “I’m seeing someone, Mom. We’re just waiting for the right time. It’s complicated right now.”

She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed as always, knowing you're just lying. “Oh? And who is this mysterious boyfriend of yours? Where is he, huh? Why can’t we meet him?”

“I told you, it’s complicated.”

You could see your mom’s gears turning, and you knew exactly where this was heading. “Well, if you’re really serious about him, maybe it's time you finally introduce us. You know, to make sure he’s a good man.”

Crap. You hadn't thought this through.

Your dad, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, chimed in from his chair, not looking up from his newspaper. “Is he from a good family? Are you sure he has the right intentions?”

"Yes, of course!" you said, possibly too cheerfully. Your eyes did a quick tour of the room as if they were looking for a fire alarm to pull. Naturally, your mom leaned in closer.

“Tell us his name, and we’ll go visit him. We can meet him at his work if that's more convenient.”

It was one thing to talk about a boyfriend they hadn't met, and it’s another for them to demand to meet him. Panicked, you blurted out the first name that came to your mind, “Jeonghan. His name is Jeonghan. He works at Mirage Café down the street.” You winced internally at the sound of the name. Jeonghan? Really? That’s what I said? I needed to come up with a name and that’s what my brain goes with? Not something easy, not some basic, common name, but Jeonghan?!

There was a beat of silence and you could practically hear the wheels in your mom’s head moving, and then she smiled, probably thinking she had won. “We’ll go there tomorrow. Let’s see this Jeonghan, then.”

Before you could even think of a way to backpedal, your dad nodded in approval. “Sounds good. We’ll go visit.”

You tried not to make eye contact with your mom as she smiled to herself. “Perfect. We’ll take a trip tomorrow. You’ll be happy that you let us meet him, sweetheart.”

-

The next day had arrived way too fast. You could barely eat breakfast without your stomach churning. Your nerves were through the roof, and the thought of meeting your family at Mirage Café made you want to crawl into a hole and hide forever.

When you and your family arrived, you stood awkwardly at the entrance, mentally kicking yourself for getting into this mess in the first place. Your mom marched ahead, searching for the barista. “Let’s call him, darling. He’s probably busy, right?”

“Right,” you said through a tense smile, not sounding as confident as you’d like.

She waved down a waiter. “Excuse me! Do you know any Jeonghan? He works here, right?”

Your eyes darted across the café as if you were being hunted down. You looked up at the ceiling, pleading with the universe to give you a damn break. Please, please don’t let them see through this lie. You cleared your throat, desperate to steer the conversation in another direction. “Oh, you know... he’s probably not working today. Maybe we should come back another time?” You offered weakly, trying to nudge the waiter into agreeing.

The waiter gave you a confused look. “I’m not sure... but I’ll check.”

Before you could stop him, a voice called out from behind. “Excuse me? Did someone ask for me?”

You turned around to see a tall, impossibly handsome man with an angelic smile walking towards you three. The very same man who had handed you your coffee that morning, you realized. You blinked in shock as his name tag gleamed in the light. Yoon Jeonghan? Oh no. You hadn't paid much attention when he'd taken your order, but your subconscious must have, since his name had been the first you'd thought of. Before anyone could say a word, you did something incredibly stupid. In an instant, you stood up, feeling your face flush hot with panic. You wrapped your arm around his arm, desperately trying to make this look like it had been all planned. “Oh, you're here! Mom, Dad, meet Jeonghan,” you said enthusiastically. “We’ve been together for... two years now.”

Jeonghan’s eyes widened for a split second as he looked at you in confusion, but then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile that was way too charming for your own sanity—far too practiced for how stiff his shoulders had gone. Your mom’s eyes were practically sparkling with excitement, and you could already tell this was going to spiral out of control.

“I didn’t realize you’d be here,” Jeonghan’s voice slid like velvet, but there was a slight corner of confusion below. He shifted his weight, then smiled at your family. “It’s nice to finally meet you all.”

Your mother, bless her heart, was practically glowing. She didn’t even ask what your relationship had been like, or anything that might have made sense, instead, she immediately started making plans. “You two must be so in love!” she gushed. “How did you meet? Tell us everything! Where are you from? What’s your family like?”

You could feel your face burning and really regretted saying two years. Jeonghan, to his credit, didn't seem fazed by her interrogation, though. He just smiled that perfect smile, and before you could say a word, he launched into the most believable, well-thought-out story about how you had met through mutual friends, weaving in little details like how we both loved hiking [which you didn't] and how we once spent an entire rainy weekend binge-watching a series together [you'd never seen it]. Your mom ate it up, of course, nodding approvingly, and you just wanted to die on the spot.

Then, Jeonghan glanced at you with a low-key teasing look, and you could see the corners of his mouth twitching. Is he laughing at me? You couldn't even tell, but just when you thought you might spontaneously combust from the pressure, your dad who had been silently observing, suddenly spoke up. “So, when’s the wedding?”

You blinked, your mind went blank. “Dad!” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. Your voice was a bit too loud, and you caught the eyes of several other patrons in the café who were now all very clearly watching you. Jeonghan took this as his cue to add, “I think we’re still figuring things out,” Jeonghan said smoothly, “but I’ve been thinking next year might be a good time to propose,” and that made you choke on your own saliva.

“Next year?” Your mom’s eyes widened. “Oh, we have to start planning then! I have so many ideas—Y/N, you’ll want a nice, big wedding, won’t you?”

“Uh, I—” you tried to protest and reply with something, but your voice was lost under her excitement.

Once the initial shock of the meeting wore off, and after a painfully long conversation with your family, you eventually managed to escape the café.

You rushed out of the café, heart still pounding from the whirlwind you had just dragged yourself and a complete stranger into. He was standing by the side entrance now, sleeves rolled up, a hand running through his soft, brown hair as he stared off into the street.

You hesitated for a second before calling out, “Hey… um, Jeonghan?” He turned, eyes found yours instantly and then, a faint smile curved at the corners of his lips. “I’m so sorry,” you began, words tumbling out before you could even take a breath. “That was—that was a disaster, and you were just caught in the middle of it. I didn’t even know someone named Jeonghan actually worked here. I just made it up. I didn’t think—I never thought—”

He laughed, a warm sound that made your apology trail off. “I figured,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Kind of hard to miss how wide your eyes got when I said my name.”

You winced, hands fidgeting in front of you. “Yeah, that’s… that’s fair.”

There was a pause before he nodded toward the café with a shrug. “It was entertaining. Not every day I got introduced as someone’s long-term boyfriend out of nowhere.”

You flushed. “Seriously, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this. I just… panicked. My family had been asking about this imaginary boyfriend for ages, and then today, they decided to show up.” You let out a shaky laugh. “And now they think you are him, but I'm really sorry and I won't let it bother you and this was and will be a one time thing. I'll handle them.”

Jeonghan chuckled again but softly. “Well, if you’re really sorry,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his apron, “you owe me a coffee sometime.”

“Huh?...”

He nodded. “One with my name on it, preferably. Since, you know… it is mine.”

You frowned in confusion. “Your name…?”

He gestured back toward the café. “Café Mirage. It’s mine. The whole chain.”

And you found your eyes going wide again. “Wait, you’re the owner? But you were taking orders like the other staff?”

He smiled as if he was used to that kind of reaction. “I like helping out. Keep things grounded, and it’s nice to be part of the buzz when I’m not buried in paperwork.”

You didn't know what to say to that. Turned out, your imaginary boyfriend was actually a charming, successful café chain owner who somehow hadn't reported you to security yet.

He pulled his phone out of his apron pocket and handed it to you. “Number?”

You blinked again. “You’re serious?”

He smirked. “You owe me, remember?”

You reluctantly typed in your number, thumb hovering over the final digit for a moment before committing to it. As you handed his phone back, he leaned in slightly, just close enough that his breath brushed against your cheek.

“Well,” he murmured teasingly, “that was interesting.”

You winced, glancing over your shoulder where your family was still chatting excitedly inside the café. “They get… a little overenthusiastic.”

Jeonghan straightened, grinning because he found the whole thing more amusing than inconvenient. “Yeah,” he said, pocketing his phone, “I can see that.”

You were about to apologize again, but he just waved you off and started heading back inside, leaving you standing there completely dazed.

You shrugged and headed back inside, trying to school your expression. Your dad was reaching for something in his pocket—which you assumed to be his wallet—you hurried over to him. “Dad, did you already pay? If not, I can—”

Before you could finish, your mother cut in with a pleased smile. “No need, darling. It was on the house.”

Your stomach twisted slightly. On the house? You glanced toward the counter, politely excusing yourself from your parents. “I’ll just go… thank someone real quick.”

You made your way to the front, where a woman in a black apron stood, busy typing something into the POS system. You cleared your throat, and she looked up with a kind smile.

“Hi,” you said, “um… is Jeonghan still around?”

“Yes, ma'am,” she said with a nod. “One moment, I’ll call Mr. Yoon.”

You stepped aside, waiting near a shelf of pastries, your fingers fidgeting with the strap of your bag. A few seconds later, you heard footsteps behind you.

“Back so soon?” 

You turned to face him, lowering your voice as you took a small step to the side, away from the counter. “Yeah. Just… I wanted to thank you again, and also to say… about the bill… you really didn’t have to do that. I can pay, honestly. I want to pay.”

He raised an eyebrow, arms folding loosely across his chest. “So you’re saying you want to pay after pretending I was your boyfriend?” You opened your mouth to protest, but he grinned and held up a hand. “Look,” he said, kindly, “it’s on the house. Just consider it my treat—call it payment for the entertainment. All you need to do is show up the day you decide to buy me that coffee.”

You bit your lip, half-smiling despite yourself. “Are you always this stubborn?”

Jeonghan shrugged playfully. “Only when I want something.”

“Okay, thank you. Seriously.” You nodded, finally giving in.

“Anytime.”

You glanced over your shoulder and saw your family was already getting up, chattering excitedly near the door. “I should go,” you said. “They’re probably already planning our wedding.”

Jeonghan laughed at that. “I look forward to hearing all about it.”

You chuckled, stepping back. “I’ll see you soon then. For the coffee.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he said, voice sounding calm and warm.

-

You slumped onto your bed, the towel still wrapped loosely around your shoulders, your hair damp and sticking to the back of your neck. It had been three days since that café incident. Three whole days and not a single text. Why had he taken your number if he wasn’t going to use it?

You sighed and rolled onto your side, staring at the soft glow of your phone screen. Was he just being nice? Had he thought your lie was pathetic and this was his way of backing out gracefully? You groaned and buried your face into the pillow. You owed him a coffee anyway, and maybe it was time to just go to the café tomorrow, buy him the damn drink, apologize again, and vanish from his life forever like the myth you accidentally became.

Just as you were scripting your own disappearance, there was a soft knock at your door.

“Come in,” you mumbled, voice muffled in pillow fluff.

The door creaked open and your mom stepped in, holding a tall glass of milk filled all the way to the brim. She made her way to your bedside table, carefully placing the glass down. “Your hair’s still wet,” she scolded lightly, tsking as she brushed a few strands back. “You’ll catch a cold like this.”

You only just hummed in response to her. Despite your age, despite the adult life you lived outside these walls, your parents still treated you like their little girl. You were only living with them again because your workplace was closer to their house than your apartment, and… because they had missed their only child. You had missed them too.

Your mom sat on the edge of the bed for a second, smoothing the blanket over your legs like she used to when you were small. You glanced at her, at the lines time had etched onto her face, and that stirred a fragile kind of love and bittersweet warmth in your chest. Your parents hadn't had the easiest childhoods. They didn't talk about it much, but you knew. Maybe that was why they tried so hard to give you the life they hadn't gotten, and they did it really well. Your dad, especially, was the reason your standards were sky high. He treated both you and your mom like queens. Not princesses, Queens. He never made either of you feel small, and even when there wasn’t much money, there had always been love and that love felt like a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer.

That was why it had hurt so much when you didn’t listen to them about your ex. They knew he wasn’t right for you, they had seen the signs which you hadn't. You were too in love—or what you thought had been love. Even after it all had come crashing down, your parents didn’t say, I told you so. They didn’t shut you out, instead they pulled you in closer and protected you. They never brought him up again, and just silently patched you up with love, like they always did. You still remembered the way your dad’s jaw had clenched when he had seen you cry, and the way your mom had stroked your hair and pretended not to be crying with you.

You blinked back the sudden sting in your eyes. Your mom patted your thigh, smiling at you like she already knew you had been spiraling before she came in. “Dry your hair properly, okay? And drink the milk.”

You nodded slowly, “Thanks, Mom.”

She got up and walked to the door, pausing before she left. “You’ll be okay, you know. Whatever’s bothering you... it’ll pass.”

You nodded again, because she was always right.

The door clicked shut behind her. You sat up, reached for the milk, and took a sip. You were still annoyed that Jeonghan hadn't texted yet, but maybe tomorrow, you would go see him just to return the gesture. 

You were halfway through your milk and mindlessly scrolling Instagram when a text from an unknown number suddenly lit up your screen.

-

You walked into the café wearing something casual and comfortable which was feminine but not too much, something that still felt put together without trying too hard. You glanced around, your eyes instinctively landing on the floor-to-ceiling windows. The natural light poured in like a warm hug, and you chose a table by the glass, giving you a perfect view of the area outside.

Barely two minutes passed before you spotted him. He was walking toward you, but no apron this time, just a simple outfit that still made him look unfairly good. His hair was slightly tousled, a few strands falling perfectly over his forehead, and there was that ridiculously sweet and disarming smile gracing his lips. He definitely knew the effect he had on people and didn't even try to hide it. 

He stopped in front of you. “I’ve got a better spot for us,” he says softly, nodding for you to follow him.

You stood and trailed behind him as he led you deeper into the café, away from the area you had been in a few seconds ago and into a semi-private space tucked to the side. The vibe was warm soft beige and creamy whites, cozy lighting, and a calm atmosphere that immediately made you feel at home.

