Ramen

It always started the same way.

You’d be minding your business on campus—probably walking half-awake to your 9 a.m. lecture with a half-burnt toast in your mouth and hoodie strings dragging in the wind when the buzz would start. Students whispering, heads turning. Phones subtly angled. And that’s when you knew: she was coming.

Ahyeon. The campus “IT girl.”

Not the mean kind, of course—Ahyeon wasn’t nasty. To be honest, she didn’t need to be. She was just effortlessly cool. The kind of cool that didn’t try. The kind that people envied but couldn’t hate because she never gave them a reason to. Even professors double-checked their ties when she walked in (it’s most likely a coincidence but it’s more fun for you.)

That morning, like clockwork, she strolled through the quad in a charcoal trench coat (yes, a trench coat, like those French detectives on TV), black boots clicking against the pavement, phone in one hand and a toast in the other.

Her hair fell in soft waves, stylish and untouched. Her headphones rested on her neck, the subtle glint of gold jewellery catching the sunlight And of course, her expression? Unbothered. As if the world was just a particularly well-lit backdrop for her main character vibe.

She didn’t talk much on campus. Barely even blinked. Gave polite nods, the occasional faint smile. You once saw her refuse a date by simply raising a brow, and the guy just… walked away. No words exchanged. (Power move, for real)

To everyone else, she was mystery wrapped in elegance with a side of “don’t even try.” To you? She seemed like that untouchable girl you mentally filed into the “we live in different worlds” category.

Which is why your soul left your body when you walked into your new dorm room, fresh off an overdue move-in, and saw a suitcase sitting on the other bed. A designer suitcase, with a luggage tag so fancy you were scared to touch it.

You leaned in, squinting. “AHYEON”

You stared at the name. Then stared at the door. Then back at the name.

Nah, fuck nah. There had to be another Ahyeon. A different one. Or it’s meant to say Ayeon. Or Mayeon. A less intimidating, non-famous version, hopefully. Someone with a hobby in pottery or fungi. Not the one who made heads turn every day like no big deal.

You sat there frozen for a solid ten minutes, just replaying every time you’d passed her on campus while looking like a rejected movie extra. Your socks didn’t even match today. You couldn’t handle this.

Then came the door click.

You turned your head just in time to see her walk in—hair tied up in a lazy bun this time, oversized framed glass covering half her face, and… holding three giant bags of ramen packets?

“…You’re the roommate?” she asked, blinking.

“Uh…hi?”

“Yo. Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Unless you touch my packets.”

You gawked. The campus queen bee, ruler of effortless grace, breaker of hearts and silence alike…just threatened you over ramen?

And then, without another word, she plopped down cross-legged on the floor, fished a bag of shrimp crackers from her tote, and started munching like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“I call the right side of the room, by the way,” she said with a mouth full of chips. “The lighting’s better for skincare.”

You were still standing there, trying to reboot your brain like a frozen laptop. "Uh…yeah. Make yourself home-I mean it’s your home bu- ugh you know what I mean…?”

What. Just. Happened?

-

Yeah, you still couldn’t wrap your head around it after a few weeks.

Every time you walked back into your shared dorm room, it was like stepping through a portal. One second, you’d be on campus watching Ahyeon glide through the quad with her designer bag slung over her shoulder like another fashion show. Next, you’d be in the dorm, watching that same girl trying to microwave three-day-old rice while wearing a hoodie so big it practically dragged on the floor.

It was bizarre. Fascinating. Terrifying. You weren’t sure which version was the disguise anymore. It definitely would make any sane person go nuts.

On campus, Ahyeon was all poise and polish. Spine straight, tone clipped, giving out head nods like royalty. She’d barely glance at people who greeted her. You once saw her shut down a classmate’s flirting attempt with a single look. No words. Just a raised eyebrow and an “I’m so above this” expression that could’ve ended dynasties.

But back at the dorm?

“Ya, where’s my ramen pot. The one with the tiny scratches on the bottom, not that ugly shiny one, have you seen it?!”

You looked up from your laptop, eyebrows slowly rising. “You have a favourite ramen pot?”

“Don’t judge me, it hits different,” she muttered, already rifling through the cabinet like a raccoon in distress.

You said nothing. You were still mentally buffering from seeing her thirty minutes earlier in lecture, where she’d answered a professor’s question with the kind of smooth, articulate delivery that made people blink twice. Yeah, you were still trying to process why you saw her walk past the philosophy building like she was starring in her own perfume ad, only for her to come home and slap down a jumbo ramen packet like it owed her money.

