When Yujin moved away to Seoul, it had been rough at first.
Her once simple life of schoolwork, chores, and the free time that came after was replaced with hours upon hours in the practice room. Vocal lessons strained her throat until every swallow felt raw, dance practices pushed her body until her calves burned and her lungs begged her to stop, and there were always more classes, language, etiquette, media training, each one carving away at the girl she had been in Gyeokpo-ri.
At first, she told herself it was worth it. That the exhaustion was a tax on her dream. She counted bruises like proof of progress, each ache in her body a reminder that she was moving forward.
But nights were the hardest. Nights meant silence, no ocean hum to cradle her to sleep, no faint clatter from the kitchen where neighbors lingered over late meals. Only the flat hum of the city, her tiny dorm room, and the ache of being both too tired to move and too restless to sleep.
She would lie awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if the others back home ever thought of her.
Wondering if he did.
“Can’t sleep?”
Yujin blinked at the voice that came from the bunk bed on top of her. A head then peeked down from the side, their long hair dropping down like a bundle of vines.
She looked at the person whom she’d become friends with immediately when she moved and the only person who knew what she had left behind, Jang Wonyoung.
“I snuck over some snacks if you want some.” She smiled, cheeks rising as the sound of ruffled plastic followed.
Yujin sat up, rubbing her eyes. The room was dim, the only light coming from the street lamps outside the dorm window, staining the walls in a soft orange glow.
“Snacks? At this hour?” she whispered back, her voice still hoarse from training.
Wonyoung grinned, dangling the contraband from above. “Rules don’t count when you can’t sleep. Besides, if the manager asks, I’ll say I forced you.”
Yujin caught the small bag of chips when it fell into her hands. The plastic was warm from being tucked under Wonyoung’s blanket, and something about that detail—the quiet thoughtfulness—loosened the knot in her chest. She tore it open carefully, trying not to wake the others.
The two of them ate in silence for a while, crumbs scattering between their bunks, until Wonyoung spoke again, softer this time.
“So…what were you thinking about?”
Yujin froze, chip halfway to her mouth. No one had asked her that since she’d arrived, not really. Every question was about improvement, about goals, about debut. But this—this cracked her open in a way she wasn’t ready for.
She swallowed, the salt stinging more than it should have. “…Home.”
Wonyoung hummed softly, “I get it. It must be tough moving out here all alone but you do call your family when you get to, right?”
Yujin nodded.
“I do but there’s another reason.”
Wonyoung shifted, resting her chin on her folded arms as she peered down at her. “Another reason?”
Yujin hesitated. The words pressed against her throat, uncertain whether they should come out. She’d never said his name here—not once. Saying it would make him real again, like pulling a ghost out of the ocean and setting him down in the middle of this city that had already taken so much of her.
Still, Wonyoung waited, her gaze soft and patient in the dim light.
“There’s someone back home,” Yujin finally said, voice low enough that it barely carried past the sheets. “We… grew up together. I guess you could say we were close.”
“Ah.” Wonyoung’s lips curved in understanding. “A boy, then?”
Yujin blinked, caught off guard by how easily she’d said it. She looked away, pretending to focus on the crumbs in her hand. “Something like that.”
“What happened?”
The question was simple, but it unspooled something deep in her chest. Yujin sighed.
“Nothing. It’s just that, if I had a reason to stay, to keep myself from ever going here to become a trainee, it would be him.”
Wonyoung’s brows lifted slightly. “He must’ve been really important to you then…or maybe he has dirt on you.”
Yujin rolled her eyes and shifted herself on the bed. “I just didn’t want to leave him when…when he had everything going wrong for him.”
“What do you mean?” Wonyoung asked once more.
“I left when his parents passed, one after the other. His mom went when she delivered his baby sister and his dad followed when he got into an accident a year later. Now he has to raise the baby all on his own. They have no other relatives around. I know my mom would surely lend a hand but…I don’t know. I want to be there with him but I didn’t want to let this opportunity pass either.”
Wonyoung’s face softened as the words sank in. The teasing slipped away, replaced by a quiet, almost reverent silence. She propped her chin on her arm again, eyes tracing the faint patterns of light on the wall.
“That’s… a lot,” she said finally, her voice barely more than a whisper. “For someone our age to go through. For both of you, actually.”
Yujin nodded, staring down at the half-empty bag in her lap. “He was always the kind of person who’d rather shoulder everything alone. Even when people tried to help, he’d smile like it was fine. Like he was fine. But I could tell.”
Her throat tightened, and she pressed her lips together before continuing. “Before I left…we had an argument at the pier. When I told him that I had to leave, he asked me to stay. I explained why I couldn’t but then he asked me again, stay if I cared about him but…I just pushed past him and left.”