Once seated, Jeonghan flashed another smile. “What do you want to order? My treat.”

“But I’m here to treat you, remember?” You said.

“Exactly,” he grinned. “You’re already getting the coffee. Let me at least cover the dessert.”

You started to argue, but he gave you that playfully persuasive look, and insisted until you finally gave in and settled on tiramisu.

The conversation flowed easily after that. You talked about your work, your absurd deadlines, your coworkers’ obsession with bubble tea. He told you stories about running the café chain, how he sometimes snuck into different branches just to work as a barista because he missed the human side of it. There was both laughter and comfortable silences rising between you, and before you knew it, he had completely disarmed you.

Then, as you were taking a sip of your latte, he leaned forward just a bit and said it; softly but with no hesitation. “I think I fell in love with you the first time I saw you.”

You nearly choked on your latte. “W-What?”

He chuckled but didn't take it back. “I’m serious. You were pretty and nervous, trying to save face in front of your family... but there was something about you that just stuck to me.”

Your heart stirred, but not enough to change where it was currently locked away. You set your cup down gently. “Jeonghan, you seem like a good man… and you’re,” you gestured vaguely at him, “well, unfairly handsome, if I'm being honest, but… I’ve closed off that part of my heart for a while, and I’m not ready to open it yet.”

He didn't ask why or pry, he just smiled that same soft understanding smile. “I figured you’d say that. So how about a deal?”

You tilted your head. “A deal?”

“I’ll keep playing the part of your boyfriend anytime your family needs to see me.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “But you give me 100 days.”

“One hundred days for what?”

“For me to woo you,” he said, eyes gleaming in a way that shook you a little more than you’d like to admit. “No pressure and definitely no expectations, just let me try. That’s all.”

You hesitated, looking down at your hands. “I’m not promising anything, Jeonghan. Like I said, my heart is… closed.” You took a breath, thinking it over; it was too much of a good deal to completely turn down. After a pause, you looked up again. “But I’m not completely closed-minded. If you want to try, you can. Just know I might not change.”

He leaned back with a satisfied smile. “I can work with that.”

You exhaled a soft laugh and nodded. “Alright then. Deal.”

The countdown began.

Two

Day 5 of 100

Your pencil glided across your sketchpad as you worked on a draft for the new balcony design of a hotel lounge. The afternoon light spilled in through the office windows, hitting your page just right as you adjusted the lines of the railing. You were lost in thought, debating whether to go for a rustic wood finish or a sleek glass border when a paper bag was dropped onto your desk with a soft thud.

“Delivery for you,” a coworker said. “From your boyfriend, apparently.”

Before you could even process, Celeste, your best friend and your cousin, launched up from her seat like she had been electrocuted. She didn't even give you a chance to reach for the bag. “Boyfriend?! Excuse me—the fuck do you mean boyfriend?” she exclaimed, already halfway through tearing open the top of the paper bag. “When the hell did you get a boyfriend? I thought you were done with love! You said you were done with love!”

You exhaled sharply, snatching the bag from her hand before she could dig in further. “Cel, can you not violate my lunch?”

“So it is lunch! And it’s from him!” she paused then looked at you accusingly, “who even is him? And why do I not know about this?”

You glanced down, eyebrows raising when you saw a folded note tucked inside, the handwriting a neat scrawl: Don’t skip meals today. — Jeonghan

You honestly weren’t expecting to hear from him after that coffee—maybe in a week or so. So when a paper bag landed on your desk today, the very next day, your brain had to short-circuit. You swallowed, the corners of your lips twitching, and pulled out the lunch box. Inside was a beautifully packed meal—teriyaki chicken with seasoned rice, grilled veggies, and a small matcha cookie tucked in on the side. Your stomach growled on cue.

Celeste was practically bouncing behind you, peering over your shoulder. “You better start talking before I call your mom.”

You rolled your eyes and gestured to her seat. “Sit the fuck down.”

She obeyed, sliding animatedly into her chair, arms crossed. “I’m listening.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Okay, so… remember how my family’s been bugging me to get married for like… two years?”

“Yeah. They’ve been on your ass because it’s their full-time job.”

“Well,” you started, picking up your chopsticks and stabbing a piece of broccoli, “I kind of told them I already had a boyfriend of two years.”

Her eyes widened. “You lied?!”

“I didn’t mean to lie-lie. I just… said a random name, and said he worked at a café.”

“And?”

“And then my parents dragged me to that café.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God—”

“And there actually was a Jeonghan working there.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth. “NO.”

“YES.”

She wheezed.

“And before I could do anything, he walked over, introduced himself to my parents, and I panicked and told them he was my boyfriend.”

Celeste fell sideways in her chair, clutching her chest like it was too much for her weak heart to handle. “This is insane! Keep going.”

You shoved a bite of chicken into your mouth. “Later, I went to apologize to him for the scene and it turns out… he’s the owner of the café chain.”

“What the actual—?!”

“So I took him up on a coffee treat a few days later, and while we were there, he told me he fell in love with me at first sight and made me a deal.” You said and calmly took another bite as Celeste shrieked. “He’ll fake-date me in front of my family whenever I need — in exchange for 100 days to woo me.” Now all you heard is silence, and so you glanced at Celeste, who was staring at you like she just witnessed a plot twist in a K-drama in real life. “…You okay?”

She nodded slowly. “I have never been more emotionally fed in my life.”

You snort. “Well, now get physically fed before I steal your lunch.”

-

Juggling your sketchpad under one arm and your nearly dead phone in your other hand, you found the front door was locked, which was weird because your parents were always home this time of day. Frowning, you unlocked it and pushed the door open.

The first thing you saw was a note, stuck right on the shoe rack in your dad’s familiar handwriting: Buy a bouquet of flowers on your way to your aunt’s. Don’t stay home—come straight there.

Your brows furrowed as you stepped in and dropped your bag. You instinctively reached for your phone to call your mom but of course it had finally died. You stared at it for a few seconds before groaning. With a reluctant sigh, you grabbed your charger for later, locked the door again, and left for your aunt’s.

-

You had expected a cozy dinner with maybe a few people. Instead, you were hit with the sound of dozens of voices the moment you stepped into the front gate. Laughter, chatter, shoes—a mountain of them—outside the door. You walked in and it was everyone. Uncles. Aunts. Cousins you hadn't seen in months. Your second cousin from abroad was there too. It was a family gathering, you realised. You blinked, recovered quickly and offered a polite smile and greeting to anyone who turned toward you. You bowed your head, murmuring ‘Hellos,’ as you shuffled through the familiar hallway, doing your best to keep your confusion hidden.

You finally found your mom in the kitchen, pulling roasted chicken from the oven. She turned around and let out a tiny yelp when she saw you. “Oh— you scared me!”

You immediately reached forward and steadied the pan in her hand. “Sorry! That could’ve burned you.”

She exhaled in relief, then smiled wide. “Everyone’s been waiting for you. Go change and plate the dishes, okay?”

You didn't move. “Wait. What is going on? Why is everyone here? Why didn’t you tell me we were coming here today?”

She looked at you, confused. “I did tell you. I sent you a text this afternoon. I told you we were all coming to celebrate your cousin’s graduation. Everyone’s in town.”

You stared at her, stunned for a moment, then groaned. “Oh my God—I didn’t see it. My phone’s been flooded with client messages and drafts and edits and now it’s dead and—ugh.”

As you were about to turn around and change, your mom gasped, her eyes going wide. “Don’t tell me Jeonghan’s not with you!”

You froze mid-step. “...What?”

“I told the family your boyfriend would be coming too. I wrote it in the text. You didn’t see that either?”

You facepalmed so hard it echoed. “Obviously I didn’t. Why would you tell them he’s coming?!”

“I thought he was! It would be so cute for everyone to meet him tonight.”

Your heart lurched. This is bad, this is very bad. “I’ll fix it,” you muttered and spun on your heel, practically running through the hallway. You darted into a spare room and locked the door behind you and slumped against it for a second. You plugged your phone in and the screen flickered to life. 1% and you didn't wait, your fingers were already flying across the screen as you found Jeonghan’s number and pressed ‘Call.’

“Hey,” his voice came through, warm and a little sleepy.

You didn't let him finish. “Jeonghan, I’m so, so sorry to bother you at this hour—seriously, I wouldn't call unless it was important. Are you busy? Or like… home and maybe willing to go on a sudden field trip?”

He chuckled. “Hey, breathe. What happened?”

You exhaled shakily. “So apparently—my cousin graduated and the entire extended family is at my aunt’s place. My mom had texted me about it but I hadn't seen it because my phone was dying and drowning in work notifications. And now I’m here, and so is everyone.”

“Okaaay…”

“And my mom—bless her—told the whole family you were coming… as my boyfriend.”

There was a beat of silence and you cringed. “So… you want me to come over and save you?”

“YES, Jeonghan. Everyone’s here. My uncles, aunts, their kids, and my mom just dropped, ‘Don’t tell me Jeonghan’s not here with you!’ I’m two seconds away from faking a stomach ache and crawling out the window.” You heard him laugh lightly as you blabbered on. “I’m seriously sorry,” you apologized again, your voice small. “Can you—would you maybe come over? You don’t have to stay long, just… show face, say some sweet things about me, eat a cookie, and then disappear. Please?”

Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully. “Hmm...”

“I’m begging you, Jeonghan. I swear I owe you so much after this. You can blacklist me from your café if you want, I’ll go willingly.”

He laughed again, soft and amused. “You don’t need to beg. I got you. Send me the address.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he said easily. “I told you I’d play the boyfriend whenever you needed me. I’m on my way.”

 “You’re the best. Like actually the best. I owe you dinner, bubble tea, and a kidney.”

“I’ll take the bubble tea. Keep your kidney.”

You were already typing the address with trembling fingers. “On it. Thank you. I mean it.”

“I know,” he teased. “Now hurry up before your aunt tries to set you up with your cousin’s dentist or something.”

You groaned. “Don’t even joke about that.”

He just laughed again, and the call ended. Now, all you had to do was survive the next twenty minutes of nosy relatives until your fake boyfriend-slash-lifeline walked through that door.

So, what was the next best distraction? Your little cousins, of course.

You made your way to the living room where a couple of them were sprawled on the floor playing some weird version of Uno that definitely didn't follow official rules. You crouched beside them and instantly snatched a card from the youngest, who gasped and tried to get it back while shouting, “Unfair! You’re not even playing!”

“That’s because I’m a wildcard,” you smirked, holding the card high above your head while the others laughed. You spent the next few minutes stirring up chaos like, peeking at their cards, mixing up the draw pile, and accusing them of cheating just to mess around. They were yelling at you, but laughing too hard to mean it. It was the perfect distraction from your own nerves for the night.

That was, until you heard footsteps and a familiar voice that made you groan. “Well, well, well... I hear someone’s boyfriend will be here soon.”

You whipped your head around to see Celeste strolling into the room, a smug little smirk curling her lips as she sauntered up to you. She bumped your hip lightly with hers and raised her brows in exaggerated curiosity. You cussed her under your breath through a clenched smile, already bracing yourself. Unfortunately, your aunts were quicker than your panic.

“Oh, he's coming tonight, right?” one piped up from the couch.

“We’ve been dying to meet him!” another added cheerfully, leaning forward.

You internally screamed but plastered on a polite smile. “Yes, he’s… on his way.” Before the interrogation could go any further, you grabbed Celeste's wrist and muttered, “Excuse us,” before dragging her away from the living room crowd, down the hallway and toward a corner near the bathroom. “You’re actually insane,” you hissed once you were alone. “Why would you bring him up?! They were quiet, Celeste. They were probably forgetting!”

Celeste just giggled, “I’m sorry, I had to. You know I’ve been dying to meet the guy who managed to sneak past your titanium heart.”

You groaned and rubbed your forehead. “First of all, you already know it’s not like that. Second of all—okay, listen—this is what happened.” You exhaled and spilled the entire story from start to finish: how your phone had died, how you hadn't read your mom’s text about tonight’s gathering, how she’d apparently told everyone that Jeonghan would be joining, and how you had called him to come save your ass.

Celeste listened wide-eyed and gasped at all the right moments, nodding along. “So he’s at least coming, right?!”

“Yes,” you sighed. “And please don’t make it worse. Don’t act like this is some grand romance. He’s doing me a favor, okay?”

“Mhm,” she hummed with a sarcastic grin. “Of course, of course.”

Before you could smack her with a dish towel, Joshua, her long-term boyfriend, showed up with his usual sweet smile. “Hey, sorry to interrupt the secret meeting,” he said, wrapping an arm around Celeste's waist. “But I’m gonna steal her for a sec. Your mom’s calling you, by the way.”

You nodded and smiled politely at him. “She probably wants to scold me again.”

Joshua chuckled and led Celeste away as you headed back to find your mom. As expected, she was standing by the kitchen counter, hands on her hips. “Did you have to rile up the kids like that?” she asked, though her tone is more bemused than angry.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “They started it.”

“Go plate the dishes,” she said, trying to hide her smile at your childish behaviour. “And behave.”

You grabbed the fried rice and sides, neatly plating them and arranging them on the dining table. The smell was warm and rich and comforting, but it still didn't calm your nerves. 

Ding dong.

You nearly launched yourself down the hallway to the front door, ignoring everyone’s curious glances behind you. There was only one person you were hoping to see on the other side, so you reached for the handle and opened it and—thank god—there he was. Jeonghan; your lifeline for the night. Your heart might have been closed... but damn, it still knew how to skip.

Jeonghan stood tall and effortlessly charming in a beige cardigan over a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A silver chain peeked just slightly from under his collar. He was holding a bouquet: roses and baby’s breath, just like your mom's type, and was wearing a calm smile like he hadn't just agreed to join a family gathering at the last minute.

“You’re… kinda late,” you muttered, your hand still on the doorknob, but your heart was doing somersaults from relief.

He leaned slightly forward, the smile growing. “I brought flowers. That buys me five minutes of forgiveness, right?”

