begin again

Hanni's Cakes and Coffee, Kim Minji said. Three o'clock this Wednesday.

You entered the café at 2:54. She was already waiting at the table since 2:39.

When she stands up to greet you, her smile immediately glitches your brain. Small, but beautiful and utterly disarming. She holds out her hand; you take it, and it feels like the warmest thing in the entire world. The closest you'll get to finding home.

The last eight months have been a phase of breaking and burning and ending. Start-stop relationships with faces you can't tell apart and names you don't remember, falling outs with long time friends you thought would last a lifetime, and unresolved family issues that finally forced your hand to leave your small town for the big city.

Oh, to end up in Paris: the city of love. The cruel irony of fate was never lost on you.

And then there's Kim Minji. She's a mirror reflection of you in several ways: she also hails from a small town (in Korea), moved out due to her own personal troubles at home, and she never thought she'd find love in Paris.

By all accounts, you're a match made in heaven. But here's the kicker: you haven't really known each other. Not quite.

You only learned of each other since last week. Not through a chance encounter in the street, nor through Tinder or some other garbage dating app, but from an unassuming letter found in your mail, because Parisian romance demands you find love the old-fashioned way.

For reference, here's the letter from Minji herself. You brought it with you here for today's date:

To the cutie reading this,

You may not know who I am right now, but I'd like to get to know you personally. We may or may not have ran into each other for a while now. Probably cause we have the same work day starts. Hopefully we get a chance to meet up in person some time, because you're not like everyone else I've met around these parts.

I'm thinking Hanni's Cakes and Coffees might be a good place. Just down the street from our apartments. Sound good? We can take a walk by the Seine after. Then the rest is all up to you.

Name a time and date and I'll see what I can do. Hope I can hear from you soon!

Your neighbor,

Kim Minji

She even attached a selfie of herself for good measure. To say she's gorgeous would be an understatement.

Luckily, you had a Wednesday off the next week due to a holiday. Furthermore, you were a man of few words:

To Minji,

Sounds good. Wednesday? I mean, see you next Wednesday, not Wednesday the Netflix show. Three in the afternoon? I don't have work that day.

P.S. You're pretty.

Sincerely,

Your resident cutie

You sent your letter the day after, right before you went to work. And the icing on the cake, the response came hours later the same day as you came home:

To the resident cutie:

Looks like we have a date on Wednesday. See you then ♡

Also, that show sucked. Please.

Your pretty neighbor,

Minji

Scrolling through her limited social medias gave you very little information other than the short basics: she's from Chuncheon-si, studied in Hanlim Arts for high school, and was looking to get into the entertainment industry based on her last known post. But with said post being from 2020, and her currently being your next door neighbor in Paris, you can assume that such aspirations never took off. Apart from that, she's been mostly private, you believe: no public Instagram, no Tiktok, no Tinder page (thank God), just a Facebook page that's long been abandoned.

You don't know what this woman's gonna be like. Other than some choice words on two letters and a pretty looking picture, you're completely in the dark. Your only impression of her: she doesn't give off the vibe of someone who'd leave you on read or ghost you after a one-night stand, at least, but you can never tell with people anymore. There's a reason why your last date was months ago, long before you ended up in Paris, but there's something to her that made you want to leave your shell, something that just clicks.

And judging by the way her face makes your heart stutter upon the first eye contact, you can clearly see why.

No words are spoken. She smiles. You go the extra mile: a little wider, like it's a blessing to be in her presence—and help her into her chair.

She's only adjusting in her seat, and for those few moments, you feel like you can stare at her for life. Her gaze flickers up to you, catching you red-headed, andd like a deer in headlights, your brain just stops. Restarts. You don't know what you're doing now.

You blink rapidly. Minji laughs. Sweet and saccharine and everything that's good in the world. There's no heat, just a warm awareness of the effect she has on you. Meanwhile, you're already waving white flags in your head.

What a spectacular first impression. She's definitely leaving in five minutes. Ten if she's feeling generous. Maybe find a new space to live in after—

"What are you having?" she asks, and the question is said so suddenly it doesn't quite register.

"A what?" you blurt out, and it comes out before you realize you've spoken. God, you're doing so well right now.