…Let’s just not say anything. Not out loud, at least. You weren’t suicidal. You just sat there, quietly perplexed, sipping your water while Ahyeon victoriously yanked her precious ramen pot from under a stack of mismatched pans. “Found you, Bobby.”

She patted it. Patted it.

“You name your pot Bobby?”

“I name things that bring me joy,” she replied smoothly, already tearing into the ramen packet with intense focus. “You should feel glad I still remember your name.”

You opened your mouth to respond but she didn’t give you the chance.

Instead, she plopped down onto the floor like it was instinct, ramen boiling away in the corner. Then she turned her head with that look—one you’d learned to recognize. “Game time.”

“Huh?” “Mario Kart. You’re player two. I’m not letting you escape again.”

“I have assignment—” Before you could protest, she grabbed your wrist and physically dragged you down next to her like a lazy cat staking claim on a sunny spot. Your body hit the rug with a soft thud as she shoved a controller into your hand and “tossed” over a bowl of freshly made ramen (she didn’t actually toss it, thankfully).

“You didn’t even ask if I wanted to —”

“You’re eating my food. That’s consent.”

“That’s not how consent works. Plus you just shove me the bowl.”

She just grinned at you, clicking through the menus. “You talk too much for someone who always comes in last place.”

“Oh, excuse me?!” “Shhh. Choose your character. And if you pick Toad again, I’m destroying your controller.”

You sighed, defeated, but your lips twitched despite yourself.

And it became smooth sailing from now on. Sharing ramen with the off-duty queen bee while getting thrashed in Mario Kart. Not that you’d ever say it out loud, but… it wasn’t so bad. Still confusing as hell. But not so bad. Eventually, you just… got used to it.

The duality. The whiplash. The fact that Ahyeon basically lived two lives like some ramen-slurping, Mario Kart-playing Hannah Montana. (Live the best of both world~)

Anyway, you simply just adapted.

It started small. Like how you stopped getting flustered when she flopped onto your bed uninvited and scrolled through your texts like she paid rent. Or how you casually shoved her laundry basket toward her with your foot when it blocked the door. No dumb excuses whenever you disturb her, no tiptoeing around her moods.

She noticed. (She’s sharp, after all)

“You’re getting real comfortable, huh?” she said one night, lying upside down on her bed with her feet propped against the wall.

You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “I mean…It’s my room you’re randomly laying on.”

“Ooh, feisty.” “Just fair.”

She let out a soft snort. “You didn’t use to be like this.”

“You didn’t scream at your Switch when you lost in Tetris.”

“Hey, rude,” she huffed, flipping over and hugging her pillow. “But seriously… most people just treat me like… I don’t know. A statue with eyeliner.”

“Nice statue,” you offered without batting an eye.

She narrowed her eyes on you. You just chuckled.

“…But yeah. Guess I stopped treating you like a campus icon once I realized you drool in your sleep.”

“YOU SAW THAT?” “I have eyes, Jung Ahyeon.”

She threw the pillow at your face, screaming, “DELETE THAT FROM YOUR MEMORY!”

You caught it midair, laughing, and tossed it back. “Nah, too late. I’m printing it on a mug.”

Yeah, pretty much that.

She was still Ahyeon, sure. But because you got used to that version of her, you stopped treating her like an important figure on campus.

What surprised you most wasn’t how easy it became to live with her. It was how natural it felt to stop pretending she was something unattainable. Like, yeah, she was still objectively cool and kind of intimidating when she wanted to be—but you had seen her (dramatically) cry over a dropped dumpling. You had witnessed her scream when she accidentally clicked on a jumpscare video while trying to find a ramen recipe.

You eventually got more relaxed and bold around her as well.

You’d tease her when her eyeliner was slightly crooked. You’d steal the good snacks (sometimes packets of ramen) from her drawer. You once made her sit through a documentary about frogs just because you had the remote and wanted to see how long it’d take for her to lose it.

(Answer: 12 minutes. “WHY ARE THEY PEELING THEIR OWN SKIN OFF—TURN IT OFF.”)

Every time you didn’t flinch at her glam, or didn’t praise her for just existing like some worshippers, you’d catch her looking at you out of the corner of her eye. Just… a little curious. Like she couldn’t decide if she liked being treated normal or really liked it.

You never asked.