You snorted under your breath and grabbed his wrist, pulling him inside quickly before anyone else saw him and turned this into a press conference, but you knew it was too late when you heard a chorus of gasps and not-so-quiet whispers rise like a wave from the living room.

“Oh, he’s so handsome,” someone whispered.

“Is that him?!”

Your aunt gasped. “He looks just like a celebrity—”

“Is that the Jeonghan?” one of your cousins said in awe.

Jeonghan’s eyes swept over the room politely which happened to be straight ahead from the main door before turning to you with a smug little glint in his eye. “You didn’t tell me it was going to be a fan meeting.”

“Oh come on,” you murmured under your breath, forcing a smile so strained you swore your cheeks might just snap as your relatives descended like hawks circling prey.

He slipped off his shoes, and just as he was about to step onto the wooden floor in his socks, one of your aunts rushed to the door. Her eyes practically sparkled as she beamed at her niece’s so-called ‘secret boyfriend.’ You, the niece who apparently had hidden him away for two years. Without hesitation, she bent down and placed a pair of white guest slippers in front of him. Jeonghan gave her a smile so sweet it could rot teeth, and you realized he'd never be one to falter in charm. You’d admit it, no matter how many times you saw it, he really did have a beautiful smile.

As you both stepped inside, the small herd of kids and elders who had been in the living room just a minute ago, started trailing behind you. You started feeling a little self-conscious. It had been two years since you last dated anyone, and suddenly you couldn't remember how you used to act with Minho, your now ex boyfriend. If you thought about it, two years was a long time; long enough to forget the feel of someone’s hand in yours, or how you used to laugh back then when they were around. But memory had a cruel sense of loyalty, because it never forgot the pain.

How had you even fallen for someone like Minho? Someone who had pursued you first, only to break you later. If you could go back, you’d beg yourself not to say anything that night, to stay strangers.

As you poured Jeonghan a glass of water, your thoughts still swirling, you barely noticed him watching you. He smoothly tugged at the hem of your sleeve, Are you okay? his eyes asked.

You glanced at him and smiled, the smallest shake of your head telling him you were fine, even if you weren't entirely sure it was true.

Just then, your mom appeared in the living room, eyes wide and lit up with relief and happiness when she spotted Jeonghan sitting on the couch. “Oh lord!” she exclaimed, rushing over to you both. “I went to the bathroom for one second—one second, and missed the chance to greet you properly!” Her hands fluttered as she talked, clearly flustered. She was genuinely upset, as though it was absurd that she actually left the moment before Jeonghan rang the bell. The timing was almost too poetic, but that was your mom for you.

She clapped her hands then and ushered everyone to the dining room. “It’s so late now, come on, come on—everyone to the table. Dinner’s ready!”

You and Jeonghan followed her, along with the rest of your extended family. The dining table, of course, wasn't nearly big enough for this many people, so the kids were more than happy to scatter to the living room where the TV held more importance than proper seating.

It was funny how easily you were getting along with Jeonghan. He didn’t seem intimidating when you first met him, but still, you didn’t expect to feel this comfortable around him so soon. This was only the third time you had seen him in person, and yet it felt like you had known him longer. Too long maybe, and too close too fast. You had learned your lesson the hard way. You try not to get attached to people anymore, or at least not easily or carelessly like you did before. And yet... here you were, telling yourself he was just a friend. A good one, sure—genuine, polite, naturally teasing in a way that didn't sting. Like just now, when he handled your relatives’ questions with ease. It made you wonder if he had rehearsed all this in front of a mirror.

They were asking him how you two had met, or, to rephrase it correctly—how he had met the love of his life, as one particularly nosy aunt put it. He was smooth with his answers though, like he had been back at the café when he first met your parents. His voice was calm, a smile curved so sincere, and in some way, every word he said sounded real like it actually had happened. You blinked, trying to hold onto the moment, because truth be told, nothing like what he was saying ever had happened with Minho; not even close. That boy never even tried, and still, despite all the pain he had left you with, despite the way he did you dirty and walked away without a shred of guilt, he still lived rent-free in the back of your mind.

You glanced back at Jeonghan, now answering what he did for a living and why he never had appeared by your side before. His words were golden, the kind that had your relatives gushing and giggling. Words that belonged in fairy tales. But he was no prince, and those stories didn't exist in real life. 

You sighed, picking at the little pile of broccoli on the edge of your plate. You hated broccoli. No matter how it was cooked, it tasted so bitter, bitter like betrayal. But you ate it anyway because your mom would scold you if you didn't. So you pushed through, chewing your fourth and final piece like a true soldier that you were. What you did love, however, was carrots. Carrots were divine. And apparently, Jeonghan had taken notice of that.

Just as you were about to take another bite, two sets of chopsticks appeared over your rice bowl at the exact same time, both holding out perfectly cooked carrot slices. You paused, blinking, your eyes following the utensils back to their owners. Your dad. And Jeonghan.

Smiling, you glanced at your father first, but he wasn't looking at you. He was looking at Jeonghan—with a raised brow and that intimidating dad stares only fathers like yours could master. You shifted your eyes to Jeonghan next. He met your gaze, smiled still gently as ever, and dropped the carrot into your bowl before lowering his chopsticks. He didn't even flinch under your dad’s stare. Your father held his gaze for another second, then, wordlessly, added his carrot to your bowl too.

Shy and oddly happy, you pulled your rice bowl closer to your face, half hiding behind it, trying to focus on eating so no one saw your flustered expression. The table erupted into hushed chuckles including your mom, because she couldn't help herself but to throw marriage blessings your way. People nodded and laughed, and soon everyone shifted focus back to their food, making sure neither you nor Jeonghan felt awkward. 

But in the middle of it all, there was one thing no one noticed.

The small, soft smile curved at the corner of your father’s lips. Because no matter how much of a threat Jeonghan might have seemed in this little game of hearts, to your father—you had always been his little queen.

-

After dinner, everyone began clearing the table, piling dishes into the sink. Thankfully, dishwashing duties didn't fall under your job description in this house. You were technically a guest too, at least that was the excuse you clung to as you quietly tiptoed away from the mess.

You glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight.

That was when it hit you, you hadn't seen Jeonghan in a while, and worse, you hadn't even offered to walk him out yet. The man probably had sacrificed his peaceful night’s sleep just to show up at your family gathering and play pretend boyfriend. The least you could do was make sure he got home safe and as early as possible… or at least wasn't cornered by another round of interrogation.

You wandered through the halls, gently pushing open doors until you found him sitting cross-legged on the floor of the guest room, now completely claimed by your little cousins and their stuffed animals. You blinked, quietly leaning against the doorframe. He looked oddly at peace there, in a room filled with cartoon blankets and sticky fingers.

One of your younger cousins was enthusiastically chatting with him. “So my birthday is next month!” the little boy said, eyes bright. “You have to come, okay?”

Seriously, how does he do that? Kids, moms… even aunties? God. It’s actually scary how easy it is to like him, you wondered. Jeonghan gave him a soft smile, but you could read the hesitation on his face. He was trying to be polite, trying to find a way to decline without crushing tiny dreams. “That sounds fun,” he said slowly, “but I might need to check with—”

Before he could finish, your cousin cut in with an easy solution. “You can just come with Y/N! You’re her boyfriend, duh. You have to come!”

Jeonghan chuckled softly, but before he could respond, you stepped in from the door and cleared your throat. “Alright, birthday boss,” you said with a playful smile. “Jeonghan’s going to be super busy that day, okay? You’ll have to deal with just me.”

Your cousin looked disappointed for a beat before shrugging with a sigh, “Fine… but please at least don't annoy me that day ”

“Deal,” you said, laughing, as you gestured for Jeonghan to follow you out.

He rose, and followed you through the hallway. You led him around the corner of the house, to the narrow balcony space near the laundry room, just private enough without being suspicious.

He quirked an eyebrow at you that resulted in you giving him a dry look. “What?”

“You really won’t let me come to his birthday?” he queried, lips tilting with amused defiance. “I’ll clear my schedule for the kiddo if that’s what it takes to make my pretend girlfriend’s family happy.”

“You looked uncomfortable. I thought you’d want an easy out.”

“I was uncomfortable because I didn’t know if you were okay with me going,” he said honestly, voice softer. “But if you are, I want to come. It’s not a bother.”

Caught slightly off guard, you tried to blink it away, “I’ll… think about it,” you murmured 

“Fair,” he said, leaning against the wall. “So, what’d you really pull me aside for?”

“Oh, I was just gonna tell you to head out before someone tried to chain you to the dining table with dessert.” He snorted, and you glanced at him again, your voice dropping more to the soft range. “Thanks for coming, though. I’m sorry I called last minute and dragged you into this. You were probably asleep, weren’t you?”

“About to be,” he admitted with a laugh. “But it’s okay. I told you, didn’t I? If you ever need saving, just say the word.”

You didn't respond right away, instead you just smiled before whispering, “Let me walk you out.” 

He nodded, and turned to walk toward the front door, but just as he was about to reach for the handle, he paused and glanced back. “Where are your parents?” he asked, almost like he just realized he should say goodbye properly.

You tilted your head, scanning the hallway. “They’re probably… somewhere.”

He didn't take your vague answer, though, so he disappeared back down the hall, and a minute later, you heard familiar voices of your mom’s tone and your dad’s low chuckle and then, Jeonghan’s goodbye. Your aunt insisted he stay the night, even offering him an extra toothbrush and spare pajama set, but Jeonghan politely declined, because of course, he knew what was appropriate and what was not.

Still, your mom told him to come by their house sometime, which also happened to be your living space too. He promised he would, and then finally, walked back to the front door where you were waiting for him.

You caught his eyes one last time and bid, “Goodnight, Jeonghan.”

He gave you a little salute as he walked out of the door. “Goodnight.”

You watched as he stepped outside into the quiet of the night, and then you closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Three

Day 8 of 100

You had hoped this would be your winning year. You had landed the job you had always dreamed of, and now, there was a business trip to Italy; something you had kept on your vision board for years. It felt like everything was aligning at last, but luck never played fair. You had misunderstood the timeline because you had thought the trip would be next month. Turns out, it was this week—right on your mother's 45th birthday.

The company was sponsoring everything—flights, accommodations, even the visa. In return, you and your team would be working on a high-level project that could redefine your career portfolio. It was an opportunity you’ve only dreamed of, and yet, here you were, sitting in front of your laptop with the screen glowing in your dim room, torn between the offer and a woman who meant the world to you. You had been planning her birthday for so long. You had wanted this year to be extravagant, joyful, and different. She had always put everyone else first, and this time, you had wanted her to feel like the star of the world.

Your heart ached. Of course, your mother’s happiness was more important than any job title, any overseas project. You were already drafting a polite email to decline the offer when a soft knock tapped on your door.

She entered, holding a glass of milk, wearing that same smile that always reached you before her words did. "I got the mail from your company earlier," she said, sitting on the edge of your bed. "I opened it by mistake, but... I know it's about your trip to Italy." You stayed quiet, already knowing where this was headed. “I know you’re worried about my birthday,” she continued, offering the glass to you. “But listen to me. This trip is important. You’ve worked so hard for this moment, so don’t let it go just because you want to buy me a cake and hang some balloons.”

“Mom, it’s not just a cake and balloons. I wanted to do something big this year. You deserve that,” you whispered.

“Sweetheart, I don’t need big. I just need to know you’re happy and that you’re doing what you love. That’s enough of a gift for me.” You lowered your gaze, hands wrapped around the warm glass. “Go to Italy,” she said firmly. “Prioritize your future. You can celebrate with me next year, or the year after. But right now, it’s your time.”

You nodded, giving up. “Okay… I’ll go.”

She kissed your forehead, a gesture that still made you feel like a child wrapped in safety. And as she left, you sat back, gulping the milk, your heart swelling.

You would always count your stars that she had chosen to be yours, that she was the one you got to call, Mom. Your life had been stitched with love since the moment you were born, her heartbeat syncing with yours. Everything you were, and everything you would become, was because of her, and because of them; your parents. For their love, their sacrifices, their endless belief in your dreams. You were you… because of them.

Just as you were lost in that warm pool of gratitude, your mother broke the silence again. “So… is Celeste going with you?”

You shook your head slightly, “no, she’s not. She’s already involved in another project. It’ll probably just be me and a few others from the team.”

Your mother hummed, nodding. “And… does Jeonghan know?”

You let out a light exhale. “Not yet. I’ll tell him once it’s finalized.”

There was a moment of pause before she spoke again. “You know,” she began with a familiar lilt, “Jeonghan… I really like him. He’s the best boyfriend you’ve had so far. It’s a mother’s instinct.” She chuckled at her own words like she always did when she said something she believed was completely obvious.

You blinked, looking at her, lips parting with a small smile. There was a wave of relief washing over you, because who knew the random name you nervously muttered would actually turn out to be attached to someone like Jeonghan who was decent, polite, respectful. Not a creep. “Yeah,” you muttered, glancing down. “He’s… nice.”

You knew your mother was right, because every boyfriend you had, you ended up walking away from for one reason or another. But when it came to Minho, your parents were obsessively against the relationship, and still, you didn’t care. You didn’t listen. You were too blinded by a love that you now knew was never truly mutual.

Minho was the only man you genuinely, wholeheartedly fell in love with. You dared admit—no one else ever came close. You loved him in a way that scared you, you loved him in a way that consumed you, and yet… he made you so sad.

He was a fucking terrible person, and yet, you loved him more than anyone deserved to be loved if they were going to treat someone the way he treated you. You remembered the nights he left your messages on read, the way he made you feel like your needs were too much, like your softness was some kind of burden he had to bear. You remembered holding your breath during phone calls, hoping today he wouldn’t be in one of his moods, laced with that mockery he always passed off as jokes.