"What are you having?" Minji repeats, her eyes glancing at the menus placed on the table. A waiter must have passed by in the time when you were staring and expecting the worst possible outcome. Hers is already opened on the cake section; yours remains untouched.

And somehow, she hasn't even left yet. Considering it, though, is a different thing altogether.

"Whatever you're having," you blurt out, distracted by her face still. Gorgeous—that's all you can think about right now.

She laughs a little. "C'mon. What are you having for real?" It's no less gentle, but you feel an undercurrent behind it now. Or just you talking yourself into believing this is a warning.

A pause. Your brain stops. Your gaze lands on the first thing your eyes find on the menu.

"The" —you stammer. Even simple words feel like learning French all over again. "cheesecake? And whatever hot chocolate you guys have."

"We don't have hot chocolate at the moment," the waiter suggests, and it's like the universe is hellbent on fucking you over.

"Iced americano?" Minji suddenly cuts in. "For two of us."

"Certainly," the waiter answers. "Anything else?"

"I'll have cheesecake as well."

The waiter clarifies your order: two iced americanos and two cheescake slices. Minji nods and then he takes his leave. A brief respite from your thought spinning out of control, but that's exactly what it is: a short calm before you're thrust back into the madness that is her smile, her presence, her everything.

Neither of you speak. Conversations happen around you, but your eyes are just—wandering. At the table. At her nails. Your hands. Suddenly, you feel small. Insignificant. Like your very existence is being judged under her eye.

Really, this is all a roundabout way to say that you don't know where to start.

This date could go one of several thousand ways: questions about her personal life, her family, her why a girl like her is in Paris—

"You first," she suddenly says, snapping you from your daze. "Tell me a bit about yourself."

And you don't know what to say here, too. Because you don't have a clue how to market yourself to a girl, even though you've found yourself in their bed—or theirs in yours—a few times over. It was lost somewhere in immigration, somehow.

"That quickly, huh," you mutter in your head, not realizing its also being transcribed on your lips too. Audibly.

"Yeah," Minji answers, blunt and to the point. She makes no point to bring it up. "I'm not all for the small talk on the first date."

"No 'Why you're here,' 'What's your favorite café,' 'How's Paris.' We're just" —you're gesturing at yourself— "jumping right to it."

"Unless you're trying to hide some kind of underground operation—"

"Woah, let's not go there, yeah?" You're now flailing your arms around animatedly, much to her amusement. She chuckles. Smiles a bit wider. "Do I look like James Bond?"

"Hell no." Minji's bluntness is on full display again. "But never judge a book by its cover, as they say."

"Are you suggesting that I'm—"

"Course not," she interrupts. "You're fine. For a guy at least."

Minji tilts her head, rests it on her hand. There's a certain sincerity and sweetness in her voice that, even if its teasing or patronizing, you can't help but believe her. That she's been through some shit to make a comment like this.

You sigh. Look at the table. "Well," you say, but nothing follows. Again, where do you even start. Probably with how many girls you've flirted and tell her how she's different from the rest. Or from how you moved to Paris because home life was like hell on earth. Or—

"I guess I'm surprised you even wanted to meet me," you begin. This isn't a deflection, not at all; it's the raw, honest truth. You're trying to avoid her gaze at any cost, but they always keep coming back to her eyes. She's magnetic. "I thought you'd walk out the second you saw me walk through that door."

Her brows furrow. She doesn't interrupt. Go on.

"And to be honest, I don't think I'm worth your time," you continue, looking down, hands clasped together. You're seeing blood, broken hearts, what ifs and alcohol induced nights stained on them. "I—I don't really make myself known to girls now. Kinda good for everyone if I didn't just—go back."

"Back where?" she asks after a pause, stroking her chin.

"To" —you're shaking your head just remembering— "those nights. Where I thought I could get away with making them feel good, and—leaving them dry right after. Or the other way around. It never works. I don't think you'd fix me, either."

Minji tilts her head. The way she stares resembles that of utter confusion more than curiosity. Like she's trying to understand but can't find how or why, but more importantly what are you even talking about.

"So—you're a fuckboy, is what I'm getting at."

