Melon lord

You stand in the middle of your apartment as the door rattles in its frame, Yomi’s footsteps already fading down the hall.

“I can’t believe you only talked to me in the first place because I had big tits, you shallow pig!” she shouts back at you, voice cracking with fury.

“Yomi—” You follow her to the door, hands raised. “Yoms, you know that isn’t true. I like you for more than that. You’re gentle, sweet. You’ve been patient with me—way more than anyone else would’ve been. That has to count for something.”

She doesn’t slow down. She storms through the apartment instead, knocking a chair aside, grabbing her bag with shaking hands. When she turns back to you, her eyes are glossy with hurt.

“To think I gave you three years of my life,” she hisses, “and I was actually thinking about marrying you.” Then she does the unthinkable.

The slap comes fast—sharp enough to sting, not hard enough to leave a mark. Still, it’s enough.

She’s gone a second later—the door slams. The apartment goes quiet.

You stare at the door, jaw tight, chest burning. Anger flares hot and immediate—but you force yourself to breathe. Physical violence has always been your line. The one thing you won’t cross back into. You let the anger drain out with the exhale.

Then you pull out your phone and call your friend Chowon.

She hears it immediately—the tension coiled in your voice—and comes over as soon as practice ends. By the time she arrives, you’ve rebuilt the mask: easy smile, relaxed posture, the sly humor she’s known for the last four years.

Still, it cracks the moment you speak.

“I can’t believe Yomi left,” you say, pacing. “And she fucking hit me.”

Chowon steps closer, gentle but firm, and cups your face so you have no choice but to look at her. “Hey. Hey. Yubin. Look at me.”

You do.

“You are not a villain,” she says softly. “And you’re not a bad guy.”

You let out a long breath. “I know. I just… I’m irate.”

She nods, thumb brushing your cheek. “That makes sense. It’ll be okay.”

The night settles after that. Pizza boxes on the coffee table. Old stories. Laughter that feels a little forced at first, then easier. When it’s late, you offer her the bed and take the couch.

“Oh,” Chowon says with a smile, slipping past you. “Such a gentleman.”

You laugh—and then she pauses in the doorway, glancing back. “So… why did Yomi get that mad, anyway?”

You groan, rubbing your face. “We were making out. She got insecure about her ‘huge tits.’”

Chowon stops. Turns slowly. “Huge?” She squints. “She’s barely half my size.”

“I know,” you say. “She said she feels like a cow. I told her I think her tits are gorgeous—and that they were part of why I first thought she was pretty.”

Chowon exhales sharply and facepalms. “Oh no.”

“And she heard that as ‘I’m only with you for your chest,’” you finish. “Then everything exploded.”