The dirt road stretched long beneath the summer dusk, its edges glowing faintly where fireflies had begun to stir. Yujin kicked at a pebble as she walked, her schoolbag bumping against her hip. Beside her, (YN) carried his own bag slung casually over one shoulder, his steps steady in that maddeningly calm way of his.
“You only beat me by two points,"
She grumbled, eyes narrowed at the ground.
"That doesn’t even count as winning.”
He let out a short laugh. “Two points is still two points. A win’s a win.”
“You got lucky,” she muttered, kicking the pebble harder this time.
His laugh lingered in the air, quiet but sure.
“ You always say that.”
The sky above them deepened into streaks of orange and violet, cicadas buzzing from the trees lining the road. Their town was quiet at this hour, only the faint chatter of shopkeepers closing for the night reaching their ears. Yujin kept her gaze fixed ahead, refusing to look at him, as though her annoyance could keep her chest from feeling so strangely light.
Then her foot caught on a raised stone. She stumbled forward with a startled gasp, nearly losing her balance—
—but his hand was already there, wrapping firm and quick around her wrist.
She froze. For a second, all she could hear was the steady hum of the world around them and her own heartbeat drumming wildly in her ears. His hand was warm, too warm, and she hated how long she stayed frozen in his grasp before yanking her arm back.
The cicadas were loud back then too.
Yujin blinked, pulling herself back into reality. The sound of the waves replaced their shrill hum, relentless and crashing in uneven beats against the shore. For a moment she couldn’t tell where she was, on the dirt road years ago, stumbling over a stone with his hand steadying her, or here now, on the rough grains of sand meeting the water from the sea.
And then she realized his hand was there again. Around her wrist. steady, firm, warm.
(YN) stood in front of her, close enough that she could see the faint crease between his brows, the way his jaw tightened as if holding back something sharp. His eyes, darker than she remembered, tired yet piercing, were locked onto hers. It wasn’t the teasing glance of a boy walking her home. It was heavier, different.
As if he were searching for something. Or perhaps warning her away.
She drew in a breath, shallow against the salt air. Her pulse betrayed her, quickening beneath his touch.
The waves crashed again, louder this time, filling the silence between them. She wanted to speak, to say anything that might loosen the coil tightening in her chest, but the words tangled at the back of her throat.
Instead, she whispered his name. Barely audible.
“…(YN).”
It startled her how natural it felt, the syllables slipping past her lips after years of being locked away.
HOURS EARLIER!
The air inside the office was heavy, thicker than the salt wind outside. The shutters hadn’t been opened all morning, leaving the faint smell of stale paper and ink pressed into the walls.
“How is your report going?”
The chief’s voice broke through the silence, steady but carrying a weight that demanded precision.
(YN) stood in the middle of the room, his posture formal, hands pressed against his sides. His gaze lingered on the wooden desk for a moment before lifting, catching the faint beams of sunlight cutting through the blinds, dust drifting lazily in their path.
“I’ve sent my first draft to the editor today,” he answered, the politeness in his tone measured, almost automatic. “He said he’ll look at it.”
The chief nodded, eyes narrowing as though weighing the words themselves rather than their meaning.
Silence followed again, and in that quiet, (YN) realized what kind of job he put himself to. He bit his lip lightly, relinquishing the feeling of lying to someone who he pretty much worked for.
The chief tapped a pen against the desk, once, twice, before setting it down. “We’ll see what the editor says. Make sure your revisions are sharp. Accuracy is non-negotiable.”
(YN) bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment, though the words seemed to brush past him rather than sink in. He could feel the weight of the lie pressing against his ribs. His draft hadn’t been sent. Not yet. He hadn’t been able to finish it, not with the noise in his head, not with the questions that refused to settle.
When he finally stepped out of the office, the corridor felt too narrow, the air too thin. He loosened his tie, tugged once at the collar of his shirt, but it didn’t ease the restlessness crawling beneath his skin.