Wonyoung stayed quiet for a long time after that. The kind of silence that didn’t ask for more, but simply held the weight of what was already said. Her expression softened, almost cautious, as though she knew that one wrong word might shatter something fragile in the air between them.
“So you never talked again?” she asked finally.
Yujin shook her head. “No. Not once.”
The admission came out small, barely above a whisper. She let out a shaky breath, eyes tracing the faint outline of the window blinds. “I wanted to. So many times, I thought about calling. Or even just sending a message. But every time I reached for my phone, it felt like I didn’t have the right anymore. Like I’d already chosen.”
Wonyoung leaned back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know. You were trying to chase something. That’s… kind of the point of all this.”
Yujin smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, but chasing something means leaving something else behind.”
The dorm light flickered once, and for a moment, the shadow of her reflection caught in the windowpane—tired eyes, hair sticking to her cheeks, the faintest hint of a girl who used to spend her nights by the sea.
“I keep thinking about the look on his face,” she said quietly. “When I walked away. He didn’t yell or try to stop me again. He just—stood there. I didn’t even turn around.”
Her fingers tightened around the bag of chips, crinkling the plastic softly. “I used to think that maybe, if I became successful, it would make up for it somehow. Like it would make him understand why I left. But I don’t know anymore.”
The words hung heavy in the air, the kind that could only come out when the rest of the world was asleep.
Wonyoung reached out and brushed a crumb from Yujin’s sleeve, a small, calm gesture. “You’ll see him again someday,” she said softly. “And when you do, you’ll know what to say then.”
Yujin looked up at her, the faintest glint of longing in her eyes. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Wonyoung replied, with a certainty that Yujin couldn’t bring herself to believe. “People who leave pieces of themselves behind always find their way back to them.”
Yujin didn’t answer, but that night, after Wonyoung climbed back to her bunk and the city’s lights dimmed into quiet, she lay awake again—listening to the faint hum of Seoul beyond the glass, wondering if the sea in Gyeokpo-ri sounded the same without her.
And somewhere, beneath the ache of distance and the years that would follow, a promise she never made lingered in the dark.
She’d see him again one day.
-
Now that she did, she didn’t know what was supposed to happen next.
Yujin pressed the cold water to her face as the sound of running water filled the small bathroom. The mirror fogged faintly from the humidity, her reflection bending and blurring before her. Droplets ran down her cheeks and jaw, tracing small paths that looked almost like tears.
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the edge of the sink. Her own eyes looked unfamiliar, older, sharper, but somehow more uncertain than ever. She used to think time would give her clarity, that the years would dull the edges of everything she left behind. But standing here now, the confusion had returned, raw and immediate.
She turned off the tap. The sudden quiet made her aware of her heartbeat, steady but heavy in her chest. She reached for the towel hanging from the hook and dabbed gently at her skin, careful and unhurried, as if stalling for time.
Her mind drifted back to the beach, to Seowon’s bright laughter and (YN)’s quiet voice cutting through the sound of the waves. The way he’d looked at her, steady, unreadable, like he was trying to understand if she was really there this time, or if she’d vanish again before the tide could settle.
Yujin exhaled through her nose and set the towel aside.
Maybe she shouldn’t have come back. Maybe the version of her that once fit in this town was gone for good, lost somewhere between studio lights and sleepless nights. Yet seeing him again, hearing his voice, it had pulled something old and tender from the part of her she’d tried so hard to bury.
The bathroom door creaked open slightly, and Wonyoung’s voice drifted in, half-teasing, half-soft:
“Unnie, you’ve been in there forever. You okay?”
Yujin blinked, catching her reflection’s faint smile. “Yeah,” she said, straightening up. “Just… thinking.”
“Don’t think too long,” Wonyoung replied. “It could get you killed.”
She scoffed with a shake of her head as she pulled the door open and walked out. Her steps led her through the home, the faint voices of the other girls coming from the room they shared.
Eventually, she led herself to the front yard.
The air outside was cool, carrying the faint scent of salt and damp earth. Morning had only just begun to deepen, the sky still pale with traces of dawn, the ocean a muted shimmer beyond the distant roofs.
Yujin stood on the porch, arms folding loosely over her chest. The boards creaked beneath her bare feet, the same way they used to when she’d sneak out as a teenager to watch the fishing boats leave the harbor. The sound felt achingly familiar, like the echo of a life she’d pressed pause on years ago.
She then took more steps into the front yard, closing the distance to the fence.