He didn’t scream or break things, but he broke you in pieces so small you didn’t even notice at first. Little digs at your work, guilt-tripping you for being emotional, never showing up when it actually mattered—when you were sick, when your dad was hospitalized, when you cried and said I really need you right now. And he didn’t come. You were fucking dying inside and he didn’t show up. You still remembered how small you felt clutching your phone, praying he would text, but he didn’t. And when he finally did, it was something so simple like, Did you eat? Like he hadn’t gone missing for days, like he didn’t just leave you all alone to drown in pain that he had promised to be there for.

You knew you deserved better, but you didn’t want better. You wanted him to be better. And that was your downfall, because you held onto hope, onto potential, onto memories from the beginning, when he was kind and sweet and said things like I’ve never met anyone like you. But all of that turned to dust the moment you looked closely. He won you over with his words, but it was his actions that made you walk away.

Your parents begged you to let go. Your friends tried to shake some sense into you, but love didn't always listen to reason, and you… you were stupid in love. And now, looking back, the part that hurt most was how long you stayed naive, how long you let him stay in your life, how long you made excuses for him when he didn’t deserve a single one. You hated him, but you hated yourself more for loving him.

Snapping you back, your mother took the empty glass from your hands as she stood up. “Get some sleep, okay?”

You nodded, offering a ‘Goodnight’ before she walked out and closed the door behind her.

Without even glancing back at your laptop or your skincare shelf, you pushed yourself off the bed, trudged into the bathroom, brushed your teeth half-asleep, and threw yourself onto the mattress as soon as you were done.

- 

Your manager in charge was a certified piece of shit. There was no other way to put it. He had been dumping a mountain of unnecessary workload on you for the last three days, which was an obvious attempt to wear you down before the Italy project even began. You know his type; a man who thought women were only good for pretty presentations and coffee runs. It was disgusting. It got under your skin in ways you couldn't even articulate without gritting your teeth.

Right then, he was yelling, loud and pointless. Screaming at you for things that weren't even part of your damn job description—the audacity. Beside you stood Celeste and Seungkwan, both fuming in silence. Their fists were clenched so tightly, you were convinced their fingernails were permanently embedded into their palms. From the corner of your eye, you could see them both with their heads lowered, trying not to explode, but you knew them. If it weren’t for their upcoming promotions hanging in the balance, Seungkwan would’ve already flattened that pitiful nose into something even more pathetic, and Celeste would've kicked him where the sun didn't shine. God bless their restraint. If what they had worked so hard for wasn't hanging by a thread, they would've already thrown hands right there, right then, in front of HR, God, and everyone, and they wouldn’t even have regretted it. They would've walked to the police station whistling.

Just when you thought the day couldn't get any more heated, the CEO walked in. Mrs. Kim. Your boss’s boss. The actual authority in the building; a woman. The very species your manager seemed to despise with his whole shriveled heart, and maybe that was why he was divorced and hadn't gotten laid since forever.

She walked in, looked at the three of you, then her eyes moved to the manager. “What’s going on here?”

Before any of you could speak, he jumped in, sugarcoating everything, and hearing his version of events, how he was ‘just trying to guide his team to success’ made all three of you visibly nauseous.

Seungkwan was the first to speak, voice sweet as syrup but sharp as a knife. “Oh, yes, we're definitely being guided.”

That statement with that tone, made the CEO raise a brow. Celeste didn't wait, she stepped in calmly and confidently. “We understand deadlines, but lately the amount of off-task work being pushed onto us has started affecting the actual projects we’re assigned to. It’s just becoming difficult to prioritize what’s actually important.” She didn't whine or plead, she simply spoke facts with clarity and class.

Mrs. Kim turned to the manager, “why are they doing extra work that doesn’t align with their primary responsibilities? These three are handling a high-level project—one that has international visibility. I expect their full energy to be focused on that.” The manager sputtered, trying to defend himself, but Mrs. Kim shut it down gracefully, yet firmly. “Respect your team. Don’t misuse their time because you misunderstand their value. Let this be the last conversation we have about this.”

A girl’s girl, through and through. A CEO who got it, and as she walked away, Seungkwan muttered under his breath, “I’d die for her.” You didn't even have the strength to laugh, because you were too busy mentally high-fiving her in your head.

Your manager in charge still didn't look remotely ashamed, just let out an ignorant sigh and shooed the three of you away like he was the victim, but whatever, you were too tired to deal with male mediocrity right then, so you just complied.

On the way back to your desks, Seungkwan leaned closer and threw a “Lunch date?” your way. It was actually pretty normal and nothing new. Platonic lunch dates were kind of your and Seungkwan's thing—matching eye rolls and stealing each other’s fries. Celeste might have been your closest cousin, and your ride-or-die since childhood, but Seungkwan was your bestie, your lunch break soulmate, the lawless good to your tired neutral. Who said you needed only one close person when life handed you more than one decent human being?

You nodded at his offer and plopped back into your seat, immediately drawn to the growing pile of papers on your desk, the ones about the Italy trip and your high-profile project. You uncapped your signature green pen [because black and blue are for amateurs] and started scribbling notes. Mid-marking, your phone buzzed, and without thinking, you assumed it was your mom because who else would it have been at that hour aside from Celeste or Seungkwan—and they were right there, but no, it wasn't your mom. It was Jeonghan.

He was asking if you were free for lunch. You glanced at Seungkwan, who was already halfway through planning his order in his head, you texted back.

You smiled. Sipped the lukewarm coffee from your desk, and went back to highlighting your to-do list.

-

Seungkwan scanned the menu and orders a burger that was apparently ‘new and calling his name’. He recommended the same one to you, so you checked the picture on the menu and yeah, you weren't not gonna lie, it did look scrumptious.

He immediately started ranting about how he was on a diet and how Vernon didn't diet with him, and how that clearly meant Vernon didn't love him enough.

You laughed right in his face. “Vernon doesn’t need to starve himself to prove he loves you, babe.”

Seungkwan glared but sulked in silence, grumbling about how he was probably just in ‘male menstruation mode.’

You took a bite of your burger—he wasn’t wrong, it was divine. But before you could get too far, Seungkwan nearly spat out his iced americano as something suddenly went through his head, “Okay, so Celeste told me you have a boyfriend now? Since WHEN? You literally said, and I quote, ‘I’m done with love.’ Like, girl, what?!”

You gave him a look and shrugged. “You should know better than to believe Celeste with her three and a half brain cells.”

But the truth was, you did say that. Two years ago, drunk off your ass, crying over an asshole, bawling into Celeste’s shoulder, snot and all, swearing off love because it was a contagious disease, and you meant every single thing back then. Part of you still did, you didn't believe love was for you.

You sighed and finally explained what really happened; how Jeonghan became your boyfriend. Fake boyfriend to be, and how Jeonghan, saint that he was, actually agreed to play along.

Seungkwan stared at you for a solid five seconds, then: “Girl… I want to judge you, but I’m weirdly impressed.”

You just groaned and plopped back in your chair, sipping the last of your watered-down coffee.

He then asked if you were going to the team building party that week. “Obviously,” you said, “you think I’d miss out on free food and gossip?” He snorted, satisfied with your, you kinda answer, and the two of you finished up lunch before heading back to the office.

You buried yourself in paperwork, prepping everything for the Italy trip. Your green pen glided across the documents—marking the hotel addresses, underlining budget breakdowns, drawing tiny stars next to notes. You were so into the zone that you didn't notice when your work chat pinged. It was from the front desk. The CEO wanted to see you.

You low-key froze because that was a big deal. It wasn't not everyday the CEO called you up, and while she wasn't the biting-heads-off type, it was still nerve-wracking.

You climbed the stairs—the elevators were reserved for upper management at that time of the day. Classism at its finest. You rolled your eyes, like, please, how much money was the company really saving by keeping one elevator out of use? It was giving ‘penny-pinching villain arc’.

Finally, you reached her office, knocked politely, and heard a warm, come in.

You entered, instantly wrapped in that elegant aura Mrs. Kim always carried. She was poised, sharp, and always smelled like fresh roses and justice; a woman you wanted to write poems about. She smiled. “Have a seat.” You did—respectfully, obediently. She was the boss for a reason.

You’d always admired her, but not just for her presence, but for how she consistently sided with the employees whenever an overzealous senior acted out of line, e.g. like that morning. She knew you by face, name, and the quality of your work, though your interactions had mostly been limited to the occasional office circus or passing greetings in the hallway. 

She started, “I know you’ve been reviewing the design documentation for the Italy project,” and you nodded. You updated her on what you’d done so far: layout revisions, material specs, budget adjustments—everything. She nodded along, then sighed lightly. “I’m sorry to throw this at you, but I wanted to speak to you directly. There’s a new assignment,” she paused before continuing again. “I know it’s not what you signed up for right now,” she said, “but a very important client specifically requested you for a new project. He saw your portfolio and won’t take no for an answer.” She continued, “It’s a bar. Both interior and exterior design. He wants it done by you, and only you.”

Men and their obsession with being picky, you muttered in your head.

“But,” she added, “you won’t have to start until after the Italy trip. The schedule is flexible, the budget is very accommodating… and he’s paying double your usual fee.”

Now that caught your attention. “Okay,” you said slowly, “I’ll happily consider it once I check the brief and make sure I’m actually capable of delivering what he wants. I’ll speak to my manager—”

She stopped you there. “Actually, no. You won’t need to discuss it with him. It’s already been approved. The details will be sent once you return from Italy.”

Huh? You nodded, but your brain was half-screaming. This sounded a little too good to be true; great pay, great flexibility, total creative freedom—but no option to say no, and no brief until you’re back? Yeah. Red flag. He might have been rich, but he was still giving mild bastard energy. Still, you nodded again. “Understood.”

You thanked her, left the room, and walked back to your desk. At least the pay was great, all was well for now.

Day 10 of 100

You were wearing a silk ivory blouse with a subtle sweetheart neckline, tucked into high-waisted slate-grey tailored trousers that hugged your waist just right. Over that, a light beige trench coat draped you, the sleeves slightly pushed up to show off your simple silver bracelet. You had paired the outfit with pointed-toe nude heels, pearl stud earrings, and your hair was done in a half-up loose twist, soft waves cascading down your back. You were so glad you had worn something put together that day. After successfully convincing Seungkwan to switch your lunch date with Celeste instead, with the promise of paying for dessert next time, you headed out of the office with a slight skip in your step. You strolled down the pavement, one hand in your coat pocket, the other holding your phone with Jeonghan’s pinned location glowing on the screen. You finally arrived, stopped and gaped.

The restaurant in front of you was stunning. Soft cream stonework, vines grew over the edges of a wooden pergola, delicate white drapes danced with the wind. There was outdoor seating bathed in golden sunlight; the whole vibe screamed expensive, and summer-soft. 

You were too caught up in soaking in the place to notice footsteps approaching, until a voice leaned over your right shoulder. “You like it?”

You jolted and instinctively, you stepped back and pivoted to your left, hand brushed against the edge of your coat as you turned to face the source of the surprise. “Jesus, you scared me!” you half-laughed, pressing a hand to your chest as you exhaled.

Jeonghan, in a light blue linen shirt tucked into beige trousers, grinned down at you. “Sorry,” he chuckled, “wasn’t trying to scare you.”

The sunlight kissed your cheekbones as you smiled, a little breathless from the jump scare. But Jeonghan, he went completely still. His smile faded, but not in a bad way, but in a speechless kind of awe. His gaze softened, eyes lingering on you, trying to memorize every detail: your earrings catching light, how your blouse moved with the breeze, the way you’re smiling not even knowing what you were doing to him.

You waved your hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Jeonghan? Are you good?”

He cleared his throat, finally snapping out of whatever trance he had been in. “Right—yeah. Sorry. You just…” He scratched the back of his neck, then held out a bouquet wrapped in rustic white paper—pale pink roses and sprigs of baby’s breath peeking out. “…You look beautiful.” 

You took the flowers, smiled, but not bashful or not giddy, just unfazed; you refused to let any man, no matter how sweet or charming or kind-eyed, have that kind of effect on you again. You had spent too long rebuilding yourself, too long sealing every crack Minho had left behind, and you were not about to let someone slip through them again just because he smelled good and brought you flowers. So you didn't blush anymore, there was no blush creeping up your cheeks but your ears betrayed you. The tips of your ears were red as fuck.

Jeonghan led you to one of the umbrella-covered tables nestled beneath the sunlight, which filtered just enough to feel warm, not harsh. The breeze was soft, carrying the scent of fresh herbs and baked bread. It felt really like a European afternoon even though it was just noon here, but you let yourself enjoy it.

He pulled your chair out like a proper gentleman, and for a second, your breath caught but because of the wrong reason; your ex used to do that too. But you shook the thought off. This wasn't Minho, not everything needed to circle back to him. This is just a nice gesture, you told yourself. A decent man doing a decent thing.

You settled in. Jeonghan smiled and gestured toward the menu. “Order what you want,” he said, resting his chin on his hand, watching you with the smile he always seemed to carry.

When the waiter came, you ordered with a small smile, “Can I get the smoked salmon sandwich with scrambled eggs, and a vanilla iced latte?”

The waiter nodded and Jeonghan chimed in, “Same for me. And can you add a basket of your warm mini scones too? Thanks.”

Your gaze shifted to him, taking him in again. He was dressed well. It wasn't a suit, but it was still effortlessly stylish. Still, you couldn't help but chuckle internally—he ran a café chain, you had expected suits and ties like a K-drama CEO 24/7 but everytime you saw him, his aura was of a human, of a nice man.

The silence settled in as the waiter walked away, and it was kinda awkward. Not bad, just not easy either. You fidgeted slightly with your napkin and broke the silence, “By the way, I forgot to thank you the other day at my aunt’s place… thanks for sending lunch to my office. That was really sweet.”

Jeonghan tilted his head, brushing it off with a soft chuckle. “It’s no big deal. Like I said… I’m wooing you, remember? That means I’ll do things like that. You’re my love interest now.” He said it with a teasing smile, but the sincerity didn't go unnoticed.