He told himself he’d stop by the editor’s desk. That he’d push through the draft tonight, polish it until dawn if he had to. But instead his feet carried him outside, past the doors of the station and faced the sun striking down on the streets.
“What’s up with you? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” (YN) turned his head to the sound of footsteps approaching him and found Seojin walking over.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up, a stack of folders tucked under one arm, two small cans of coffee on the other hand, and his brow damp from the heat. He gave (YN) a sideways glance, half amused, half concerned.
(YN) managed a faint exhale, forcing a small shake of his head. “Nothing. Just…talked to the chief.”
“Uh-huh.” Seojin adjusted the folders, squinting at him as if weighing whether to believe it. “Well, whatever it was, you look like someone who needs this.” He handed a can over, a gesture (YN) gladly accepted.
The drink popped open in his hands before he lifted it to his lips. “Hey, I don’t want to trouble you but would you mind if you do me a favor?” He looked between his friend and the can.
“Depends,” Seojin said, quirking a brow as he cracked his own can open. The fizz snapped softly in the heat. “If it’s about covering your late-night slot again, the answer’s no.”
“It’s not that,” (YN) swallowed, feeling the words stick in his throat as if they were heavier than any sentence he’d ever filed. He forced them out anyway. “Can you—can you stall Chief Hong for me? Tell him I need an extra day on the revisions. Say I ran into some dead ends and I want it right. Anything. Just…buy me time.”
Seojin blinked, then laughed, soft, disbelieving. “You want me to lie to the chief? That’s rich coming from you. You, of all people.”
For a beat Seojin watched him, studied him. He’d known (YN) long enough to read the difference between a thrown-off excuse and a cornered man.
The smirk slid from his face and something like concern took its place. He pulled a folder under his arm, tapped it with one finger, then nodded once. “Alright. One favor for that favor you’ll inevitably do for me someday. But you owe me, big time.”
“I owe you,” (YN) said, relief light and sudden. He felt faintly ridiculous asking for such a small thing, then infinitely grateful when Seojin shrugged.
“But,” Seojin raised his hand up just before he could bow his head. “What for? I thought you had everything covered.”
“Don’t you know what he put me up to? He wants me to write about y'know, her group.” (YN) quickly said, as if he didn’t put himself in this situation.
Seojin whistled low. “Oh. That one. Dispatch and all that circus, right? You really volunteered for this?” He sounded half–amused, half–sympathetic as if picturing (YN) being dragged into a tabloid flurry.
“It came down from Seoul,” (YN) said, jaw tightening. “They want somebody local. Quick, clean. And—God—I can’t just show up and play the part. Not like this.”
Seojin shifted, tucking a stray folder under his arm. “Not like this…meaning?”
(YN) swallowed. The explanation felt ridiculous and too earnest all at once. “I need to talk to them properly. Not from behind a camera, not with the station breathing down my neck. If they think I’m there to provoke or to pin a headline on them, they’ll close off. I need a conversation. Off the record, if possible. I can’t do that with the chief on my back.”
Seojin studied him a beat longer, the smirk returning but softer now. “So you want to be a good reporter and—what, a decent human being at the same time? That’s a rare combo.”
“It’s not about—” (YN) started, then cut himself off. He didn’t want to admit how much the thought of seeing Yujin without the lens made the draft feel like a trap. “Just buy me til the end of next week, Seojin. Please.”
His friend let out an exaggerated groan and rolled his eyes, but he was already fishing his phone from his pocket. “Fine. I’ll try to do something.” He tapped, thumb working fast. “But we do this smart. You owe me an actual favor later, no flower shop discount can pay for this one.”
“You’ll get it,” (YN) said immediately, and the relief that washed through him was almost embarrassing.
Seojin raised a hand again, stopping him. “Okay, plan. I’ll tell Chief Hong you’ve hit a snag verifying a source. Say you need to talk to a witness, look into personal accounts, anything that sounds time–consuming but reasonable. He won’t like it, but he’ll buy a day if we sell it as careful work. If he pushes for a public angle, I’ll say you’re meeting locals for context, that kind of thing. I’ll make it sound supervised and professional so he doesn’t get twitchy.”