Her head tilted slightly to the side, listening as her eyes closed. Somewhere down the road, a radio played faintly from a neighbor’s open window. The melody was old, one of those songs that everyone in town seemed to know by heart.
Then she heard it getting louder with every second, a pair of footsteps. Her eyes fluttered open and found him walking down the pavement.
(YN).
His head looked down and his eyes were glued to the concrete, not glancing up to see her while his hands were in the pockets of the coat he seemingly always had.
Yujin immediately looked away and turned back to the home. She took a few steps yet she felt him stop right in front of the fence.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet stretched between the fence like a thread pulled too tight.
Yujin could hear the faint creak of his shoes against the gravel, the sound of the sea rolling somewhere behind the houses. Her pulse picked up despite herself.
She didn’t turn around right away. Her fingers brushed against the hem of her shirt, fidgeting, as if steadying herself for something she’d rehearsed a hundred times and still couldn’t get right.
“…You’re up early,” his voice finally came, low and even.
It startled her how little it had changed. Maybe a little rougher now, a little more calm—but still unmistakably his.
She turned slightly, enough to see him from over her shoulder. His hair was tousled by the sea breeze, his coat zipped halfway. There was a faint trace of fatigue under his eyes, though it softened when he noticed her staring.
“I could say the same for you,” She managed, her tone trying for lightness but coming out thinner than she meant.
He gave a faint nod, one corner of his mouth twitching in something almost like a smile. “Old habits,” he said. “Seowon likes to go to school early.”
Yujin’s lips parted, but she couldn’t find an answer right away. Seowon. Hearing the name spoken out loud again brought a tug to her chest. She remembered the little girl’s laugh, her tiny hand clinging to his sleeve the last time she saw them both.
The silence lingered between them, spilling in the cracks of what they once were.
“You going somewhere?” Yujin asked softly.
“Yeah,” He said after a pause. “Mrs.Baek asked me to help rearrange things in their home.”
“Oh…I see.” Yujin nodded her head and looked away.
Then,
“You wanna tag along?” He asked, the question coming as unexpected as anything that had been happening in her life.
For a moment, Yujin wondered if she’d heard him wrong.
Her head lifted slightly, eyes meeting his. He wasn’t smiling—he rarely did—but there was a faint flicker in his gaze, something that wasn’t quite indifference. A quiet invitation, maybe. Or habit. Or both.
She blinked. “Tag along?”
He shrugged one shoulder, glancing down the road. “It’s not far. And Mrs. Baek always makes too much breakfast. She’ll probably insist on feeding you anyway.”
That earned a small, surprised laugh from her. “She still does that?”
“She hasn’t changed much,” he said. “Still tries to send everyone home with leftovers.”
Yujin hesitated, her fingers curling against the fence. She could already picture it—the walk past the harbor, the smell of the morning sea, the chatter of neighbors who hadn’t seen her in years. It felt both comforting and dangerous. Like stepping too close to something she wasn’t sure she could face yet.
“I don’t know,” she murmured, almost to herself. “It’s been a while. People might—”
“Talk?” he finished for her.
She nodded, looking down.
He hummed softly, the sound low in his throat. “They probably will,” he admitted. “They always do.”
When she looked up again, his expression was calm, steady in that way that used to ground her. “But if you want to come, come. If not, that’s fine too.”
It was such a simple thing to say, but it hit her harder than she expected—the quiet acceptance in it, the absence of guilt or pressure.
Yujin’s lips parted, and for a second, the years between them seemed to shrink. She remembered the boy who used to wait for her after school, who’d carry her backpack when she fell asleep on the bus home after a school trip. The one who used to make things simple when everything else wasn’t.
“…Okay,” she said at last, her voice small but certain. “Let me just grab a couple of things and I’ll be right out.”
A slow nod. “Alright.”
Yujin walked back into the home, the metal sheeted door squeaking right behind her. She threw the towel onto the couch, before gathering her things, a phone, a facemask and cap that held her identity under its brim.
“Going somewhere this early?” She turned to the grisly voice of her father sitting in the kitchen.
Her father sat at the small table by the window, a cup of coffee steaming between his hands. The morning light cut across his face, tracing the deep lines at the corners of his eyes, lines that hadn’t been there when she left. His fishing jacket hung over the chair beside him, salt-stained and worn from years of use.
Yujin hesitated in the doorway, the cap half-lowered in her hands. “Yeah,” she said after a beat. “Just for a bit. (YN)’s heading over to help one of the locals. I thought I’d go too.”
Her father’s brow lifted slightly at the mention of the name. “Just like old times, eh?”
She nodded. “Mhm.”
“Alright, make sure to be careful and maybe ask him to stop by once you two are done. Wanna ask him myself if he wants to go on one of those fishing trips.” He grumbled before taking another sip.