You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure how to respond for a second. “I mean… you can do whatever you want,” you murmured, eyes going to the complimentary glass of water. “It’s just—like I said before, my heart’s kinda… closed. I’m not really looking for anything, so… I don’t want you to be disappointed if I don’t change my mind.”

He nodded. “I get that. But I said I’d try. We made a deal, and I still have… what, 90 days?” he grinned. “Just let me do what I want. No pressure.”

You nodded again, this time shyer. “Okay…”

Another short silence followed, but Jeonghan filled it with a question. “So how’s work been?”

“Oh, I’m heading to Italy for a project. It’s sort of a business trip but I’m hoping I can sneak in some vacation time.”

His eyebrows raised slightly, impressed. “ Italy? Fancy.”

You nodded, stirring your straw. “Yeah. I’m excited but… I was supposed to celebrate my mom’s birthday this week with her. And now I won’t be here, which sucks.” You looked at him hesitantly. “Would you mind… joining a video call with her? Just to wish her a happy birthday with me. She really likes you and it’d make her smile.”

Jeonghan didn't even hesitate for a second. “Of course, and you don’t need to ask if I’d like to do something for you,” resting his elbows on the table, he leaned slightly forward. “The answer will always be yes. So don’t think twice. Just tell me.”

That might have been the nicest thing anyone’s said to you in a while. The waiter returned with your food, placing the plates in front of you. The sandwiches were golden and buttery, eggs perfectly soft. The smell alone made you sigh.

Jeonghan clasped his hands. “Let’s dig in, shall we?”

After brunch, Jeonghan insisted on giving you a ride back to the office. His car, already parked earlier before he stepped into the restaurant, sat sleek and waiting. You remembered how he'd found you standing there, mouth parted in awe at the view of the restaurant—now it made sense, he’d arrived early whereas you walked there. He drove a black Audi A8 L, and everything about it, from the glossy sheen to the whisper-quiet engine, spoke of understated luxury. Being the owner of chains, you always assumed he was very well-off, but after sitting in his leather-wrapped cabin, there was no doubt—he was rich rich. Not just wealthy, but smelled polished and wealthy too.

The ride was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. He talked to you about small things, light things. He mentioned how he wanted to do more for you, soon, once a little more time had passed.

You were a woman of few words, and he respected that. You didn't say much, but you were already... comfortable. Being around him felt like sunlight through a window, warm and golden; wrapped in a blanket still carrying the warmth and scent of the sun on a winter morning.

Back at the office, time passed like pages fluttering in a breeze, and soon, it was almost time to leave for the evening’s team building party. You had missed the last one because of a fever, but that night, you were ready. Those nights, especially with Celeste and Seungkwan by your side, always promised laughter and fun. They were the most fun people to be around at parties.

-

Your body reacted before your mind caught up, and you moved back, a step, maybe two. The closer this man came, the more your instincts coiled tightly within. A breath's space became half a step, then a full one. Your fingers curled tightly around your purse strap, your throat drying with each beat of the music thudding like a war drum in your chest. You were disgusted to say the least. 

Celeste had vanished into the crowd, tipsy and gleeful, her laughter now a memory swallowed by bass and bodies. Seungkwan was in the restroom, and you whispered silent prayers into the air. Please come back. Now. Please. But instead, he came closer.

His breath reeked of alcohol and something sourer; bitterness, maybe. The look in his eyes was familiar, kind of that once stripped you of peace. "You look good," he sneered, lips twisted, voice drenched in mockery.

You felt it then: rage, disgust, and fear rising from the pit of your stomach. "Shut the fuck up," you stepped back again. "Don’t touch me."

He ignored it like he always did. His feet shuffled closer, lazily. Your back brushed against a counter. You were running out of space. “I’ve been thinking about us,” he slurred. “We can fix this. You know we can.”

You almost laughed, but your voice trembled like a blade. “You broke everything. You ruined me. You fucking hollowed me out and smiled about it.” Still no tears spilled, they hung in your eyes.

He tilted his head mockingly. “Still dramatic, I see.”

“I was miserable with you.” Each of your words was a stone hurled. “You gaslit me, degraded me, manipulated every breath I took and still had the gall to call it love.” Your voice rose the more you speak. “You were a fucking asshole. Are a fucking asshole.”

That was when his expression shifted, something flashed in his eyes; violence barely contained, he moved faster. With a growl, he swooped in, his arm slamming against yours, pinning it down to the counter behind you. The marble was cold beneath your skin. His hand caged your wrist. You're leaned back, your spine arching slightly, nowhere to run. His body hovered far too close, and that was when the tears began to spill.

He leaned in until his breath warmed your cheek. “Those words… they don’t suit your pretty little mouth,” he whispered with a sneer. Then, his fingers gripped your face, cruelly and crudely, pressing your cheeks together, forcing your lips into a shape you didn't own. “Who is it, huh?” His voice was poison dipped in curiosity. “Who are you fucking now, since it’s not me?”

Your limbs shook but your spine stayed straight. Somewhere in the haze of lights and laughter, his friends—if you could call them that—stood at a distance, watching, and laughing. Your pain was once again, another kind of entertainment.

All you were hoping now was for someone in this sea of people, to be decent enough. Just one man with a spine, a conscience, something resembling a soul.

Or, God, let Celeste or Seungkwan find you. Because if they saw this… If they saw your trembling form pinned, tears running down your cheeks, your lips being forced into a shape not your own; hell wouldn’t just break loose, it would bleed.

Celeste would have turned into a beast, rage that ripped through bone and skin with heels sharp enough to slice throats and a fury only a woman can wield after watching her sister break. She’d scream murder, tear at his face like it was paper, her nails dragging blood down his cheek, down his pride. She’d laugh while doing it, vengeful and beautiful.

And Seungkwan—he’d see red, nothing but red. He wouldn’t stop until someone dragged him off, until every punch left a mark, until the bastard begged on his knees with his face bloated and black. He’d spit down on him.You touch her again, and I’ll break every single one of your fingers until you forget how to be a man.

But they weren't here.

Just as he was about to forcefully kiss you while your head was twisting away but his hand trying to clamp your jaw still, trying to oppress you to submit; he’s suddenly gone.

Pushed hard, a weight crashed against the floor with a hollow thud. Your breath caught, chest was rising and falling in erratic jolts. You barely registered what had happened, but then, your eyes met his. That face etched in concern, eyes gentle for a moment until they flicked down to the filth on the floor. Then they shifted to rage again; controlled.

The man on the ground groaned, his ego bruised deeper than his spine, tried to get up, but he crouched beside him with chilling ease. Fingers reached out and plucked the name tag pinned to the bastard’s chest. “Park Minho,” he murmured like a curse.

Minho snarled. “Who the fuck are you to mess with me?” His fist launched but his hand moved faster, catching it mid-air, holding it steady, not violently but commandingly.

“Jeonghan. Her boyfriend.”

Minho lunged again, but this time, Jeonghan didn't flinch. He just moved, twisting enough to let the man’s weight tip himself off balance, and that’s when the owner rushed in. The music cut off, lights flashed red and blue outside the sheer window. Police.

“Mr. Yoon, I’m so sorry,” the bar owner panted, glancing between Jeonghan and the wreck on the floor. “I had no idea he would—he’s fired. He’s done. He’ll never work here again.” Two officers grabbed Minho by the arms, he thrashed, cursed, but it was over.

You didn't even realize your legs had given out earlier, until Jeonghan was kneeling before you. You were on the floor, knees scraped, mascara streaked, eyes wide and blank. He said nothing at first, just held your arms gently. He picked you up, but your head fell on his shoulder. Then you started shaking. Sobs erupted, no longer contained. You clutched at his shirt, trembling, your soul was trying to crawl out of your body.

Jeonghan pulled you closer, one hand on the back of your head, the other around your back. He rocked you gently, a murmur at your ear. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” His voice was low, raw, not above a whisper. “I’ll always protect you. No one will ever lay a finger on you again.” He kissed the side of your head, his breath trembling along yours, too. “If anyone dares touch you again—if anyone dares hurt you—I’ll bury them myself. I don’t care if my hands get bloody. I will end them for you.”

You didn't answer, not because you couldn't, but because words felt too fragile to carry the weight of what just happened and what he said. The lights spun like distant planets and the crowd hummed around you, oblivious and indifferent. He was achingly kind, his shoulder was there, warm, a borrowed sanctuary in the aftermath. You were grateful, but you didn't want to be seen by anyone like this right now. Your voice was small, trembling only at the edges. “I want to be alone… I don’t want to see you right now. But… thank you.” You didn't meet his eyes.

Everything had happened in the span of ten minutes, but to you, it felt like ten years; slow, stretched, jagged. Time warped cruelly in the dark, by then the din had drawn others. You heard them before you saw them—your coworkers murmuring, shifting, clustering like confused birds after a storm, and then, Celeste appeared.

Disheveled, tipsy, and horrified, she rushed forward and dropped to the ground beside you, wrapping you in the scent of vanilla and liquor and the desperate ache of guilt. Her arms pulled you away from him and into the safety of her embrace. “I’m sorry,” she whispered over and over, stroking your hair like you were a breakable glass. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have disappeared.”

Jeonghan, who was silent and observant, took a step back. He didn't fight your decision. He just watched from a respectful distance, assessing the new guardian that had taken his place. Her eyes were glassy, and even in her inebriated haze, she was more present than most sober men here ever were. “Is there someone I can trust,” Jeonghan asked the crowd, scanning, “to take both of them home?”

A voice rose from the group, mostly from her coworkers that had been present at the party. “Seungkwan. He didn’t drink, so he’s probably the best to—”

Jeonghan was already walking toward the assumed coworker. “Who is Seungkwan?” he asked, tone neutral but outlined with the protectiveness of a man who didn't want to hand over what he’d just protected, to a stranger. And as if conjured by name, he arrived.

His knees hit the ground the moment he saw you slumped against Celeste. His hands trembled as he reached out, stopping himself just before touching you, as if your pain might be contagious. He looked at you, then at Celeste, then at the space around, putting the pieces together without a single word being spoken. His expression hardened into pure fury concealed beneath tight control. “What the fuck happened here?!” His voice cracked through the air. “Tell me who the hell did this. Tell me, and I swear on every grave beneath this city—I will tear him apart with my own hands.” His fists curled. “I’ll fucking gut that bastard and bury what’s left. You think I won’t? You think I can’t? I’ll make it look like an accident and sleep just fine at night.”

Celeste flinched but reached out a hand to him, still cradling you. “Kwan… please. Just wait.”

But Jeonghan had seen enough of this, so he stepped forward in careful assessment. He laid a hand on Seungkwan’s shoulder. Seungkwan’s gaze dropped to the hand as if it was an insult. He didn't look up for three full seconds. He was waiting for a response from Jeonghan, and Jeonghan spoke before that moment died. “Do you have a girlfriend? Or do you like either of them?”

The question felt abrupt, even intrusive, but Jeonghan knew better than to let two emotionally unstable women be left in the care of someone who might have had complicated feelings for them. It wasn't a call to be made lightly, and certainly not one a level-headed man like him would ignore.

Seungkwan’s eyes flashed from the implication, his jaw locked, blood rising to his eyes, but before the storm erupted—“This is Jeonghan,” Celeste cut in hoarsely. “And Seungkwan has a boyfriend.”

There was a pause, then a shared oh between the two men; mutual clarity, and just like that, Jeonghan stepped away, surrendering you both into the care of someone he now deemed safe.

Celeste informed, “I called Joshua. He’s on his way to pick us up.”

Jeonghan nodded once, eyes on you. You still hadn't looked at him since, and he doesn't press for more. You had asked not to see him, and he honoured it, and walked away for now.

Something in you broke tonight, and something in him awakened.

⌦ 🥕 © mylovesstuffs | est. 2025. thank you for reading—your reblog means everything. until we meet again, stay cozy and keep dreaming! ◜ᴗ◝

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You���ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

���Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

��By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You��re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

��Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

chasing the moon* | w.j.h. + x.m.h.

synopsis — you’ve always been chasing wen junhui—who introduced himself to you as moon junhui when he first moved into your neighborhood all the way from his hometown back in china, which made more sense in your current predicament—because jun was like the moon hanging just out of reach in the night sky. he was a constant in your life: familiar but distant, untouchable. and for years, you revolved around him without ever truly being seen under the same light. then, just as there moon finally begins to turn toward you, a star slips into your orbit. xu minghao—unexpected, radiant, and steady in a way you never knew you needed. now, with the moon finally within arm’s length and a star starting to burn brighter by your side, you’re left wondering which pull your heart will follow. pairing — junhui x reader x minghao genre — very loosely inspired by reply 1998 and the movie flipped, highschool au, a love triangle that doesn't get too complicated, coming-of-age, soft angst, light romance, one-sided pining → mutual slowburn (the endgame is pretty clear, i think) cw — unrequited love, emotional neglect, subtle jealousy, academic stress, skinship, a kiss word count: 9.2k now playing | apple cider by beabadobee | she wants me (to be loved) by the happy fits | akin ka nalang by the itchyworms | exile by taylor swift ft. bon iver | dark red by steve lacy | betty by taylor swift | daylight by harry styles | pretty boy by the neighbourhood | starlight (2521 ost)

note: finally !! this fic officially completes the members on my masterlist, i have now written for all 13 of my pookies <3 and leaving these two for last was a perfect set-up for a love triangle—something i have been eyeing to write about for a while. enjoy, my pookies !! i love starlight. unfortunately, the singer is problematic. so i suggest the cover by hyumin of xodiac instead lol (taglist at the end)

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

you met wen junhui the summer before sixth grade, barefoot on your front porch with an orange popsicle dripping down your wrist. he’d just moved in across the street with his mother. you watched as he set the box down on the porch and wiped his palms on his shorts. the handwriting on the cardboard was messy but clear—written in chinese characters you didn’t recognize then, squinting.

“what’s that say?”