"Was," you immediately correct, because somehow, even here, the scar never goes away. Just fades into your skin until it's brought up to the surface eventually. "Well—not exactly me, mostly. Just—the people I was with. I was always around the wrong people."

"Or maybe you were the problem," she suggests, and even with her kind tone, you don't believe that. She wouldn't understand even if you told her the full story.

"Mm. If I was the problem, you should have noticed some red flags by now," you say, half facetious and half serious.

"But you don't," Minji then replies, still candid. "And to be honest, you don't seem like the fuckboy type. To me at least."

Not quite an exoneration, but you'll take it.

"Now you," you say, turning the conversation on her. "How's—you. Your life, I mean."

Minji looks to her left. Out the window, her reflection staring back, at cars slowly trudging past the café. She blinks a few times, deep in thought.

"I—" she starts, but nothing comes out. Her fingers tap on the table like a steady metronome. "I wanted to become an idol. Like, a K-pop idol. You know BTS, right?"

"Of course. Who doesn't," you chuckle, but unlike before, it doesn't elicit a reaction from her this time.

"I got scouted. Was in a company. Dedicated two years of my life believing I'd make it. Then one day, they called me into office and told me I was done, just like that."

She lets it simmer in silence. The time between when she stops and starts speaking again to reflect how much blood, sweat, and tears were shed into a dream that ultimately never came to pass. That it can fall apart so easily, and not of her own doing.

You want to ask her why, but you hold your tongue. There's already enough salt on your wounds to pass around.

"It wasn't that I was bad or anything like that; if anything, they really wanted to keep us. Director Min was so high on our potential, but the company wasn't. We didn't 'fit' the direction' they wanted to go in, that's all," she continues, tilting her gaze down to the table. "So they let us go. Even with her protests, the five of us were gone because the company said so. She couldn't do anything. And all that time and effort" —she shrugs— "for nothing."

The waiter comes back just in time to serve your order; neither of you bother to eat or drink. Trauma makes hunger seem like just a flesh wound.

"And what about Min?" you ask.

"Well, she's trying to start her own label now. Hasn't quite worked out last I heard, something about a blacklist or whatever."

"Wow." You're surprised at how flippant she is talking about her, given she was the only one who had faith in them. "But she didn't ask you guys back or something? The others who were let go?"

"She did. We almost accepted, but I figured if we weren't gonna have the proper budget and resources to promote like everyone else, we'd just be disbanded eventually. So we all went our separate ways. And I guess I was right."

"I reckon your parents weren't happy with all this happening," you say, taking your first bite of the cheesecake.

"More of the opposite," she remarks, laughing, but it sounds cold and gloomy. "They wanted me to become a doctor. I fought so hard to get into the company, and when they learned of what happened, they became so insufferable that I had no choice but to run away. Which is how I ended up here."

In a way, you're not that far apart. You're living parallel lives; toxic families, failed pasts, finding solace in Paris of all places—there's a reason why the universe has decided to pull you together. For what reason exactly remains a mystery.

"And how's Paris been treating you?" you then ask, trying to steer the conversation in a more positive light, even if its small talk.

"It's fine, mostly. Traffic's a bitch, but where in Paris isn't," she says. "The guys here" —she gestures with her thumb, at the supposed French, rolling her eyes— "are crazy about everything."

"Right?" you laugh, grinning from ear to ear. "God forbid PSG or Wemby win. They'll cause a riot."

Minji sighs and shakes her head, but its light and warm. "They might just get me back into sports, not gonna lie."

Time passes. The conversation drifts away from the heavy stuff toward safer waters. She asks you about your job (you're a waiter in some five-star hotel), your hobbies (too tired to have any), your family back home (they just finished a divorce) and when she realizes you have just as equally messy of a life, she immediately pivots. Turn it on her and she has it better than you, because of course she does: she works in digital marketing for some AI company that pays more with a healthier hybrid office slash work from home schedule so she can write music and play guitar in her spare time.

It isn't all bad, though. Both of you still struggle to speak consistent French, no matter how many apps you've tried and how many months you've stayed. A car passes by the window, and she makes it clear she hates pronouncing Peugeot, given they're everywhere.