“I’ll make sure to ask, and tell the girls that I’m just outside, don’t wanna make them worry.” Yujin said, watching her father nod his head.
“No problem.”
She smiled before moving across the living room again and walking out of the home. To her surprise, he was leaning against the fence as he tapped his foot on the concrete under him.
When he saw her step out, his head lifted just slightly.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.” Yujin adjusted her cap, tugging it a little lower before slipping through the small gate. The hinges gave a tired creak, one that made him glance toward it briefly.
They fell into step beside each other without really meaning to. The air was crisp, touched with the faint brine of the sea, and the sound of gulls carried faintly from the harbor. The road curved gently downhill, leading toward the heart of the town that Yujin had once known by heart.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just heavy with things unspoken, like words waiting for the right place to settle.
It was (YN) who broke it first. “Your dad still up early as always?”
She gave a small laugh under her breath. “Yeah. Some things never change.”
“Still brewing that coffee that smells like burnt seaweed?”
She blinked, surprised by the memory, then laughed softly. “You remember that?”
He gave a faint shrug. “Hard to forget. Used to smell it halfway down the road when I came by.”
The memory pulled a faint smile from her lips—one that she tried to hide, though she felt his gaze flicker toward her for a brief moment.
They passed by the narrow alley that led to the docks, the same one where they used to race bikes as kids. Yujin slowed down without meaning to, her gaze tracing the chipped paint on the old sign that still read Haeseong Fisheries. The letters had faded, but the memory hadn’t.
“They’re still open?” She whispered, absentmindedly.
“It’s surprising when they take losses every time the monsoon season rolls around but they still manage to pull through somehow.” (YN) replied behind her.
Yujin looked through the windows or at least tried to when she was met with curtains and her reflection. Her eyes turned to his reflection and found him already looking back at her.
Their eyes met in the glass—her reflection layered over his, faint and imperfect, like two ghosts caught between what was and what could have been.
Yujin was the first to look away. The movement was small, almost instinctive, but it broke whatever quiet spell had been holding them there. She took a breath and stepped back onto the road beside him.
“They used to sell fishcakes to people passing by,” she said after a moment, her tone lighter, almost wistful. “I used to pretend to forget my wallet just so they’d hand me one for free.”
(YN)’s mouth curved faintly. “You didn’t forget. You just liked free food.”
She shot him a sidelong glance. “You sound so sure.”
“I was always the one paying when you ate too much,” he said simply.
The response made her pause, not because it was teasing, but because of how casually he said it. Like the past wasn’t something fragile. Like he could hold it without flinching.
They kept walking. The road opened wider, the sea now visible beyond the line of rooftops. Boats swayed in the distance, their hulls creaking against the water. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, someone called out a good morning.
It all felt too familiar.
Yujin slowed again when they reached the small slope that led down to Mrs. Baek’s house. The wind shifted, carrying with it the smell of dried seaweed and the faint clang of wind chimes—those same ones she remembered, still dangling by the porch.
“She still lives here?” Yujin asked quietly.
“Yeah,” he said. “She refuses to move. Says the house keeps her young.”
Yujin smiled faintly. “That sounds like her.”
When they reached the gate, (YN) stepped ahead and held it open for her. The gesture was simple, automatic, but she felt something tug inside her chest as she passed through—like a memory brushing against the edge of the present.
The door opened before they could knock.
“Ah, there you are!” Mrs. Baek’s voice rang out, bright and warm, cutting through the morning chill. She stood framed in the doorway, apron dusted with flour, gray streaks in her hair glinting in the light. “And you—goodness, is that really An Yujin?”
Yujin froze mid-step. “It’s… been a while, Mrs. Baek.”
The older woman beamed, stepping forward without hesitation. “A while? Try years! Look at you—you’re all grown up! I saw you on TV once, you know. I almost dropped my mixing bowl!”
Yujin laughed, a little embarrassed. “You did?”
“I did! And I told everyone, ‘That girl used to eat all my food!’”
Behind her, (YN) stifled a small laugh, earning a brief glare from Yujin.
Mrs. Baek, still smiling, turned to him. “And you—don’t just stand there. Come in, both of you. The kettle’s already boiling.”
“Yes, ma’am,” (YN) said with the same soft respect he always had, following her inside.
As Yujin stepped over the threshold, the smell of fresh dough and dried herbs filled the air, so familiar it almost hurt. She looked around, at the same mismatched curtains, the same faded photos on the wall. Nothing had changed, not really.
Boxes were sprawled out on the living room when they walked in. Through the gaps and spaces left open by the flaps, they saw clothes and other things that used to take up space inside the home.
