I promise

2020

Wonyoung had that look again, eyes too big for her face and too knowing for her age. The two of them sat side-by-side in the corner booth of a small dumpling shop in Sinsa, the table already cluttered with empty plates and half-drunk barley tea.

“You’re not sleeping, are you?” she asked, tipping her head just enough to make it feel like an accusation softened with sugar.

Karina gave a dry laugh. “That obvious?”

Wonyoung plucked a dumpling off the plate between them, blowing on it before continuing. “You’ve got that haunted idol look. All the rookies get it. Usually right after their debut stage.”

Karina blinked, unsure if she should be flattered or insulted.

“I’m serious,” Wonyoung said. “It’s the ‘I’m so lucky but I want to disappear’ expression. I had it for a year.”

Karina stirred her tea. “It’s just… a lot.”

“Exactly,” Wonyoung said, like she’d been waiting for her to say that. “You need something. A place. A way to talk without talking.”

“And that makes sense to you?”

“It will,” Wonyoung said, suddenly shy, as if she’d broken some personal vow by saying too much. “There’s this café. It’s not famous. Kind of hidden, like someone built it for people like us. There’s this rule, or a few, actually. One session. One voice. Once a year. No names. No faces. No promises.”

Karina raised a brow. “Sounds like therapy if therapy came with a blindfold.”

“It’s not therapy,” Wonyoung said. “You don’t pay. You just… talk. And someone listens. And you don’t have to carry any of it home.”

Karina wanted to laugh it off. Wanted to say no thanks and carry her exhaustion like a badge. But something about the way Wonyoung said it, the quiet reverence, like she was talking about a secret chapel, kept her quiet.

She filed the name away. Café Dérive.

It’s almost midnight when she finds herself curled into the corner of Seulgi’s couch, in a hoodie three sizes too big, sipping lukewarm barley tea and blinking against exhaustion. This is the first time in months she’s had a few hours off that didn’t involve collapsing into bed.

Seulgi, older, calmer, and endlessly gracious, is flipping through a stack of old vinyls, humming something under her breath.

Karina doesn’t plan to bring it up. Not really.

But then she says it, like dropping a pebble into still water:

“Have you heard of Café Dérive?”

Seulgi looks up, just slightly. There’s a glint in her eye, something surprised, something proud. “I own it.”

Karina blinks. “Wait. What?”

Seulgi grins, sheepish but proud. “It’s kind of my secret. A side project. It’s meant to be quiet. Gentle. A place that doesn’t ask anything from you.”

Karina’s throat tightens. It feels like something folding open in her chest, a door she didn’t know she’d locked.

“And the booth?”

Seulgi nods. “Anonymous conversations. You wouldn’t believe how many people come just to be… human. No makeup. No stage. Just voices in the dark.”

Karina doesn’t say anything for a while. But the thought clings to her again. Wonyoung’s soft voice. Seulgi’s gentle reassurance.

And beneath it all, something deeper. A need she hadn’t named until now.

You’re twenty. Alone. In a foreign country that doesn’t quite feel foreign anymore, but still not like home.

Seoul, with its endless glass and noise, its cafés that close at 2 a.m., its winter light that always feels just a little too distant.

Your ex left you in spring. You’ve lost track of how many days ago that was. You remember the moment exactly, the quiet breath before she said it, the way her fingers tightened on the strap of her bag like she was bracing for a gust of wind.

You haven’t seen her since.

And you didn’t plan to wander into Café Dérive. You really didn’t. But you’d just finished tutoring two hyperactive kids whose mother paid in exact change and polite apologies, and the neon sign above the café flickered like an invitation, just enough warmth to feel like a maybe.

Inside, it smells like cinnamon and old books. The barista doesn’t ask your name. She just smiles and gestures toward a hallway that disappears into shadows.

You pass a sign nailed to the wall.

One session. One voice. Once a year.

No names. No faces. No promises.

You hesitate.

But only for a moment

The booth smells like cedarwood and vanilla. The walls are matte black, but the lighting overhead is soft, casting a warm glow onto the table that stretches between you and the divider. The partition is thick and smooth, carved from an old tree, worn down by time. At its center is a horizontal seam, just wide enough for voices to pass through clearly. And beneath the seam, a narrow slot in the table’s edge, where two people, anonymous and unseen, might choose to slide a note, or nothing at all.

You sit down. It’s too quiet, so you tap your fingers lightly against your side of the table. One beat. Two. The rhythm steadies your breath.

A moment later, you hear a soft exhale on the other side. Then a voice. Feminine, low-toned, but careful.

“…Hi.”

You straighten slightly. “Hi.”

A silence settles. Then she says, more to herself than you, “I don’t know how to start.”

You smile, though she can’t see it. “You already did.”

Another small pause. Then her voice again, a little lighter. “Right. I guess so.”