“And if he calls you out?” (YN) asked, voice low.
“Then I use the old ‘editorial discretion’ card and remind him how many times you saved his ass with a clean, tight piece,” Seojin said, half–smile back in place. “But you owe me like, actual money or something.”
(YN) laughed, the sound brief and brittle. “Deal.” He watched Seojin make the call, listened to the practiced cadence, the little lies that were routine enough to be harmless. When the phone clicked off, Seojin pocketed it and faced him with that same easy, no–nonsense expression.
“All right. Next week, then. Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime, no dramatic confrontations, no late night interviews, and definitely no mixing your personal history with reporting. You know how fast that becomes news.” Seojin’s voice was half–chiding, half–warning.
“I know,” (YN) said. But he didn’t sound convinced even to himself. He was well aware of the rules Seojin had just listed; it was why this whole thing felt like walking a tightrope with souvenir photographs tied to his belt.
Seojin clapped him on the shoulder, firm. “Go on then. Go see what you need to see, but be careful. If you have to choose between a good story and not being a jerk, pick the story. If you have to choose between a good story and being honest with yourself, pick honesty. Reporters tend to forget that last one.”
(YN) gave a small, near grateful nod. The weight he’d been carrying loosened just enough to let him breathe. He zipped up his coat as if the motion could seal resolve into his bones.
“I’ll think of something to pay you back or just say the word and I’ll be there.”
The two of them lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, the heat pressing down like a heavy hand. Traffic buzzed faintly in the distance, and somewhere beyond the rooftops, the cicadas droned on without pause.
Seojin shook his empty can and tossed it into the bin by the station doors. “Alright, hero. Don’t just stand there looking like a man about to confess his sins. Go do whatever it is you’re itching to do.”
(YN) managed a small smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not sure what that is yet.”
“You will,” Seojin said, adjusting the folders under his arm. “Just don’t take too long figuring it out. Deadlines don’t care about your heartburn.”
Then he was gone, swallowed into the station with a push of the door, leaving (YN) alone on the street.
For a moment, he just stood there, the opened can of coffee sweating in his palm. The chief’s words replayed in his head, sharp and unforgiving, followed by Seojin’s softer warning. One reminded him of his duty, the other of his limits. Both pressed against him until he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
(YN) tilted the can back, draining the last of the lukewarm coffee before dropping it into the bin beside him. The metallic clang rang out sharper than he expected, echoing in the silence he suddenly found himself in.
Duty or honesty. He wasn’t sure which was heavier.
He turned on his heel and headed out to the street. His steps were unhurried, deliberate, as if the act of walking itself could help him sort the thoughts crammed into his skull. The heat had mellowed slightly, the sunlight thinning into something softer as the afternoon slipped away.
His footsteps led him towards the school to go and pick up his sister. He’d hope he could reach the bells ringing if he were any faster.
(YN) found the school gates open and the courtyard full of the same bright, ordinary chaos he’d always liked, the small, decisive stomps of children, the rattle of backpacks, the shrill bell of playground games. It steadied him in a way the newsroom never could. He moved through the little crowd, eyes scanning for the familiar tousled head and crooked paper crown he’d seen that morning.
Seowon spotted him first, of course. Her face split into that easy, unverifiable grin and she wrenched herself free from the cluster of friends as if tugging him with a rope. “Oppa!” She cried and ran the last ten feet, the sound cutting clean through the ambient noise.
He crouched, catching her as she leapt. Her arms were a confident, unquestioning sling around his neck, small, warm, smelling like glue and fruit gummies.
“You’re late,” She scolded, half-joking.
“Only by ten minutes,” He said, taking her in. She’d been flushed from play, eyes bright. He smoothed the hair at her temple like a reflex. “How was your day?”
“The best.” She wiggled out of his arms and thrust a folded sheet of paper at him.