Yujin crouched near one of the boxes, tracing the edge of the cardboard with her finger. Inside were old photo frames, yellowed notebooks, a chipped teacup wrapped in paper—objects that looked too fragile to belong anywhere else but here.
“Helping your son move again, Mrs. Baek?” (YN) asked, setting down the folded tarp he’d brought with him.
“Oh, heavens no,” she sighed, waving a hand as she bustled back toward the kitchen. “Just clearing space. You’d think after forty years in this house I’d have learned to stop keeping things ‘just in case.’ But every time I try to throw something out, it looks back at me like it’s judging me.”
Yujin smiled faintly, brushing a layer of dust from a photo frame. It held a picture of Mrs. Baek’s late husband, standing proudly beside a boat. She remembered him, the old fisherman who used to give her caramel candies when she passed by after school.
“He’d scold me if he saw the mess I’ve made,” Mrs. Baek said from the kitchen doorway, following her gaze. “Said the house should always be ready for guests, even if no one’s coming.”
“That sounds like him,” (YN) murmured, his hands already busy sorting books into piles.
Yujin straightened up, her eyes following the morning light streaming through the window. Dust motes swirled in the air, catching in the glow like slow-moving snow. The sound of a kettle whistling broke the stillness, followed by the clatter of cups and the soft hum of Mrs. Baek’s old radio.
“Yujin, dear,” the older woman called, “why don’t you take those old records from under the table? My back can’t handle bending anymore.”
“Of course,” Yujin replied, crouching again. Her fingers brushed against the familiar sleeves of vinyl records, classic trot songs, folk music, the same ones she’d listened to as a kid when she came here to play. She pulled one out, running her thumb along the edge.
“I forgot about this.” She smiled to herself, inspecting the vinyl like it was a lost artifact now found.
(YN) turned his head at her, seeing the sight of her smile and the dips of her cheeks, a sight he’d almost forgotten himself.
He almost lost himself before he took a step back. When he told himself to start talking to her again just to try and siphon out any information for his report, he knew the risks he’d come across and one of them was the feelings he’d long buried with disdain and sour memories.
He busied his hands with the nearest stack of papers, pretending to read the faded labels on old notebooks. But no matter how he tried to focus, the sound of her quiet laughter—the same soft, unguarded kind she used to make when the wind blew her hat off at the docks—seeped into his thoughts.
She was still her, somehow. Older, sharper, but when she smiled like that, it was as if the years hadn’t passed at all.
“You alright?” she asked suddenly, glancing over her shoulder.
(YN) blinked, caught off guard. He forced a small nod, lifting the edge of a box as if to prove his distraction had a purpose. “Yeah. Just—these are heavier than I thought.”
Her brows lifted slightly, the faintest trace of amusement in her eyes. “That’s just because Mrs. Baek keeps everything. Even old fishing receipts.”
“I heard that!” Mrs. Baek called from the kitchen, the sound of clinking cups following her words.
Yujin laughed again, and (YN) felt something shift in his chest, an old ache, familiar yet unwelcome.
He had told himself he’d moved on from her, from all the things she represented, the girl who left when he needed her most, the silence that followed, the years of learning how to live without expecting anyone to stay. But now, with her standing there in the golden morning light, hair pulled loosely under a cap, fingertips brushing over a vinyl record like it was something sacred, he felt the ground beneath all those years of indifference start to crack.
He set the box down a little too quickly, dust puffing out in a soft cloud.
Yujin tilted her head, her tone gentler this time. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” he said again, quieter now. “Just… thinking.”
She hummed softly, not pressing further. “Careful,” she said after a pause, a faint echo of teasing in her voice. “That could get you killed.”
He glanced up, and for a fleeting second, their eyes met. Her smile was the same one she used to give him after saying something clever, waiting to see if he’d catch the joke.
And despite himself, he did. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Guess some things never change,” He murmured.
“Some things,” She said softly, looking down at the record again, “and some people.”
The radio in the background crackled before an old song began to play, one of those slow, nostalgic ballads that used to drift through the harbor at dusk.
Neither of them moved.
It wasn’t until Mrs. Baek returned with two cups of tea that the moment broke, her voice bright and unbothered. “You two look like you just saw a ghost. Drink before it gets cold and while I get the food ready.”
Yujin let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, and (YN) took the cup she offered him, fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment.
It was nothing yet he still turned away like it was.
When the sound of pots and pans rang out from the kitchen, (YN) placed his cup down and immediately stood.
“I’ll help!” He walked into the kitchen, leaving Yujin behind on her own.