“kitchen stuff,” he answered plainly, the words slow and a little stiff on his tongue. then he added, “my mom writes everything like that.”

his korean was careful—each syllable slightly rounded, like he was still getting used to the way they fit together. you noticed the lilt of something unfamiliar tucked beneath his voice, a faint accent that softened some vowels and sharpened others.

he stuck out a hand like he remembered it was something people did. “i’m wen junhui. but my parents said my name’s supposed to be moon junhui here.”

you blinked. “moon?”

he nodded. “like the one in the sky.” his voice dipped a little on sky, the accent peeking through, and for some reason, it made your chest flutter.

you didn’t quite get it back then, but you liked the way it sounded like something distant and important. so you said it again, quietly to yourself, as he picked the box back up.

“moon junhui, like the one in the sky.”

later that evening, you told your mom that you were going to marry the new boy across the street. she laughed and said, “at least bring him some food before proposing.”

so you did. or, well, your mom did. that week, she sent you over with a plate of mandu, and when jun opened the door, you almost tripped over your words.

“my mom made these,” you said, holding out the container. “she said... welcome to the neighborhood.”

he blinked at it, then blinked at you, taking it with one hand. “cool,”

and just when you turned around, cheeks burning, he added, “tell your mom thank you.”

after that, it became a rhythm. tupperware went out, tupperware came back, always filled with something new, a blend of korean-chinese dishes as your family’s own way of communicating—stir-fried lotus root, soy-sauce eggs, and jujube tea in the winter. your mom would beam, and you always offered to bring it over. sometimes he opened the door, sometimes his mom did. but it never stopped, and neither did you.

you started school that year with a thrill in your chest, already imagining how it would go—new erasers, fresh notebooks, and maybe, just maybe, junhui waving to you in the hallway between classes. that was enough to make your stomach flip.

but nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the moment moon junhui walked into your classroom.

you were doodling in the corner of your planner when the door creaked open and the teacher looked up.

“we have a new student joining us today,” she said, smiling. “this is moon junhui. he just moved here, so i’d like someone to help him settle in.”

your pencil dropped to the floor with a soft clatter, your head jerked up. sure enough, there he was, standing right there at the front of the room—hands awkwardly clasped in front of him, bangs flopping in his eyes, that same worn-out backpack you recognized from their huge stash of things from the moving truck. your mouth fell open, and the boy looked just as stunned to see you, blinking once, twice, like oh.

and then his mouth twitched into what might’ve been a grimace—tight-lipped, slightly panicked—but you, in your hopeless little heart, registered it as a lopsided smile. a charming one, even. your heart did a cartwheel.

“any volunteers to show him around today?” the teacher asked.

your hand shot up so fast your chair wobbled beneath you. “i volunteer!” you squeaked, louder than you meant to.

a few kids giggled. your face burned, but you didn’t care. not when moon junhui was making his way toward the empty seat next to you, the one you definitely hadn’t saved on purpose (except you had, just now, while jun was introducing himself—shooing poor soonyoung away earlier with a whispered, “don’tcha think you’d like that seat by the window better?”).

he sat down quietly, and when the teacher turned to write on the board, you leaned over, trying to sound cool and not like your brain was melting. “you’re in my class?”

he nodded, eyes still a little wide. “didn’t know ‘till just now, either.”

you beamed like it was fate, while he blinked slowly, probably still trying to figure out if the look on your face was excitement or if you were about to sneeze.

either way, you decided right then: this wasn’t just going to be a good year. this was the beginning of something—your little heart didn’t know what that something was quite yet, but it was.

the start of your quiet orbit around moon junhui’s life.

one revolution at a time.

soon enough, jun grew taller. broader in the shoulders, and quicker with his smirks. his voice dropped one day in eighth grade and never rose again. his hair grew out, brown and messy and a little longer than most boys kept it—always flopping into his eyes, brushing past his eyebrows, that kind of effortless boyish mess that made him look like he belonged in a teen drama. he stopped wearing t-shirts with holes and started playing basketball with the neighborhood boys.

you, however, stayed the same—still orbiting moon junhui like he was your personal axis, still finding excuses to knock on his door. sometimes he let you sit on the curb with him after practice, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat and eyes glued to his flip phone as you rambled about school. sometimes he offered you half a banana milk. most days, he barely looked up.

but by freshman year, gravity had started to shift.

jun stopped leaving you the last sip of his banana milk, finishing it in two quick gulps without looking your way. he started walking home with the other boys from the basketball team, voices loud and rough and filled with inside jokes you weren’t part of. when you waved from your porch, he’d give a distracted nod—if he noticed at all. and on the days you gathered your courage to wait for him after school, he’d emerge with someone new at his side, laughter spilling from his lips, eyes already somewhere else.

still, you kept orbiting him—like a lone planet locked in quiet rotation, pulled in by a force you couldn’t name. drawn in spite of yourself, never quite able to land—pathetic, maybe almost embarrassingly, but never enough to stop.

like this morning, when your mom handed you a warm container wrapped in a dish towel and told you to bring it next door, and you didn’t even try to hide how fast you slipped your shoes on.

jun answered in sweatpants and bed hair, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand like he’d just rolled out of bed. he didn’t even greet you, just blinked down at the container in your hands, half-asleep and completely unbothered.

you stood there like a fool on his porch, heart thudding way too loud for how mundane the moment was. he was the cutest boy on earth and didn’t even know it—or worse, didn’t care. you were painfully aware of the way his hair fell into his eyes, the slope of his nose, how his voice came out scratchy when he finally muttered,

“what now?” like he hadn’t seen you just two days ago returning his mom’s glazed sweet potatoes.

your heart does a backflip. damn it.

“d-dan dan,” you stutter pathetically, holding the tupperware of noodles out. “and a note from my mom that says, quote, ‘your mother’s garlic green beans changed my life.’”

his mouth curved, finally. “that dramatic, huh?”

“you know how she is.”

he took the dish, the warmth of his fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than necessary—or maybe that was just your imagination again.

“tell her thanks,” he said, and you waited, just a little, like maybe he’d invite you in or ask about your day or say literally anything else.

of course he didn’t. jun just stepped back, one foot behind the other, and pulled the door halfway closed. “go home before your mom starts thinking we’re dating.”

you pretend it doesn’t sting, your mind racing with something along the lines of “would it really be so horrible?”—instead, you roll your eyes, raise a brow to match his smirk.

“gross,” you shoot back—because it’s easier to play along than to admit you’d probably say yes in a heartbeat.

jun grins at the floor, not at you. and that’s when it hits you—he never really looks at you when it matters. jun is always quick with a joke, always flashing that grin like it’s armor. but never steady, never really enough.

you turn around without pushing further, letting his words hang in the air like always.

and maybe that’s when something inside you shifted, just a little. not a full unraveling, not yet—but a thread pulled loose. not because of what jun said, but because of what he didn’t.

soon enough, summer melted into early fall, and everything started to shift in ways you didn’t have words for. the cicadas quieted, the skies stretched longer in the evenings, and somewhere in the middle of it, you stopped showing up at the moons’ front door. not all at once—but slowly and gradually, the way your feelings turn like fermented tofu left too long, the bitterness deepening day by day.

your little sibling was old enough now, old enough to carry tupperware with both hands and knock politely like your mother taught you. so you let them go in your place, making up excuses and saying you were busy or complained that you were tired.

but really, it just all started feeling kind of stupid—showing up at jun’s doorstep like clockwork when he never looked at you quite the way you hoped. senior year was just beginning, and you weren’t about to waste your last year of high school chasing a hopeless childhood crush—that silly, stubborn thing you promised yourself you’d outgrow by now.

one afternoon, he came to the door the same way he always did—sweatpants, bed hair, and rubbing sleep from one eye. only this time, when he pulled it open, he blinked down not at you, but at the top of someone else’s head.

your sibling squeaked out a practiced greeting, arms stretched out with the side dish your mom had made. jun stared for a second longer than usual, the corner of his mouth twitching like he didn’t know whether to smile or frown.

and maybe—for a beat, no longer—jun wondered where you’d gone. maybe something tugged at his chest, quiet and annoying, like a thread snagged in the fabric of a routine he hadn’t realized he’d grown so used to.

without you even noticing, the first day of senior year comes rushing in. and for the first time in a long time, you weren’t waiting at the door to walk to school with jun or pretending not to time your steps with his. no rushing out in your uniform just to catch up and scold him for walking so fast, no sarcastic “what a coincidence” from him as he adjusted his backpack, smirking without looking at you.

this time, you waited by the window until you saw him head down the street, hoodie thrown over his shoulders, earphones half in. he didn’t look up—not at your window, not at your house—and that should’ve made it easier. it didn’t. maybe a small part of you hoped he’d look back and wonder where you were, wait for you, or even send you a text on his flip phone. but jun simply kept walking, indifferent, until his back disappeared from your view.

you took that as a signal. you slipped on your shoes, the ones with the worn heels, grabbed your headphones and portable cd player, and shrugged into your jacket like muscle memory. your little sibling was still asleep on the couch, and your mom’s voice echoed faintly from the kitchen, but everything else felt unusually quiet.

by the time you stepped outside, the air had cooled just enough to make you wish you’d grabbed a scarf. you kept your head down, trying not to think too much, trying not to glance across the street even though you knew he wasn’t there.

what you didn’t see—what you couldn’t see—was jun leaning against the old oak tree halfway down the block, tucked just far enough behind the trunk to stay out of view. one foot pressed to the bark, hands deep in his hoodie pocket, chewing his bottom lip like he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

and then you passed by. head down, steps steady, walking right past him without a glance. he watched your back as it grew smaller, the morning light catching the edge of your sleeve. that feeling tugged at his chest again—the same one he felt a few weeks ago when you first sent your sibling to bring food over instead of yourself.

jun shifted his weight, exhaled slowly, and pushed off the tree.

you didn’t look back.

you kept your headphones in as you slipped into the courtyard, a half-hearted attempt to seem occupied. a few familiar faces nodded as they passed, but you didn’t stop to talk. not when your heart was still trying to unlearn a pattern it had followed for years.

junhui should be walking with you right now. he should be a step behind, yawning into his sleeve, bumping your shoulder with his on purpose. his friends should be calling out his name from the front steps, tossing lazy grins and half-waved hellos. and he should be answering them over his shoulder, still tugging at the frayed strap of your backpack and telling you your hair looked like a bird’s nest—then ruffling it like that wasn’t the most heart-fluttering, pulse-skipping, can’t-breathe-for-a-second thing he could possibly do to you. ‘fix your ugly bangs,’ he’d mumble, always the same tone—half-teasing, half-careless—and then he’d disappear into the crowd like you hadn’t been walking together at all.

that’s how the first day was supposed to go. it was how it always did, for years in a row.

but today, the only hands in your hair are your own, brushing it down nervously as you stare straight ahead and try not to think about how hollow the space beside you feels.

at the front of the school, students gathered near the bulletin board where class lists were taped up in uneven rows. you hesitated before stepping in, heart skipping like it did every year, eyes skimming the columns faster than they could register names—just one name, really.

there he was: moon junhui, class 3-2.

you dragged your gaze down, your name sitting two lines below his.

same class. again.

you didn’t know whether to sigh or smile. because a year ago, you would’ve been squealing in delight, skipping your way to first period with the kind of giddy, reckless hope that only came from liking someone as loudly as you did him. now, your heart still beat just as fast—but it was different. muddier, a bit conflicted. like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that you were trying to stop feeling this way.

and just when you took a step back, someone brushed past your shoulder, close enough to make your breath hitch.

“ah—sorry,” came a soft voice, unfamiliar and low, tinged with the faintest accent. you turned, blinking up.

he stood tall, maybe taller than jun, with sharp features and dark eyes that took their time looking over the list. his hair fell just slightly into his face, and his uniform hung neat, collar straight despite the morning bustle.

“do you know which one is class 3-2?” he asked, glancing down at you like you might already have the answer.

his lips are slightly pouted, brows pinched like he’s trying to make sense of the board in front of him, and it takes a second for you to register that he’s talking to you.

you blink, heart lurching a little too hard at the sight—because wow, he’s pretty—then quickly jab your finger—maybe a bit too eagerly—toward the list posted on the wall.

“that’s me,” you say, trying not to sound breathless, “i’m in that class.”

your name, still sitting two lines below junhui’s, stares back at you. still there. still in close proximity with the name of the boy you swore you were growing out of. you’ve seen it a hundred times before, but beside someone new, it feels strange—like a thread has quietly shifted in a pattern you hadn’t expected.

he leans in slightly, eyes skimming over where you’re pointing. then he lifts a finger, taps it just beneath yours.

“xu minghao,” he says, smiling now. “guess i’m right behind you.”

then you finally register it—that subtle lilt in his voice, the way his words land with a soft, rounded rhythm. an accent, warm and unmistakably northern, threads through his speech like a familiar tune from somewhere far from here. it’s not like junhui’s—his had always been rougher at the edges, syllables clipped and pulled from the south, the faint drawl curling around his words. minghao’s, though, settles in softer and more deliberate. and for a second, you forget what you were going to say.

you let out a small laugh before you can stop it, surprised at the way it slips out so easily.