They were still at the gate when a familiar figure rounded the corner of the school building, Hanni. The teacher had a way of appearing as if summoned by practicality itself, sensible flats, a cardigan tied at the waist, red-framed glasses perched on her nose. She carried a tote patched at the seams and a stack of storybooks under one arm. Her presence cut through the afterschool clamor like a warm, sensible breeze.
“Hanni,” (YN) said before he managed anything else. He’d seen her the other night, had sat across from her at the restaurant, listened to her laugh while the little girl between them squealed about castles and calamari. She had held a patience about her that people mistook for softness; it was, if anything, the opposite.
“(YN)-ssi,” She replied, smiling in that quick way teachers did, then closing into professional reserve. “You always pick Seowon up looking like you’ve been chasing storms.”
He let out a short, mirthless chuckle. “Feels like work is the one chasing me.”
She nodded, reading him like a headline she’d somehow already skimmed. “You don’t look too well. Long day?”
“The usual,” he said. He could have said more, the chief, the draft he hadn’t sent, the hollow that opened in his chest when Yujin’s name drifted into anyone’s conversation, but there were certain truths that sounded less like facts and more like betrayals when voiced aloud. He preferred to keep them folded inside, like a letter he wasn’t ready to mail.
Hanni’s eyes softened. She set her books down on the low bench and crouched to Seowon’s level, smoothing the crown back onto the little girl’s head with a practiced hand. “Seowon, make sure to take care of your brother too, okay?”
Seowon beamed and looped her small fingers through (YN)’s. “Of course!”
“You look tired,” Hanni said quietly, looking up at him, then, because teachers always knew where to press, “Do you have time for tea? I’m just heading home to grade some papers, but if you need to sit for ten minutes, you can come by.”
The invitation should have been easily refused. He had deadlines, a chief’s expectations, an editor’s imaginary frown. Instead, he found himself swallowing and nodding. “Maybe later. I—have to run an errand.”
“Oh, is that so?” She said, voice shrinking. “Then maybe next time? You’re always welcome to stop by, I wouldn’t mind the company.”
“Sure, I’ll take you up on it.” (YN) replied, bowing his head down.
Hanni smiled at that, though it was brief, fleeting, tucked away as quickly as it appeared. She rose to her feet, balancing her books again, and with a small nod, she disappeared into the stream of teachers heading home.
Seowon tugged at his hand the second she was out of sight. “Oppa, let’s go somewhere. Not home yet.”
“Somewhere?” He repeated, the faintest smile pulling at his mouth.
She pointed down the slope that cut past the town. “The sea! Please? Just a little.”
“You really want to go?” He asked, unsure whether to say yes or tell her that they could go another time but after seeing her nod so eagerly, he felt like he had no other choice.
He sighed, though it came out gentler than he intended. “Alright. Just for a short while.”
Seowon’s grin spread wide, triumphant, as if she’d pulled off a grand victory. She skipped a few steps ahead, her crown slipping lopsided again, but she didn’t notice, or maybe didn’t care.
The slope down toward the sea wasn’t far, but it felt like crossing into another country entirely. The air cooled the further they went, the breeze tinged with brine, with the faint call of gulls punctuating the hum of late-afternoon cicadas. He let Seowon tug him along, his longer strides folding into her rhythm, slow and quick, quick and slow.
When they reached the dunes, the ocean unfurled before them, wide and indifferent. The tide was on its way in, the waves punching white foam into the rocks and then peeling back, only to strike again. It was a rhythm he’d known since childhood, but today it seemed more insistent, as if the water itself were rehearsing a warning.
Seowon broke away, running down the packed sand with a laugh that trailed behind her like a kite string. He didn’t stop her. Instead, he stood at the edge of the slope, hands shoved in his pockets, and watched her shadow stretch against the golden wash of the beach.
The sea had always made him feel both lighter and heavier. Lighter because it drew the noise out of his head, heavier because it reminded him of how small people really were. And somewhere in between those tides, Yujin’s face surfaced again—her sharp gaze, her words, the way she looked at him as if expecting him to hold up the sky even when his arms were tired.