Yujin stayed where she was, the record still in her hands, though she’d stopped pretending to study the label. The quiet of the room settled around her like dust—soft, unintrusive, but heavy in the way silence could be when someone just left it behind.
She could hear him in the kitchen, his voice low, steady, offering to chop something, maybe rinse the vegetables.
Mrs. Baek laughed, telling him not to “mess up her rhythm.” It was strange, hearing him fit so easily back into this house—as if the years hadn’t taken him anywhere at all.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the record sleeve. She didn’t know what she had expected, coming here. Maybe a version of him that would make it easier—colder, sharper, a little more unreachable. But instead, she’d found this: the same quiet steadiness, the same way he’d always filled a space without trying.
A chair scraped softly behind her. When she turned, Mrs. Baek was standing in the doorway again, drying her hands on her apron.
“Still looking through those old things?” the older woman asked, her voice kind.
Yujin smiled faintly. “Just… remembering, I guess.”
Mrs. Baek’s eyes softened. “You used to spend half your afternoons here, didn’t you? Always chasing that boy down by the dock or making him carry your bag.”
Yujin laughed under her breath. “I didn’t make him.”
Mrs. Baek raised a knowing brow. “No, I suppose he just followed you around because he liked getting scolded.”
Yujin looked down at the record again, her cheeks warming despite herself. “He was just… nice.”
“Nice,” Mrs. Baek repeated, with the kind of tone that meant she knew better.
Yujin didn’t answer. She only traced the edge of the vinyl sleeve, her thumb catching on the worn paper. From the kitchen came another laugh, this time, low and familiar, and something inside her twisted.
Her tea had gone lukewarm by the time she set the cup down again. Her eyes drifted to the window, where the light flickered gently through the curtains—soft and golden.
And then she was back there.
The smell of salt and seaweed filled the air, the waves soft against the rocks. She remembered her younger self standing by the docks, shoes half-soaked from chasing after something she’d dropped, probably her notebook. He had been there too, a few meters away, trying to untangle a fishing line that had caught on one of the posts.
“Don’t pull it like that,” she had said, jogging over. “You’re making it worse.”
He didn’t look up. “I know what I’m doing.”
She remembered scoffing, because he obviously didn’t. The line was a mess—loops over loops, the hook nearly bent out of shape. Without thinking, she crouched beside him, fingers working through the knots. He watched her quietly for a while, the wind tousling his hair.
“You could say thank you, you know,” she muttered, not looking up.
“I didn’t ask for help.”
“Yeah, but you needed it.”
That earned her a small, reluctant huff of laughter. And when she did look up—ready to tease him again—she caught the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth. The late afternoon light hit him just right, turning the brown in his eyes warm. Something in her chest had stuttered then, so quickly she’d brushed it off as the cold.
He took the fishing rod back once the line was free, testing it once before setting it aside. “You’re better at this than I thought.”
She frowned. “At what? Untangling your mistakes?”
“Helping.”
The word lingered longer than she expected. It wasn’t the kind of thing he said often, he was never good at giving compliments, never needed to. But that one—quiet, simple—had stayed with her longer than she cared to admit.
The flash of that memory faded as the present crept back in the smell of stew, the sound of clinking spoons, the faint hum of an old song from the radio.
In the kitchen, he was still there, sleeves rolled up, talking to Mrs. Baek like nothing had ever broken between them.
And maybe that was the hardest part, how easy it was for him to stand there again, as if the years had meant nothing at all.
Yujin looked down at the vinyl on the table, her reflection faint on its glossy surface.
She didn’t realize until then that the song playing on the radio was the same one that had drifted across the docks that day.
-
They stuck around to help arrange things, albeit in different parts of the home.
Yujin found herself by the window, sorting through a box of old linens Mrs. Baek had insisted were still perfectly usable. The fabric smelled faintly of detergent and time, folded and refolded with care. Every so often, she’d hear the scrape of a chair or the soft thud of something being set down from the kitchen, a reminder that he was still there. Just not close enough to see.
It was probably for the best.
Still, her thoughts betrayed her.
Another memory slipped in uninvited.
She was sixteen then, sitting on the seawall with her legs dangling above the water, shoes kicked off beside her. She’d been sulking about something trivial, a bad grade or a stupid argument with her mother. He’d shown up without a word, holding two paper cups of fish cake soup from the stall near the harbor.
“You didn’t bring me one?” she’d complained, even as he handed it to her.
“You’re already complaining,” he’d said. “Figured you were hungry.”
She’d rolled her eyes but taken it anyway, fingers brushing his. The soup had been too hot, burning her tongue, and she remembered him watching her carefully, wordlessly reaching over to take the cup back.