“looks like it.”

minghao steps back, still looking at the list like he’s memorizing it, and you steal a glance—his expression is open and curious, like someone seeing everything for the first time and already wanting to know more.

and maybe it’s just this new feeling of a fresh start you promised to have, or the fact that he spoke to you first—out of all the kids here, he picked you. maybe your teenage brain is overthinking it, spinning meaning where there is none, but you honestly don’t mind the undivided attention for once.

junhui steps into the courtyard a little late, the sleeves of his uniform hoodie pushed up and hair still a bit damp from a rushed morning shower. he scans the crowd, eyes flicking past familiar faces as he adjusts the strap of his bag over one shoulder.

you’re not where you usually are.

a habit he didn’t realize he’d built until it broke—expecting to see you waiting near the bulletin boards or waving him over with some dumb comment about how the first day of school should be illegal. but this time, you’re nowhere in sight.

he shifts on his feet, gaze sweeping again, slower this time—until something fuzzy catches his eye.

your keychain. that stupid fuzzy creature you insisted on keeping, dangling off the zipper of your bag. the fur’s worn now, patchy in spots, the color a little dull from all the years of being dragged around—but it’s still there, bobbing amongst the crowd like a flag. it swings gently as you move, and junhui catches sight of it before he sees you.

he remembers the claw machine in that dingy arcade three summers ago, remembers how you clapped when he knocked the toy into the chute on his second try. jun remembers how you snatched it from his hands before he could even look at it properly, beaming as you said, “you won it for me!” like it was some grand romantic gesture. he’d rolled his eyes and said something about how annoying you were, but he’d let you keep it anyway. didn’t even have the heart to argue.

now, your figure’s nearly swallowed up by someone else’s—someone taller and unfamiliar. raven-black hair and legs that go on forever. and he wonders, bitterly, if the new guy knows that fact. if he even noticed it or asked where that keychain came from. not that it matters. whatever.

his brows pull together as he watches the two of you talking by the list, your head tilted slightly toward the guy beside you, smiling at something he says. it’s subtle, but jun catches the way your posture softens, the way you seem to lean in without meaning to. and for some reason, something shifts in his chest yet again—small and barely there, but noticeable. like a paper cut you don’t feel until after it’s happened, sharp and mildly irritating in the worst way.

he doesn’t know why it bothers him. maybe it’s the way you used to save that smile for him, or maybe it’s just habit that he would be the one next to you by that list, just like every year before this one.

either way, he tells himself it’s nothing. just the first day of school. just a new kid. nothing to think twice about—so he looks away.

“jun, you’re in 3-2 too, did you see?”

it’s joshua, already slinging an arm loosely around jun’s shoulder like no time has passed at all since last semester. he’s grinning, waving a folded schedule in one hand.

“i saw your name on the list. looks like we’re stuck together again.”

jun hums something in agreement, sparing one last glance over his shoulder—your fuzzy keychain already vanishing around the corner—before letting joshua steer him toward the hall. their footsteps fall into rhythm, laughter rising easily between them, but there’s a crease in junhui’s brow that doesn’t quite smooth out.

the classroom buzzes with first-day energy—chairs scraping, windows cracking open to let in the crisp air, conversations picking up where summer left off. you step in a little hesitantly, fingers tightening around the strap of your backpack, only to catch sight of a familiar head of tousled brown hair near the center.

junhui.

middle row, third seat from the front—the one he always liked. far enough to nap unnoticed, close enough not to get called on. but maybe more than that, it was more or less the same area where you’d saved a seat for him on his first day, the one you carved out space for him to take when he first moved in. the seat beside him is empty, and your steps falter.

but before the thought can root itself too deep, minghao nudges your arm gently and gestures to the back corner by the windows. “over here?”

his voice comes low and steady, easy to listen to—not pushy, just gently warm, like a quiet invitation you don’t feel the need to refuse.

you find yourself following him without saying much, feet moving first and slipping into the seat by the window as he takes the one beside you. your bag hits the floor with a soft thud. the early morning light spills across your desk, warm against your skin. a breeze stirs your hair.

jun doesn’t turn around.

you tell yourself it’s fine. it is. you’re in a new seat, next to someone new. someone who didn’t grow up with the version of you that tripped over her own feet just to keep up, the version who doesn’t follow jun pathetically like a shadow.

this feels like the change you didn’t know you needed—the breath of fresh air that makes your steps a little lighter, the quiet comfort of minghao by your side softening the edges of everything you thought you knew.

eventually, lunch becomes an unspoken thing between you and minghao.

it’s not planned at first, he just starts showing up—next to you in the hallway, at your desk after class, and in the cafeteria line with his tray angled toward yours. when teachers say to group into pairs, his eyes find yours before anyone else’s even has the chance. and it doesn’t take long before you realize you’re basically attached at the hip.

his presence is quiet, but it holds weight—like gravity, steady and subtle. and somehow, it pulls you in. he doesn’t talk much to others, never the first to speak in a crowd, but he always greets you first. always. like it’s second nature. and maybe your high school brain is reading too much into it—but then again, maybe it isn’t.

junhui notices when you stop waiting for him.

he notices when you stop waiting for him by the front gate. when you don’t pause outside the cafeteria, scanning for his face before heading in. he sees you laughing quietly at something minghao says, the two of you already halfway through your lunch trays before he’s even stepped inside. it’s where you always liked sitting, but now it’s him that’s sitting there with you.

and the kicker? minghao’s chewing on rice cakes that look painfully familiar—your mom’s recipe, the one she always makes in bulk when the ingredients are fresh from the market.

your little sibling had dropped off a container of them last night, waving cheerfully at the door. jun hadn’t opened it—his mom had—but he remembers the smell and how it tasted. freshly made, still warm from the kitchen.

does minghao even know what they taste like fresh?

jun bets he doesn’t.

and then he blinks, the thought catching him off guard. why did that matter? why was he thinking like that? since when did he care who got the first bite?

he tells himself it’s nothing. just food. just your mom’s cooking.

but then jun looks back at the way you’re leaning in, nodding at something minghao says—and he hates how natural it looks. how effortless and how easy.

like that space beside you was never his to begin with.

minghao took the space you’d carved jun out of, like it had always been waiting, like it had always been his.

he didn’t rush to fill it, just slipped in quietly—slid his tray next to yours at lunch, fell into step beside you in the hallways, always found you first when it came time to pair up in class. you didn’t have to ask because he was already there.

minghao noticed. of course he did.

maybe he just pretended not to—kept his gaze steady, let you talk, let you laugh—like he didn’t feel the weight of someone else’s eyes on his back.

the boy with the messy brown hair—moon junhui, was it?—had a habit of staring like he was trying to set minghao’s head on fire with just his eyes. sometimes from across the classroom, or when you were laughing a little too loudly beside minghao’s shoulder. that boy would stare like he was waiting for you to pull away, waiting for you to take your usual seat back beside him in the middle row, like you always used to.

minghao had overheard stories about how you would be one step behind jun, always lingering around him from your classmates. he didn’t bring it up—he didn’t have to, not when your gaze never really wandered, or when he already had all of your attention. maybe a part of him was selfish enough to hold onto it, to keep you looking only at him.

in the blink of an eye, autumn blurred into winter. and suddenly, it was midterm season—gray skies, tired eyes, the weight of your future pressing down in textbook margins and red underlines.

you were hunched over a desk in the corner of the library, highlighter uncapped, fingers tangled in your own hair as you muttered formulas under your breath. there were empty snack wrappers beside your notes, a half-empty bottle of water, and post-it tabs clinging to your fingers like tiny reminders of all the things you have yet to finish.

“you forgot to eat lunch,” came a quiet voice beside you.

you looked at him through tired lashes, heart fluttering with something you couldn’t name—something that didn’t feel loud or sudden, but slow and warm like a shift in the tide.

jun had never been like this. when you asked him to go over notes or lessons, he’d brush you off or give you a distracted nod, like your questions were just background noise to him. he barely gave you the time of day.

but minghao—he didn’t tell you to rest, didn’t hover, didn’t ask questions. he simply set down the kimbap, opened his own book, and settled in beside you, steady and unintrusive. his presence felt like a quiet anchor, like a hand guiding you gently forward without pressure.

somewhere between the rustle of pages and the steam curling from the kimbap wrapper, you haven’t realized you’d been holding your breath.

maybe it wasn’t exactly the moment you fell. maybe it was the moment you crawled out of that hole junhui let you fall into, and quietly fell into a new one—one carved out by minghao. this one didn’t feel as deep or dark, unsure like the former, but warm and inviting.

that night, you and minghao had stayed late at the library, lost in quiet study and soft conversations, the hours slipping by unnoticed until the lights flickered off at eight. 

that night, jun lingered by his bedroom window, waiting. the digital clock on his nightstand glowed 9:42PM—later than you’d ever been home before. he’d almost left the house himself to go find you.

his chest tightened as he watched you and minghao move slowly down the sidewalk, your voices low, your steps in quiet sync. jun watched quietly from where he was, the soft glow of the streetlamp outlining your figure as you walked home. your books were tucked under one arm, and minghao’s hand—steady and sure—held yours in the other. it was a small thing, but jun felt it like a sudden jolt beneath his ribs.

but then, when you paused at your door and tiptoed to press a gentle kiss on minghao’s cheek, it was like his heart stopped altogether.

jun practically ambushed you the next morning, stepping out of his door quick enough to fall into step beside you.

“h-hey,” he said, a little breathless, “did you get home safe last night?”

you blink, caught off guard. “how’d you know i got home late?”

he scratched the back of his neck, cheeks reddening a bit. “uh, your mom was looking for you last night. said she thought maybe you were still out with… someone. or, you know, whatever.” he shrugged, trying to play it cool but failing just a little. “guess she thinks you’re out on a date or something.”

he raised a brow, waiting for your response. you shook your head at this, smiling slightly. “who has time for that right now, junhui? we’re too busy caught up with midterm exams in our senior year.”

he didn’t miss the way you said his full first name, but he only nodded quietly, mostly to himself, a flicker of relief settling in.

as you walked to school together, the old routine seemed to snap back into place—familiar, but tinged with something awkward underneath.

when you get to school, minghao spots you from a few meters away, his pace slowing just slightly. he doesn’t miss the boy walking beside you, eyes flicking to junhui with a polite nod and a quiet, almost casual, “hey, junhui.”

then he steps between the two of you without hesitation, hand resting lightly on your shoulder—gentle, but unmistakably there. “mind if i borrow y/n for a sec?”

junhui blinks, then looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “oh. yeah, sure. just wanted to ask real quick—could you maybe tutor me next week?”

you tilt your head, surprised—jun rarely asked for academic help. he usually got decent grades without much effort. still, you shrug and say, “sure.”

to face him properly, you shift a little, gently nudging minghao aside so you can meet jun’s gaze. “which subjects do you need help with?” the cold air makes your cheeks flush; your breath puffs out in soft vapor. your hair’s a little messy, bangs falling over your eyes—the same bangs jun used to tell you to fix every single time. back then, he never minded. maybe because you were kind of adorable like that, with those messy bangs barely brushing your eyes, and the way you’d finally fix them just so only he could see that slightly windswept look of yours. his heart starts racing faster than usual.

minghao raises a brow, watching the quiet exchange, as jun rambled on about how history has been kicking his ass lately. after a beat of silence, he clears his throat. “hey, i’ve been meaning to tell you. i have a family trip until next week,” he says, voice calm but not unreadable. “i’ll be away for a bit, but you can spend more time tutoring jun. looks like he needs it,” he mutters, an unamused gaze barely meeting the other boy’s own.

his hand stays steady on your shoulder, warm even through the fabric of your coat.

“jun can walk you home, anyway,” he adds, glancing at you with a faint smile. “neighbors’ privilege.”

then, softer—just for you—“sorry,” he murmurs, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. not possessive, just reassuring.

that afternoon, minghao was already gone, a quick text sent your way about heading out early for family dinner, leaving you and jun standing outside the school gates as the sun dipped lower behind gray clouds.

you fell into step beside him without thinking, the familiar rhythm of your footsteps side by side settling around you like an old song. the conversation was quiet—more comfortable than it had been in a long time. the world felt steady again, but your heart didn’t thud like it used to when you were near him. it was softer, calmer, like you were finally seeing jun without the pull of chasing, without the weight of hoping.

that day, jun walked you back to your front porch. your mom’s face lit up when she opened the door, offering him dinner like she used to all those years ago. and, surprisingly—maybe for the first time since middle school—he accepted with a willing nod.

jun went home that night with the tupperware of your mom’s mapo tofu balanced carefully in his arms. jun flashed you a soft, hesitant smile—like he wasn’t quite sure how to carry the moment—with his brown hair still brushing past his lashes, catching the last light of the evening.

you offer him a quiet ‘good night,’ your voice soft like the fading light outside. your eyes linger on him, not closing the door right away—watching until he disappears into his room across the street, the faint glow of his window the last thing you see before you finally step inside.

it feels strange at first—like the world’s shifted its usual rhythm just a little. for the next few days, it’s like everywhere you turn, there’s jun. not the distant planet you once orbited from afar, but somehow closer, like he’s started circling you instead. it’s subtle—the way he lingers near your locker, the way his shadow falls a little too close when you pass in the hallway—but it’s enough to make your heart skip, wondering if maybe the tides have finally changed.

one morning, you find a fresh banana milk waiting on your desk, cool and slightly sweet, just like the ones jun used to share with you after practice. there’s no note, just the familiar warmth of the gesture, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to say something without words.

at lunch, you sit alone, scrolling through your phone quietly. then jun appears beside you, holding a small container of something homemade—pickled radish, your favorite side dish. he shrugs, avoiding your eyes, and says, “thought you might like this.” you look up, caught off guard, but the way he lingers before walking away feels like a silent moment, maybe of hope.

meanwhile, minghao’s been sending you quiet messages every night since he first arrived at their vacation home—small check-ins, a good night here, a joke there. you read them with a smile, the softness in his words a warm anchor. even miles away, he’s somehow still holding your hand steadily and sure.

the day you’d promised to tutor jun finally rolled around, coinciding with the last day of minghao’s family vacation—he’d be back at school the following day. the last bell had already rung, and most of the classrooms had emptied out, the quiet hum of students lingering only in the stairwells and front gates. outside, the sun was starting to dip low, casting the hallways in a soft glow, the ground blanketed with a few inches of snow that made everything feel quieter, like the end of something you couldn’t name.

jun was waiting near your locker, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, the tip of his shoe nudging the floor like he was working up to something.