Seowon’s laugh cut through his chest, reeling him back. He started down after her, the sand shifting beneath his steps.
“Oppa, look!” she shouted, crouching near the waterline, her tiny fingers sifting through seashells glinting wet in the fading light.
He reached her side, crouched down too, and for a moment let himself breathe.
On another part of the beach, where the tide curved into a small inlet, Yujin had made herself comfortable on the sand. She sat cross-legged, chin propped on her knee, watching her members, small bright figures at the waterline, kick at the foam and call to each other. The warm weight of the sun pressed into her shoulders, the salt wind tugged loose a stray strand of hair which stung her cheeks and smelled faintly of iodine and old rope.
Her hand idly traced patterns in the sand. It felt ridiculous, how ordinary this was, the sea, the gulls, the lazy chatter of friends. Ordinary, and therefore somehow fragile. She let her eyes drift along the shoreline without really looking, noticing the way the light creased over people’s shoulders.
Then movement snagged her attention, a quick, fluttering animation at the far end of the inlet. A little figure ran, crown bobbing. Behind them, a man followed, stride long, coat flapping, looking like someone who shouldn’t be on a beach but somehow belonged. For a second her chest clenched with nothing and everything at once. The man paused, the child shouted, a loud sound that cut through the air like a schoolbell.
Azzo lifted his head. The small dog had been curled at her feet a moment ago, but ears pricked, body coiled like a spring. His nose twitched at the scent, the same scent that had come from that man earlier, threaded through the air now with laughter and sun. The dog wriggled one halfhearted inch on the sand, then another. Before Yujin could decide whether to call him back, the small dog bolted.
He moved like a flash of white fur across the sand, paws digging and flinging tiny bits of sand behind him. For a beat Yujin felt nothing but the thud of her own pulse in her ears. Everything had dropped away in a single bright line that followed Azzo’s flight.
“Azzo!” she shouted, voice raw with the panic that flares up quicker than logic. Her body was already up, legs kicking sand as she pushed forward. Behind her, someone, Wonyoung most likely, realized too, a hand already reaching, yelled in a mix of amusement and alarm.
Azzo reached them in two bounds. The small dog skidded to a stop at the man’s feet and launched himself upward, landing with his front paws against the stranger’s knees like a ribboned white flag. The man bent instinctively, hands closing around Azzo as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He chuckled, a sound that was more breath than joy, and for an instant Yujin saw his face in full sunlight, the tired lines in his eyes, the gentle fold of his mouth when he smiled down at the dog.
Seowon was there too, reaching for Azzo as if he was a walking cloud. “Oppa, a pup came over!” She cried, and lunged. The dog wriggled happily between their hands, tail a wagging metronome.
(YN) straightened slowly, the dog cradled against his chest like a child. He looked up, and their eyes met.
“Azzo?” He said, the name neutral on his tongue, an observation, not an accusation. He shifted the dog so one hand could rub behind its ears. The dog melted into him with a little, satisfied sigh.
Then Yujin’s mouth moved before she could stop it.
“Give him back,” She heard herself say, far too flat, brittle at the edges. The words were a practice he might have heard before in wider, less private contexts. She hated the strain that laced them.
His expression didn’t change much, but the corners of his mouth softened, the smallest fraction. He carefully set the dog down on the sand before it toddled around and barked at him.
Yujin watched just as she got a glimpse of the small girl behind his leg, peeking from the side as if she was scared of her.
(YN) carefully handed the leash over, his fingertips brushing against her wrist lightly.
“Oppa, do you know her?” A voice, high and shriveled, came from his side.
His eyes drifted to the young girl as he nodded his head.
“Yeah, she’s um…” He stole a glance at Yujin before softly, “she’s a friend of mine.”
Yujin’s throat tightened at the word, though it came out of him so quietly, almost like he was testing its weight before letting it settle in the air.
Friend.