“Slow down,” he’d muttered. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Rush.”
He’d blown on the surface of the soup before giving it back. She’d stared at him then, startled by the quiet intimacy of it, by how natural it seemed for him to take care of her without making a show of it. She never said thank you. She didn’t need to. He never asked for it.
The sound of a drawer closing snapped her back.
She folded the last towel and placed it neatly on the pile, pressing her palms down as if to anchor herself. Across the room, through the narrow hallway, she caught a glimpse of his back as he passed by, carrying a box toward the storage room. He didn’t look her way.
Good.
A rainy evening. The pier was slick and empty. Her bike chain had snapped halfway home, and she’d stood there blinking back frustrated tears, rain soaking into her sleeves. He’d found her like that, hair plastered to her face, hands red from trying to fix something she didn’t understand.
Without saying a word, he’d crouched down, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over her shoulders first. Only then had he turned his attention to the bike.
“You’ll get sick,” she’d protested weakly.
“So will you,” he’d replied, already working.
She remembered watching his hands, steady and sure despite the rain, the way he’d knelt there until his jeans were soaked through. When he’d finally stood, chain fixed, he’d pushed the bike toward her like it was nothing.
“Next time,” he’d said, “call me first.”
She hadn’t asked why. She hadn’t needed to.
Back in the present, Yujin exhaled slowly and picked up another empty box, carrying it toward the corner. As she turned, she almost tumbled over a stool.
She almost caught herself.
Almost.
As she lost her balance, an arm wrapped itself around her waist.
It was firm, reflexive.
Too quick to think to deem unintentional.
Yujin stiffened instantly.
He did too.
For half a second, neither of them moved. His hand rested at her side, fingers spread like he wasn’t sure where to put them, like he’d already realized he shouldn’t have touched her at all. She could feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of her shirt, the steady weight of him behind her, close enough that she caught the faint scent of soap and salt clinging to his clothes.
Then he let go.
Too fast.
“Sorry,” he said at the same time she said, “I’m fine.”
They stepped away from each other in opposite directions, the space between them snapping back into place like a stretched band released.
“I wasn’t looking,” she added, unnecessarily, brushing her hands down her sides as if to erase the moment.
“There was a stool,” he replied, equally pointless. “You almost—”
“I know.” She nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. “I know.”
Silence rushed in, thick and uncomfortable. From the kitchen came the steady sound of simmering stew, Mrs. Baek humming off-key to the radio, blissfully unaware of the small fracture that had just opened in the living room.
Yujin picked the stool up and shoved it under the table a little harder than needed. “They really do keep everything,” she said, aiming for light, landing somewhere flat.
“Yeah,” he answered. “They do.”
Another memory nudged at her, sharp and unwelcome.
She was seventeen, half-asleep on the late bus back from a school trip, her head tipping forward with every bump in the road. She’d woken to the warmth of a shoulder under her cheek, her body angled awkwardly but supported. Panic had flared for half a second before she realized it was him.
“You’re drooling,” he’d whispered without looking at her.
She’d shoved him away, mortified. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“You looked tired,” he’d said simply.
She remembered staring at him then, annoyed and strangely affected, the word tired echoing louder than it should have. No one else had noticed. Only him.
Back in the present, she folded her arms, suddenly unsure what to do with them.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll… help Mrs. Baek with the rest.”
“Okay,” she said too quickly.
He turned toward the kitchen, then hesitated, as if debating something. Whatever it was, he thought better of it and kept walking.
Yujin stayed where she was, heart beating too loud in her ears. She stared at the vinyl record still lying on the table, its surface catching a distorted reflection of her face. For a moment, she looked like her younger self again. Caught. Unprepared.
She hadn’t fallen for him all at once.
It had been moments like these.
The catching before the fall.
The warmth offered without asking.
The way he always stepped in, then stepped back, like he didn’t trust himself to stay.
And now, years later, he was still doing it.
Even when he shouldn’t.
He should’ve been keeping his distance from her.
Pretended she didn’t exist even when they saw each other.
Shouted curses at her for even coming back.
That was what she thought she deserved,
not this careful restraint,
not the quiet kindness that felt more dangerous than anger ever could.
It itched her, annoyingly so, spreading across her mind in a way a thought never could.
She wanted him to get angry, say anything so she could apologize with words and tears he deserved.
Anger would have been easier. Something she could meet head-on instead of this quiet, careful distance that left no clear place to stand.
Yujin pressed her lips together and looked toward the kitchen doorway. She could hear him moving around in there, the soft scrape of a chair, the clink of a ladle against a pot. Ordinary sounds. As if nothing between them was frayed or unresolved.