Outside, the sun begins its descent; the light showers Minji with that golden hour glow, and your heart stops. She's beautiful when she talks, but that's only scratching the surface.

It's all in the little things: how her lips curl whenever she speaks, the way she tucks a loose hair strand behind her ear when she thinks she's a little messy, the expressiveness in her eyes and brows whenever she reacts, even without saying a word. None of that compares to how she listens. The way she leans forward whenever you talk, asks questions to prove she's actually following along, how her eyes focus, never looking away, but not intrusive either.

Everything about Minji feels familar. Nostalgic. But you can't point exactly what it is.

She looks out the window again. The streetlamps are starting to light up. The food and drinks have been long consumed, other than a spare piece of croissant you ordered mid-conversation but never bothered eating.

"We should take that walk," she suggests, and you help her out the chair and open the door for her.

The air has cooled outside. It's always lively in the evenings; that's when Paris is at its best—right before nighttime, just as the day ends. Tourists and travelers finding their way and overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, locals used to living here every single day, annoyed by the rush hour traffic than anything, couples going on dates of their own, all having the same idea as you, with buskers performing at every corner.

Right now, your world is this: a girl you've just met, someone you never thought would find ever again.

Your hands never touch, only the occasional shoulder brush and bump that feels like friction, the typical will it won't it. Then Minji suddenly jogs ahead to the center of Pont Neuf, looking out at the water, watching a boat cross from underneath and forward. Her hair flows freely in the wind, and it just hits you all at once.

Her.

She was like that, too. A girl with a face as bright as sunshine and a smile that feels like a gift from heaven. Whose laugh was like a gentle breeze and had a habit of being blunt to a fault. Minji isn't like her exactly, but she reminds you of her, especially looking from the side.

And maybe that's exactly why: she was your first.

You couldn't be blamed for it. Not really. You were seventeen and in high school; chalk it up to blind innocence, spirited optimism—believing that love was like what you read in the books or watched on screen, when reality hit like a truck.

She broke your heart. Not on purpose, maybe. But she broke it anyway. You don't blame for it, either; you weren't the only one. And maybe that's exactly why: you were never meant to be. Not when her heart lies with someone else.

You see a lot of her in Minji. The brightness, the same way she makes you feel seen. But there's one key difference: she actually cares.

Forget that you just met, these two hours have proven to you she is someone special.

As you reach her at the center of the bridge, you're going to say it: she reminds you of your first love, about all the parallels you've noticed—but she faces you, her features painted by the sun in gleaming shades of gold.

"Tell me your favorite movie," she says suddenly.

You blink. Your lips twitch. "What?"

"Favorite movie. Go."

"That's" —you look down, taken completely by surprise, rubbing the bridge of your nose— "so random."

Minji tilts her head. Shrugs. "Tell me your favorite book. Your favorite artists. Your favorite show. Your favorite player. And—"

"Alright, alright." You hold up your hands in surrender. "Give me a second."

God, where do you even start.

Maybe that you cried when Iron Man sacrificed himself to snap away Thanos and his army during the final battle in Endgame. That you think modern pop music is bad like you're an old man yelling at clouds, that you've been listening to Michael Jackson non-stop. Or that your favorite show is Spongebob because familiarity and nostalgia is more comforting than whatever nonsense is on Netflix.

You tell her everything anyway.

And she listens.

Sure, she pushes back and tries to put you on to Taylor Swift (like every other girl you've dated), but everything else she can relate to. And that's when you realize: your first love never bothered to ask you those questions. Never wanted to know what you've been up to lately except for when its convenient or beneficial to her. That whenever you tried asking these same things, she'd leave you on read and gaslight you into thinking it never happened. She had been busy being the center of her own universe that she had forgotten you existed too.

But Not Minji. She has plenty of room for you.

"I like you," you confess much later. There were plenty of opportunities to say it, but Minji kept the conversation going, even if you were already repeating several topics.

See, day has given way to night. Neither of you really noticed. Your stomachs are grumbling, but the café was as far as your budget could allow.

"That's forward," she remarks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, you were forward the whole time," you quip. "Might as well. No point in sugarcoating it."