Her grip on the leash stiffened, and she crouched quickly, busying herself with clipping it back onto Azzo’s collar as if the tiny metallic click could cover the pause that hung between them. The dog leaned into her hands, tail swishing, blissfully unaware of the tension pooling above his head.
Seowon edged closer, her crown tilted from the sprint, cheeks pink with play. She blinked up at Yujin with frank curiosity, the kind that only children carried, unfiltered and unafraid. “You really know my oppa?” she asked, voice small, testing the boundaries of familiarity.
Yujin forced her lips into something resembling a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “A long time ago,” she said. Her voice was soft, careful, as if the words themselves might snap under pressure.
Seowon tilted her head, gaze flicking between the two adults like she was piecing together a puzzle. Then, with a sudden bright certainty, she beamed. “Then you are his friend!”
The simple declaration made Yujin’s chest ache in a way she hadn’t been prepared for. She stood, brushing sand from her palms, her eyes catching (YN)’s again. He looked back steadily, but his face was unreadable—guarded, tired, yet not unkind.
Behind Yujin, Wonyoung’s voice carried over the surf, a teasing lilt cutting through the silence: “Yah! Why is he always bolting away from you?”
Yujin glanced back, realizing the rest of the group had paused their play to watch, their expressions a mix of curiosity and barely concealed interest. She tugged lightly at Azzo’s leash, calming herself.
“I should—” She began, but the words caught. Her tongue felt thick, unwilling to finish the sentence.
(YN) gave a short nod, almost like he understood the thought she couldn’t push through. “Take care of him,” he said, gesturing faintly toward Azzo. His tone was neutral, but his eyes—just for a breath—lingered longer than necessary on hers.
Yujin swallowed hard, forcing herself to turn back toward her members before the moment unraveled further.
Then he remembered.
The report he hadn’t started, the dreadful deadlines, the chief’s stern words and Hyejin’s favor. Before another moment passed, his arm moved on its own, latching itself around her wrist before she got away.
Yujin turned and blinked, pulling herself back into reality. The sound of the waves replaced their shrill hum, relentless and crashing in uneven beats against the shore.
For a moment she couldn’t tell where she was, in a memory years ago, stumbling over a stone with his hand steadying her, or here now, on the rough grains of sand meeting the water from the sea.
And then she realized his hand was there again. Around her wrist. steady, firm, warm.
The faint sounds of her groupmates gasping came from her behind.
(YN) stood in front of her, close enough that she could see the faint crease between his brows, the way his jaw tightened as if holding back something sharp.
His eyes, darker than she remembered, tired yet piercing, were locked onto hers. It wasn’t the teasing glance of a boy walking her home. It was heavier, different as if he were searching for something. Or perhaps warning her away.
She drew in a breath, shallow against the salt air. Her pulse betrayed her, quickening beneath his touch.
The waves crashed again, louder this time, filling the silence between them. She wanted to speak, to say anything that might loosen the coil tightening in her chest, but the words tangled at the back of her throat.
Instead, she whispered his name. Barely audible.
“…(YN).”
It startled her how natural it felt, the syllables slipping past her lips after years of being locked away.
The realization came as quick as his actions did as he let go and looked to the side. His face remained the same, the blank, neutral expression it always garnered yet the tips of his ears grew red, betraying him.
“Are you busy..?” He asked, clearing his throat.
Her heart stuttered at the question, simple as it was.
Busy. She almost laughed at the absurdity. Of course she was busy, always busy, scheduled down to the second, her life sectioned out into rehearsals, fittings, recordings, flights. Yet here she was, sitting cross-legged in the sand minutes ago, tracing idle shapes like a girl who’d forgotten what she was supposed to do with her hands.
She opened her mouth, then shut it again. Yes would be safe. Expected. A polite wall between them, firm enough to remind him of the years stretched like a canyon. But the word stuck, caught behind something heavier, something that had been building since the moment Azzo bolted across the beach.
“…Not right now,” She admitted, the words trembling like a loose kite string.