That, somehow, made it worse.
She picked up the vinyl again, turning it over in her hands without really seeing it. Her fingers traced the edge absentmindedly, focusing herself in the texture. In the weight of anything solid.
Memories played tricks on her, making it feel as if she lived in a reality where nothing had happened. Where time had folded neatly instead of tearing, where leaving hadn’t been an act with consequences.
She set the vinyl down again, slower this time, aligning it carefully with the edge of the table. Too carefully. The kind of care you use when you’re afraid anything sudden might crack something open.
Her chest tightened.
She moved to the window, resting her fingertips against the glass. Outside, the morning had completely arrived. A delivery scooter passed, tires whispering against the pavement. Somewhere down the block, a gate slid open and shut.
Life, proceeding.
Without waiting for anybody.
-
“Thanks for helping you two!”
Mrs. Baek stood on the porch, apron still tied crooked at her waist, waving like she was sending them off on a much longer journey than the walk down the street. Her smile was bright, untroubled, the kind that assumed things would naturally fall into place because they always had before.
Yujin lifted a hand in return. “Of course. Take care!”
(YN) nodded beside her. “We will. Call if you need anything.”
“I always do,” Mrs. Baek said cheerfully, already turning back inside.
The gate clicked shut behind them.
They stood there for a second too long, the narrow street stretching out ahead of them, damp from earlier rain. The air smelled clean, tinged with salt from the harbor. Somewhere, a radio played faintly through an open window, the tune distorted by distance.
“So,” Yujin said, because silence had started to press against her ears.
“So,” he echoed, hands slipping into his pockets.
Another pause. Not heavy enough to be dramatic. Just… there. Like a chair left slightly out of place that no one wanted to move.
“I can walk with you,” he offered, then immediately added, “If you want. I mean, if you’re headed that way.”
“I am,” she said. Too quickly again. She forced herself to slow down. “Yeah. That’d be fine.”
They started walking side by side, careful not to brush against each other. The space between them was measured, deliberate, as if they were both aware of it and pretending they weren’t.
Puddles reflected the sky in broken pieces. Yujin watched her steps, avoiding them more out of something to do than necessity.
The silence stretched again, settling into their steps.
He slowed when she slowed. She noticed it without looking, the subtle adjustment, like he was matching her pace without meaning to. Or maybe with too much meaning.
“You don’t have to—” she started, then stopped.
He glanced over. “Don’t have to what?”
“Walk slower,” she said. “I’m not… tired.”
The word hung there between them, traitorous.
He nodded once. “Right.”
He didn’t speed up.
They passed a stretch of houses with low fences and peeling paint, the kind people fixed in pieces when they had the money and the time. Someone had left laundry out overnight, damp shirts fluttered weakly in the breeze. Yujin focused on them, on anything that wasn’t the awareness of him beside her.
A puddle blocked part of the sidewalk ahead. Without thinking, he stepped closer to the curb, giving her room.
She noticed anyway.
“Thanks,” she said, even though it wasn’t necessary.
“Mhm.”
Their shoulders almost brushed. Almost. The nearness sparked and then fizzled, leaving behind something faintly embarrassing, like reacting too strongly to a joke no one else heard.
“So,” he said again, clearly grasping for something neutral. “You’re… settling back in okay?”
“I think so,” she replied. “It’s quieter than I remember.”
He let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh. “It was always quiet.”
“No,” she said before she could stop herself. “It wasn’t. Not for me.”
He looked at her then, brows knitting slightly, like he wanted to ask what she meant and knew better than to do it here. On this street. In daylight.
“Right,” he said instead.
They walked a few more steps.
“You still—” he began, then cut himself off. “Never mind.”
Her fingers twitched at her side. “What?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
It mattered. She could tell by the way his jaw set, by how his shoulders went rigid, like he’d braced for impact and then decided against it.
“Okay,” she said, too evenly.
They reached the familiar fence of her home further down the street, the familiar scent of its wood filling the space in between them. She slowed despite herself.
“This is me,” she said, gesturing to the door.
He stopped with her. “Yeah.”
The pause returned, thicker now.
“Well,” she added, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. “Thanks. For earlier.”
He frowned slightly. “You already said that.”
“I know.” She swallowed. “I just… wanted to say it again.”
He studied her face like he was searching for something she wasn’t sure she was ready to give.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
She nodded, then turned before she could overthink it. After a few steps, she felt it, that unmistakable sensation of being watched.
She didn’t look back.
Behind her, he stayed where he was, hands still in his pockets, eyes following her retreating figure until she reached the front door.
Only then did he move, heading in the opposite direction, the space between them left carefully untouched.
༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝
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