"Fair."

You both have your hands shoved into your pockets. The air is colder now. Paris has settled into a quiet calm, even with the Eiffel Tower glittering in the distance. You have work tomorrow; she does too. Time to wrap it up.

"But it's true," you add, looking left and right, averting her gaze. "This was" —your words gradually die, trying to find the right follow up— "my favorite day in a long time. I didn't think I could still feel like this."

"Like what?"

You meet her eyes. "Hopeful."

Minji's expression softens. "I had a lovely time too," she says, stepping forward but not making direct contact. "Even if we just sat in a cafe, walked around, and just talked."

"We did talk a lot," you joke. Her smile widens ever so slightly. Then she breaks. Laughs. A little, but it speaks volumes.

"But you listened," she replies. "To my rambling. My boring yaps. My" —she gestures with her head— "everything. You actually listened."

"Of course."

"Not everyone does."

She lets the words sink in. Both of you standing underneath a street of lit up lampposts, letting the world around you pass by, suspended in time like this. You feel it—and you're not talking about the city's heartbeat.

"So, same time next week?" you ask.

Minji doesn't answer right away. She thinks about it for a while. Then:

"I'd like that."

"Or sooner."

She laughs. "Pushy."

"Hopeful," you correct.

She shakes her head, unable to stop laughing.

"I'll write you again when I've thought about it."

"So that's a yes or a no?"

She shrugs. "You decide."

"Let me walk you home, then," you say. "At the very least."

"I know my way home." Minji says it kindly, like she knows she can take care of herself.

"You never know here in Paris," you insist.

"It's not that far. Besides," her fingers tap on her legs, shaking a small cannister of pepper spray latched on her jeans. "I have my ways."

You're convinced enough. So you nod. "Goodnight, Minji."

"Goodnight."

With that, you both turn the other way and head home.

You can't stop thinking about her still.

You're replaying today's events in your mind as you return to your apartment complex. Everything played out well against your expectations and then some. That's how low the bar has gotten, but Minji has brought it back to life.

The elevator doors open. You step inside, press the button to your floor, lean back against the glass, finally feeling like you can relax. But just as it closes—

It stops. A hand appears between them, and the doors slide back open.

Look up, and your eyes widen. Hers too. Minji's standing there, slightly out of breath, hair disheveled from the wind.

"I forgot," she says casually. Like you didn't say goodbye to each other like 20 minutes ago.

"Forgot what?"

She steps inside. The doors close behind her. The elevator begins its ascent. She makes sure she's right beside you.

"We're neighbors."

The pieces fall into place naturally. That's how she knew you. What she said in the letter about seeing you for a while. About having similar shifts. That in your haste to go to work, you never noticed her beside you for who knows how many times.

"So why didn't you—"

"I wasn't sure how you'd react," she interrupts. "And I guess you were kinda good looking, so I figured maybe we should start slow. With letters first."

"Kinda?"

"Still on the fence about it," she quips. You should feel offended, but when she sounds like this—sincere and honeyed and direct—you can't help but be charmed instead.

Moments later, the elevator stops. The doors open. You both step out onto the same hallway: same carpet, same dim lighting, same row of doors stretching out on both ends of the floor. Your apartment is to the left. Hers is to the right.

You both pause at your entrances. But she's looking at you first.

"Same time next week?" you ask again. You don't expect a clear answer knowing her.

"Or sooner," she then says, and your heart jumps. You feel butterflies in your stomach. She sees your reaction, clear and evident, and smiles.

"Goodnight, Minji."

"Goodnight."

You watch her disappear through her door before you enter yours. Then you close it behind you.

The space remains exactly how you left it: empty and quiet. But it doesn't seem as desolate as it used to be, especially now that your world feels smaller.

You don't go to bed right away, or any of the things you should be doing: taking a shower, heating yesterday's leftovers for dinner, ironing your clothes for tomorrow's shift. Instead, you sit on the couch. Go through your phone. Play her favorite song, the one she's trying to learn on guitar currently:

And for once, maybe the girls were right all along.

('But on a Wednesday, in a café, I watched it begin again,' Taylor sings, and you actually believe it.)