“ready to go?” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the direction of the library. his voice was awkward, tentative, like he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to say next.

you nodded anyway, falling into step beside him as the last traces of sunlight poured through the windows. your heart flipped just a little when he reached up and brushed a few stray snowflakes from your hair. the touch was quiet—almost familiar—and it made something in your chest pull tight. you shoved the feeling down, steadying yourself before it could bloom into anything more.

no. you couldn’t waste all those weeks of distance, all the effort it took to carve out space between you and junhui, just to feel like this again. not when you were doing so well.

you almost scoffed at this—at the way he slowed his pace, glanced over his shoulder once, then again, just to make sure you were still behind him.

because back then, all you ever saw was the back of his stupid brown-haired head, moving ahead like he didn’t even notice you were trying to keep up. like he knew, knew you’d always be a few steps behind, reaching for something he never quite gave.

soon enough, you reached the library, jun holding the door open for you. you ducked inside from the cold, instantly enveloped by warmth and the faint scent of old books. you didn’t look at him as you passed, choosing instead to pull your scarf a little tighter.

you found a quiet table tucked into a corner, one you used to sit at back in second year, and settled down. he sat across from you, dragging out his notes and a pen, and for the next hour or so, you walked him through formulas and vocab lists. made flashcards. quizzed him. and he answered everything in just a couple of beats.

still, he kept staring.

he watched the way your lips moved when you read out questions, the way your handwriting curved on the paper, the way you furrowed your brows when he got something slightly off. his heart skipped when your fingers brushed as you reached for the same pen, and he watched you quietly tuck it behind your ear, bangs messy over your eyes.

you always left them that way. he used to tease you about it, telling you to fix them so he could see your face. back then, it never really bothered him.

but now… now he thought maybe he told you that because he liked it. because the way you looked with messy bangs, slightly flushed from the cold, lips parted with vapor curling into the air—it was something he didn’t want anyone else to see.

and maybe it was dumb. maybe it was stupid to start chasing and pining after you now, after everything. after he saw you press a kiss to the new guy’s cheek under a streetlamp just a couple nights ago. but junhui was a teenage boy. and teenage boys were dumb.

by the time you were zipping up your bag, it was nearly 7PM, the sky outside dusky and blue. jun watched quietly, fingers resting on his own books, mind still halfway stuck on the way your cheeks pinked from the cold.

and then he noticed it. next to that old, fuzzy keychain he won from the claw machine—a new, brighter one.

a plush froggie, bright green and smug, winking at him like it knew something he didn’t. almost like it was mocking him.

he opened his mouth, the start of a question on his tongue—until you spoke first.

“hey, junhui…” your voice was quieter now, not cold, but distant. measured. “i… i don’t know what you’re trying to do.”

something in jun’s chest faltered. his heart dropped at the way you said his first name completely—carefully, as it cut through the silence.

you were looking down as you adjusted the strap of your bag, fingers brushing over the keychains before slipping away. “you knew all the answers,” you said plainly, not accusatory—just true. “you didn’t need my help tonight.” 

you met his gaze then, finally, your expression unreadable but steady.

“i think you can study on your own next time, yeah?”

jun didn’t want to admit it, but what you said during your study session a few days ago had been sitting heavy in his chest ever since. it echoed in the quiet moments—in the space between thoughts, his classes, and between breaths. he’d always thought of you as reliable, familiar, and constant.

but he hadn’t realized how far he’d fallen behind until now.

until he couldn’t even pretend you needed him anymore.

he couldn’t avoid the way minghao had greeted you the morning after that tension-filled library exchange, arms full of neatly packed lunch boxes leftover from the last night of his fancy family trip the day before. he watched the way your eyes lit up, how you gasped and clutched his arm, laughing as you peeked inside one of the containers.

“whoa—your family really goes all out, huh?”

minghao just smiled, modest. “my mom got carried away. here, try this one.”

jun looked away.

because he remembered when you used to look at him like that.

when he’d hand you a tupperware his mom made him bring to school—sometimes braised tofu with soy sauce and scallions, sometimes stir-fried egg and tomato, or on special days, hong shao rou with a little too much fat clinging to the corners.

your face would light up just the same. not because the food was fancy—it never was—but because it came from someone like jun, and you like jun—

you liked jun. so much.

and now, you were looking at someone else like that—with that same sparkle and warmth.

and jun couldn’t shake the ache that bloomed in his chest.

because he hadn’t realized how much he missed that warmth, not until someone else had it, someone else slipping into the space he hadn’t even known he’d left empty.

because somewhere along the way—between brushing you off, never texting back, and pretending he didn’t see the way you looked at him—jun had royally, completely fucked it all up.

maybe he’d been too comfortable, too sure you’d always be around.

maybe he was too busy being the guy who never cut his stupid brown hair, even when it kept falling into his eyes, past his eyebrows, because he thought he looked cool like that—too busy being blinded by his own bangs to notice the way you’d started pulling away.

the senior ball was coming up fast—fliers on every classroom door, teachers reminding you to buy tickets, and group chats flooded with dress photos and playlists and gossip. it was the one event that managed to distract everyone from the impending doom of finals week, the looming pressure of graduation, and college applications creeping in like fog under a door.

proposals had started popping up left and right.

confetti in hallways, flowers in lockers, and notes scribbled on whiteboards.

you were definitely in the headspace, clapping and cheering with your friends as your classmates got asked by their dates—screaming when someone said yes, laughing when someone blushed too hard to speak.

and even if you didn’t say it out loud, even if you pretended you weren’t looking…

something in your heart hoped.

hoped that maybe—maybe a certain raven-haired boy would ask you.

quiet, steady, and thoughtful—someone who’d held your hand under the glow of a streetlamp and never made you feel like you were too much. someone who made you feel seen in a way that didn’t burn or overwhelm.

but the next thing you know, a head of brown hair steps into your line of sight.

your breath catches.

junhui.

not minghao.

he’s holding something behind his back, eyes flicking nervously to yours.

and just like that, everything stills.

your eyes flicker to what he’s holding behind his back—a neatly packed bento box, mismatched lid and all, the kind you used to exchange when you were younger. junhui had cooked it himself, you could tell. the rice wasn’t level, the side dishes a little uneven, but something about it made your chest tighten.a quiet, clumsy echo of something you used to share—a ritual buried beneath teenage silence.

your gaze drifts back to him. his eyes are hopeful and uncertain, watching you like he’s bracing for a hit he knows might still come.

“i’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “for making you wait. for being—god—stupid. i should’ve said something sooner. i just…”

you hear the rest, but it’s faint, drowned beneath the roar of your own thoughts—the ones rapid-firing, all jumbled and too much.

you swallow the lump in your throat.

you should want this. should be squealing, saying yes before he could even get the words out. a few months ago, you would have. the you that still clung to every small moment, every glance and maybe, every time he turned and waited for you to catch up.

you’re still standing there, trying to catch up to everything all at once

but now—

now, when jun finally asks, bringing out the bento box from behind him, his voice low and rushed—

“will you go to the ball with me?”

you don’t know what to say.

somewhere behind you, some students that notice pause to watch, someone muttering with a laugh,

“i knew they’d get together one of these days.”

you don’t turn to look, you just stand there, the weight of old memories and new feelings pressing into your chest, unsure which ones you’re supposed to carry forward.

because this—jun’s bento box, his quiet apology, the soft tremble in his voice—it should’ve been everything.

but it wasn’t comfortable anymore, it didn’t feel warm. warm like minghao’s steady presence, not like the quiet way he always made space for you without asking anything in return, or like the way he would greet you first, making sure your presence is acknowledged.

and maybe that’s when you realize—you weren’t still chasing the moon anymore. you’d stopped somewhere along the way without even noticing that you’d started turning toward the warmth of the stars instead.

you swallow hard, the words catching in your throat. jun’s face shifts, the smile faltering—eyes dimming as he reads the hesitation in your expression.

“sorry, junhui… i—”

but you don’t get to finish.

because before the rest can tumble out, there’s already a familiar warmth at your side. a gentle hand finds your shoulder, another wrapping easily around you as a voice cuts through the tension.

“hey,” minghao says, tone light and almost casual, but gaze unwavering as he glances at jun. “sorry, am i late?”

he doesn’t wait for an answer—just guides you forward, slipping past the small crowd of curious onlookers, his grip steady as he steers you away from the fluorescent hallway and the boy still standing in it. the boy whose name sits heavy on your tongue.

you let yourself lean into minghao’s touch, not because it’s easier, but because right now, it feels like the only thing keeping your heart from tumbling out of your chest.

minghao doesn’t say much as he guides you down the quiet corridor, hand gentle at your back until he pushes open the door to an empty classroom. it clicks shut behind you, soft but final. the silence settles between you like fresh snow.

he doesn’t turn around at first, just runs a hand through his hair before leaning against the teacher’s desk, eyes flicking to yours.

“look… y/n,” he starts, voice quieter than usual, but steady. “i don’t know what’s going on between you and jun,”

he pauses, as if waiting for you to say something. you don’t.

“but i know what it looked like. and admittedly, heard from other kids how you had always hovered over him.” his gaze softens, searching your eyes to check if he had crossed any lines, but your quiet nod urges him to go on, “ i can’t imagine how you must’ve felt—watching someone push and pull with you like that.”

his eyes darken, not with anger, but something softer. something more careful.

“and i just—” minghao swallows, the words catching in his throat for a moment. “i just wanted you to know… i could never do that to you.”

he shifts, finally stepping closer, slow and deliberate. his fingers twitch at his sides before he lifts his gaze to meet yours.

“and maybe i was being a little selfish,” he admits softly, voice almost a whisper now. “pulling you away from him back there like that, but…” a breath, his cheeks flushing, “i decided i’ll let myself be. just this once.”

his hand finds yours again, gentle but certain, like he’s been waiting to. “because if there’s even the slightest chance you might choose me… i couldn’t just stand there and watch him take it.”

“you made space for me. and i—i’d never let you chase. never make you guess where you stood.”

the words fall from minghao’s lips so softly they almost miss you, tucked between the silence of the empty classroom and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat. but they land with weight, like the hush that follows a snowfall—quiet, but thick, clinging to every surface inside you.

you blink, the words echoing in your head again and again, as if your heart needs time to understand them. because no one had ever said that to you before, no one had ever wanted to take the guessing out of love. no one had ever promised not to run, not to make you stumble after them, reaching for scraps of their attention like you once did with wen junhui.

your breath catches in your throat, fragile and unsure, and you look at him—at minghao, standing there with the softest kind of certainty, a warm glow. the kind that doesn’t shove its way into your chest but offers a place to rest instead. his gaze is steady, searching—like he means every word he just said, and is willing to wait if you need time to believe them.

it’s not loud or the type to sweep you off your feet, it’s not a movie-scene confession with roses or confetti or a marching band. but it’s real. and it’s everything you didn’t know you’d been aching for.

and suddenly you’re not back in that hallway with jun, fumbling and breathless with disappointment, as if you were lost in space. you’re here, grounded. held in place by the boy who never made you chase, who met you exactly where you were, who had just said he’d never let you question where you stood.

your hands tremble slightly by your sides, and minghao waits. he doesn’t rush or fill the silence with an awkward laugh or joke.

and it’s in that moment you realize—you were never chasing him to begin with.

he’d been walking beside you all along.

you don’t need to say a word. just a quiet step forward, the slight nod of your head, and minghao understands. something in his expression softens—like the knot between his brows finally loosens, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time too.

he gently brings your hand up between you two, fingers curling around yours. your cheeks flush even deeper when he brings your hand to his lips, eyes widening just a little as you watch him in awe. there’s something unhurried in the way he moves, like he’s treating the moment—treating you—with care. it makes your heart flutter, your throat tightening.

then, instead of letting go, he keeps your hand in his, fingers laced through yours as he gently pulls you closer. your feet move instinctively, closing the small distance, until you’re standing toe to toe in the quiet classroom.

his other hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek with the same gentleness he always offered—the kind that you never had to beg for, but simply given to you, no questions asked.

“may i?” he whispers, voice laced with something a little breathless, a little giddy, like he can’t quite believe this is real.

and the small laugh that escapes him, soft and sweet, wraps around you like warmth.

you nod before you can even think about it, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

he leans in slowly, giving you every moment to pull back if you want to—but you don’t. his lips brush yours gently at first, soft and tentative like a question, then deepen with quiet certainty, as if he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

the world shrinks down to nothing but the warmth of minghao’s touch, the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand, and the way his breath mingles with yours.

it’s tender and slow, a promise wrapped in a kiss that feels like the start of something new—something actually real, something that doesn’t make you chase, feelings that are reciprocated and solid.

from the corridor, jun’s grip tightens on the bento box in his hands, his eyes fixed on you through the empty classroom’s window. deja vu hits him hard—the same way he watched from his bedroom window the night minghao walked you home just weeks ago. without a word, he turns and walks away, the bento box slipping from his fingers and landing in a nearby trash bin with a soft thud, discarded like the chances he’d lost.

a soft smirk tugs at minghao’s lips against yours, subtle and knowing. one eye slips open, just barely—a quiet, amused glance over your shoulder.

he sees jun’s back retreating down the hallway, the stiff set of his shoulders, defeated, and the way his grip tightens around the bento box before it disappears into the nearest bin.

minghao only pulls you closer.

his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, thumb brushing gently as he leans in, deepening the kiss just slightly. this time, there’s no hesitation. it’s the clearest signal he could give—like a flashing green light above his head saying go. like a door wide open, no locks, no riddles, no second-guessing.

you finally weren’t chasing the moon anymore, so out of reach. you were here, grounded to minghao and being loved the way you always wanted and deserved to. and with every second that passed, the years wasted on moon junhui—on hoping, wondering, waiting—felt like they were finally, quietly, slipping away as you melted into minghao’s arms.

the space you once carved out for him now met with his own—two halves finally folding into place, like they were always meant to fit together. like the universe itself planned it to.

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ seventeen ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu @dhaliaa1211 @seokminfilm @babilou-pov @crowneve @hhaechansmoless @triciawritesstuff @sopitadearvejas @slytherinshua @chronicfic @xh01bri @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @snowflakemoon3 @bbangbies @kibtsuji @dahlia-blossom @dhaliaa1211 @symphonies-of-poenies @judesbae @rivercattail @reiofsuns2001

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[shinysobi]

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don���t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—