The faintest flicker crossed his face, something between surprise and disbelief, quickly tucked away under that same worn neutrality. He nodded once, sharp, as if he’d been bracing for rejection and didn’t know what to do with the absence of it.
Seowon tugged at his sleeve then, impatient, looking between the two adults as if sensing a gravity she couldn’t name. “Oppa, can you ask if I could play with the pup? Please? Just a little while.”
Her plea landed in the air between them, undeniable, guileless.
Yujin glanced down at the girl, crown slipping, cheeks glowing with salt and sun. For a moment it was like looking into a memory she’d almost forgotten, another child’s question, another road, another summer. Her throat closed, the taste of old summers suddenly sharp at the back of her tongue.
(YN) didn’t answer right away. He looked at Yujin instead, waiting. Not demanding, not coaxing her into anything, just waiting, as if her answer would decide all of theirs.
The tide curled in and out, frothing white over their feet. Yujin’s fingers tightened slightly on Azzo’s leash before she exhaled, a sound that was half a sigh and half surrender.
“Just a little,” she said.
Seowon’s cheer shot up into the air like fireworks, bright and uncontainable. Azzo barked as if in agreement, tugging happily at the sand.
And Yujin forced her lips into a faint curve, though her chest ached with the realization of how fragile the word friend felt suddenly now that they were standing here, with the sea carrying away every excuse she thought she had left.
The young girl wasted no time. She plopped down right where the tide met the sand, knees tucked up, her little hands busying themselves with scooping damp sand into a crooked pile. Azzo barked and bounded around her, tail carving happy arcs in the air.
The two adults were left standing not too far. (YN) rested his hands inside of his pockets while Yujin placed her hands on her sides, hugging them when she didn’t know what else to do. She looked to the side, watching Wonyoung guide the other girls away to give them space with a grin.
“I’ve been meaning to ask.” (YN) started, clearing his throat. “Why are you back here?” He asked despite already knowing why.
She glanced at him from the side. Days prior, it seemed like he didn’t want to say anything to her let alone catch up about anything yet here he was trying to do so.
“Why, am I not allowed to go home? Did they outlaw me from the town while I was away?”
Her voice carried a bite of humor, but the edge was thin, like glass pressed too close to shattering. She kept her eyes fixed on the horizon, on the line where sea met sky, as if the answer might be waiting out there.
(YN) shifted, the sand crunching faintly beneath his shoes. “That’s not what I meant,” He said quietly.
The restraint in his tone was what made her look at him again. The same boy who once never ran out of words, who used to fill the silence with teasing, questions, anything just to keep her listening, now he weighed each one as if it could tip the balance.
His gaze was steady, but there was a weariness threaded through it, something older than his years. “I just thought…” He hesitated, jaw working before he finally let it fall out. “I thought you’d never come back.”
The simple honesty of it caught her off guard. She blinked, and for a moment the salt wind stung her eyes in a way that had nothing to do with the sea.
“Well,” She said softly, forcing a small exhale that might pass for a laugh, “neither did I.”
Azzo barked then, chasing after Seowon’s collapsing sandcastle, the child squealing with delight as the tide nipped closer. The sound broke the tension just enough, pulling them both to glance down the shoreline.
When Yujin looked back, she found (YN) still watching her, not with disdain, not with anger, but with a kind of searching quiet that made her chest feel too tight.
She pressed her lips together, then asked, “And you? You never left, huh?”
It wasn’t meant to wound, but the way his shoulders stiffened told her it had landed close enough. He turned his head, eyes on the sea. “Somebody had to stay.”
Her chest tightened. The answer was simple, but it carried all the weight she’d tried to run from. She lowered her gaze, fingers worrying at Azzo’s leash as if it could anchor her.
“I thought if I left, it’d get easier,” She admitted, the words tasting strange on her tongue, raw after being buried so long. “The memories, the whispers, even the looks people gave me. But…” She trailed off, her throat working. “It just followed me. Different city, same shadows.”
For a long moment he said nothing. Only the crash of waves filled the gap between them. Then his voice came, low, steady.