But the next time she made ramen, she poured you a bowl before you even sat down. Didn’t say anything. Just nudged it toward you and picked up the controller.

“Pick Toad again and I will break your thumbs.”

“You’re not strong enough.” “Try me.”

And just like that, you grinned, sat down beside her, and picked Toad as usual.

It felt good to be normal with her. Even if she still wore lip gloss to class and snored like a chainsaw at night.

-

You came home one afternoon carrying what could only be described as a small mountain of pastel-coloured envelopes and glittery cardstock. The entire bundle was threatening to explode from your arms like a confetti cannon if you so much as sneezed.

You kicked the dorm door open with your foot and groaned.

“Ahyeon-ah. You’ve got mail.”

“Is it bills?” “Worse. Your fan club.”

That got her attention. She peeked over the edge of her hoodie like a sleepy meerkat, her hair shoved into a lopsided bun held together by what looked like a single pen. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” you said, dropping the pile onto her desk with a dramatic thud. “And some of them smell like perfume. I think one might be…spritzed with…Chanel? Or whatever this is.”

Ahyeon let out a strangled laugh and rolled onto her back, covering her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Why do people still send letters? This isn’t a historical drama.”

You started sorting through them half-heartedly. “Let’s see… ‘To our dearest muse Ahyeon,’ blah blah blah, ‘Your eyes shine brighter than the morning dew,’—okay, yeah, this one’s definitely from the theatre major guy with the poetry blog.”

“Please burn it.” “And here’s one with a party invite. Ooh, fancy. Hotel rooftop, live DJ, open bar, black only. Sounds expensive.”

She sat up slowly like a ghost rising from the dead. “Do they seriously expect me to show up at a rooftop party like I’m a chaebol’s daughter?”

“You kind of look like one.”

Ahyeon squinted at you, unamused. “Wow. Nice compliment, dude.”

You shrugged, then casually tossed a glittery invite onto her lap. “It’s still rude not to go to any of these. You keep ignoring them.”

“I AM ignoring them,” she said, already pulling her blanket back over her head like she was done with the conversation.

But you weren’t.

You folded your arms and leaned against her desk, giving her the patented “I’m annoyed but trying to be reasonable” stare. “I’m not saying go to all of them. I’m just saying maybe show up to one. For like, an hour. Eat a snack. Wave. You don’t have to even speak.”

From under the blanket came a dramatic sigh as she peeked at you. “Ughhh. Do I have to?”

“No,” you said. “But if someone invites you to something with actual calligraphy and gold foil, maybe don’t ghost them like they’re spam mail. Just go to one. For the PR. Or karma. Or whatever reason gets you off this beanbag for once.”

You expected more whining. Maybe another pillow to the face. But instead, there was silence. Then, slowly, the blanket peeled back.

“…Which one’s the least annoying?”

You blinked. “Wait, you’re actually considering it?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t look at you. “Well, you’re the only person who talks to me like I’m not some fashion icon sent from the heavens, so yeah. I’ll think about it.”

Pause.

“You know,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching, “you’re way too obedient for someone who ignores professors and deletes emails from event planners.”

“I don’t delete them,” she muttered, pretending to look through the invites. “I just… pretend they don’t exist.”

You nudged her with your foot. “You literally hid a letter under your bed last week.”

“That was an accident.” “That one had a wax seal. And you were gonna burn it until I told you not to.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Okay, now you’re being dramatic.”

You just laughed and plopped beside her, watching her shuffle through the stack of over-the-top invites like she was picking which new movie she wanted to commit to.

Eventually, she held one up — a simpler one. A quiet evening rooftop mixer hosted by the arts faculty. Less noise, fewer flashing lights. Free food. (Oh fuck yeah, free food.)

“…This one. But only if you come too.”

You blinked. “I—no, no, no. I said you should go.”

“You dragged me into this.”

“I nudged. Gently. With logic.”

Ahyeon squinted. “You literally made a moral argument about kindness and public image.”

“Yeah, but not for me. I’ll just be chilling, thanks.”

She stared for a long beat. “…Fine,” she sighed, retreating back to her blanket. “Don’t come then. See if I care.”

-

The door slammed open.

Not hard enough to shake the walls, but enough to announce a very specific kind of Ahyeon mood: dramatics, irritation, and maybe slight regret. You didn’t even flinch from your spot on the rug, legs stretched out, controller resting on your lap as the familiar "Game Over” music from the console played for the third time in a row.

“Hey,” you greeted lazily, not looking up. “How was the red carpet?”