“You think it was easier here?” His eyes met hers, and there was no anger in them, only exhaustion. “It wasn’t.”
Her breath caught, because she knew. Of course she knew. The town had been merciless to both of them in its own ways. She had chosen escape. He had chosen endurance.
“You could’ve written, done anything else.” He added, almost as an afterthought, but softer, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say it.
Her hand stilled on the leash. “I wanted to.” She paused, her voice thinning. “But every time I tried, I…didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if you’d even want to hear from me.”
Something flickered across his face then, a flash of hurt quickly smoothed over into that practiced neutrality. He exhaled, hands buried deeper in his pockets.
“You should’ve tried anyway,” he murmured.
The words lodged themselves in her chest, heavy, unyielding.
“Thank you for letting me play with him!” Seowon shouted, bowing her small frame in front of Yujin.
She smiled back at her before her hand carefully reached over and brushed some strands of her hair back.
“You must be Seowon, it’s been a while since I’ve last seen you. You’ve grown so much.”
Seowon blinked at her, tilting her head with innocent confusion. “Do I…know you?”
The question was simple, guileless, but it landed like a stone in Yujin’s chest. She forced a soft smile, though her throat tightened around the answer. “No, I guess not. You were very little back then.”
“Mhm.” Seowon nodded, satisfied with that, before breaking into a grin. “Well, I’m glad to meet you now.” She reached down to tug Azzo’s ears gently, giggling when the dog wriggled in delight.
Yujin’s gaze flicked upward, just briefly, and caught (YN) watching her. His expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes, tired, careful, unreadable, told her he’d felt the weight of Seowon’s question too.
She looked away quickly, smoothing Azzo’s fur with her palm.
Seowon’s laughter rang out as Azzo spun in circles, chasing his own tail. She clapped her hands, crown slipping again, joy so unburdened it made Yujin’s chest ache in quiet envy.
“Seowon,” (YN)’s voice came gently but with finality, the kind that signaled an ending. “We should get going.”
Her head snapped up, disappointment quick and raw. “Already? But—”
“No buts,” he said, though his tone softened at the edges. “You still have homework waiting.”
Seowon groaned, dragging her feet a little, but she didn’t argue further. She gave Azzo one last pat and waved at Yujin, grin wide and toothy. “Bye, unnie! Thank you for letting me play with him!”
Yujin swallowed past the lump in her throat and returned the wave, the leash taut in her grip. “Bye, Seowon.”
(YN) lingered a moment longer. The sea wind curled between them, carrying the salt and the faint shrieks of gulls overhead. His eyes flicked toward her once more, searching, unreadable, before he dipped his head in the smallest gesture of parting.
“Take care, talk again soon?” He said casually.
She nodded her head like it was simply on instinct that had been done plenty of times before.
And then he turned, guiding Seowon up the slope. Their silhouettes shrank against the gold of the late afternoon, the child skipping despite her protests, the man steady beside her, as if he had carried that role for far longer than she’d ever realized.
Azzo barked once, sharp and sudden, the sound chasing after them before it was swallowed by the surf.
Yujin stood in the sand, her hand tightening on the leash until her knuckles whitened.
Azzo pressed against her shin, warm and insistent, as if sensing the quiet storm churning in her chest. Yujin bent down, slipping a hand over his head, finding herself in the familiar softness of his fur.
But her eyes stayed fixed on the slope, on the receding shapes of brother and sister until they blurred into the rhythm of the town beyond the dunes.
The sea hissed and pulled at the shore, erasing the little sandcastle Seowon had left behind. Yujin exhaled slowly, the sound brittle in the open air, and for a moment she let the emptiness settle in her bones.
“Friend,” she whispered under her breath, the word dissolving like foam before it could find any weight.
Azzo gave a low whine, tugging her back to the present, to the here and now. She straightened, squaring her shoulders, and turned toward the sound of her members’ laughter further down the beach.
But her steps dragged, heavy, the leash slack between her fingers.
༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝
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