“Don’t,” she snapped instantly, heels already off and tossed somewhere in the vicinity of the door. “Do not ask me how that went.”

You spooned another bite of ramen into your mouth, still unmoved. “So, amazing then?”

“Literally kill me.”

“Can’t. I’d have to do your laundry if you die.”

“Then let me suffer.”

She stomped past the couch, tugging her earrings off and mumbling curses in between. You didn’t even bother pausing the game as you heard her unzip her jacket and toss it onto her bed with what you imagined was Olympic-level flair.

“You’re back early,” you said between chews.

“They had a red velvet carpet,” she deadpanned, walking back into the room like she’d aged ten years. “RED. VELVET. Who the hell chooses red velvet for a party floor? My heels got caught in the fabric three times. I almost faceplanted into a cheese fountain.”

You turned your head at that. “Wait. Cheese fountain? Woah they’re going big.”

“Don’t get excited. It looked like someone melted a candle and gave up halfway through.”

“Oh.”

She flopped onto the floor beside you, clearly over it all based on how she quickly wiped her make up away and loosen up her hair. Just a girl whose soul had been partially devoured by small talk and camera flashes.

You casually nudged the ramen pot toward her with your knee. “Eat. You worked h-”

She didn’t even hesitate. Her hand grabbed the chopsticks from yours without asking and started eating like a starving child.

“Oh my God,” she moaned, “this is much better than therapy.”

“You’re welcome,” you said, leaning back against the couch. “I cooked it up like five minutes ago. Thought you’d come back either angry or starving.”

“Turns out it’s both.” She pointed the chopsticks at you mid-bite. “And you’re disgusting for eating while I was out suffering.”

“You’re disgusting for letting me eat your private stash,” you shot back. “What happened to ‘don’t touch my Shin Ramyun unless you have a death wish?’”

“Death sounded preferable the second some finance major started rapping at me.”

“…You’re lying.”

“I wish,” she grunted, mouth full of noodles. “He said his name was Chase but spelled it ‘Chayceu’ on the name tag. He freestyled. At me.”

Well shit be damned.

You put down the controller. “I take back everything I said. I’m sorry for not coming. You did not deserve that.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking absolutely done with social interaction. “The DJ stopped the music to let him do it.”

“Oh, that’s fucking vile.”

“There was beatboxing. Beatboxing. I think I blacked out.”

You tried not to laugh. She scowled at you, but didn’t stop eating. The ramen pot was halfway gone now and you’d had maybe… three bites total?

“I hope you’re happy,” she muttered, slurping. “This was all your fault.”

“How?” “You made me go.”

“I said you should go to one, not walk into the Cringefest.” “I trusted you.”

“One, you picked that invite. Two, you also trusted that one girl on Youtube who said you could dry your hair with a salad spinner.”

“…Okay, touch.” “You mean touché?”

“Ugh stop being so annoying!” Her words were muffled by the slurping of the ramen.

You snorted and leaned your head back, letting the sound of her eating fill the room. It was kind of funny, seeing her like this. Not glammed up, not striking fear into underclassmen with one stare. Just a girl sitting cross-legged on the rug in a hoodie again, stealing bites from a pot of ramen and telling you about her night like you were her unofficial therapist.

And as usual, you didn’t point out that she was now spooning the last of the broth with an empty expression, completely ignoring the fact that it had once been your dinner too.

You just pressed your lips into a thin line as you looked down at the pot, now hollow and echoing.

“…So. You gonna apologize for eating all of it?” “Nope.”

“You know I cooked that, right?” “You also said I needed comfort. So I’m comforting myself.”

“That’s not how that works.” “Should’ve eaten faster.”

“Screw you, Jung Ahyeon.”

She smiled into the empty pot, clearly satisfied with herself. “And you still made me ramen.”

“Correction: that was for me” You grabbed a packet nearby, tossed it at her. “Go make the next one. I had like three bites.”

Ahyeon stretched her legs and cracked her neck like she’d just finished a battle. “Fine. But I’m putting extra egg in it for protein. You’re hearing all my rants tonight.”

“I bet you gonna eat the damn eggs-” You raised an eyebrow before you just slumped back to the couch. “Ugh. Do what you want, Ahyeon-ah.”

She didn’t answer.

This girl…just stood up, ramen packet in hand, heading toward the tiny kitchenette…and grinning quietly to herself. Far out.

—————————————————-

I have an alternate ending to this-