Goodbye my bed

The summer heat clung to your skin like a second layer you couldn’t peel off. University life had finally released its grip for a few blessed weeks, and you had every intention of spending them in peaceful solitude — buried in books that weren’t required reading, gaming until your eyes burned, or simply staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above your bed in the quiet family home on the outskirts of Seoul. No lectures. No deadlines. No one is demanding anything from you.

At twenty-one, you were technically an adult, but the house still carried the soft echoes of the life you’d been given after the car crash that took your biological parents when you were seven. Gyuri had been the one who stepped forward — Park Gyuri, the confident, once-idol leader of KARA, now a poised woman in her late thirties who somehow managed to balance lingering fame, acting gigs, radio work, and raising two children who weren’t entirely hers by blood. She and her then-partner Song Ja-ho had adopted you without hesitation. Ja-ho’s wealth from the Dongwon Construction family made the legal side smooth; Gyuri’s warmth made the emotional side feel real.

Yuju — your older sister by four years, the vibrant singer-songwriter who had once lit up stages as GFriend’s main vocalist and now carved her own path with soulful solo releases — had always treated you like her real little brother. Protective. Teasing. Occasionally overbearing in the most affectionate way.

You were halfway through a lazy afternoon nap on the living room couch, one arm draped over your eyes to block the sunlight filtering through half-drawn curtains, when the peace shattered.

“Ya! Get up right now, or I’m pouring cold water on you!”

Gyuri’s voice cut through the room like a bright, commanding melody — the same tone she used on stage decades ago, now sharpened by years of motherhood and leadership. You cracked one eye open to see her standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. At thirty-seven, she still carried herself with that effortless confidence that made people do double-takes. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, a few strands framing her face. She wore a simple white sleeveless blouse tucked into high-waisted denim shorts that showed off her toned legs — remnants of the dancer’s discipline she never fully abandoned. A thin silver necklace rested against her collarbone, catching the light whenever she moved.

“Mom… it’s summer break,”

you groaned, voice thick with sleep, not bothering to sit up yet.

“I was having the best dream about doing absolutely nothing for two whole months.”

She laughed — a bright, slightly husky sound that always seemed to fill whatever space she occupied.

“Dream later. We’re going on a family vacation. Pack light but bring swim trunks and sunscreen. Ja-ho’s private beach house on the east coast has been sitting empty too long, and I refuse to let another summer slip by without using it.”

You sat up slowly, rubbing the back of your neck. The mention of Song Ja-ho — the man who had been a steady, if sometimes distant, father figure — stirred a faint pang. He and Gyuri had separated years ago after their relationship ended, but the beach property remained in the family’s shared use. Ja-ho was generous that way, even now.

Before you could protest further, another voice joined in from the hallway — lighter, more melodic, carrying the effortless charm of someone used to performing.

“Eomma’s right, you know. You’ve been glued to that couch like it owes you money.”

Yuju appeared behind Gyuri, leaning casually against the doorframe with her arms crossed. At twenty-eight, she had grown into her beauty with quiet confidence. Her height — around 169 cm — made her seem statuesque next to Gyuri’s 162 cm frame. Long, wavy dark hair cascaded over one shoulder, and she wore an oversized graphic tee (one of her own merch designs from a recent fan meeting) knotted at the waist, paired with loose linen shorts that showed off smooth, lightly tanned legs. Her face still held that bright, expressive energy from her idol days, but her eyes carried a softer maturity now — especially when they landed on you.

She tilted her head, a playful smirk tugging at her full lips. “Come on, little brother. When was the last time the three of us had real family time without schedules or comeback stress? I cleared my calendar after the Hong Kong fan meeting. No studio sessions, no OST recordings. Just sun, sea, and terrible barbecue attempts.”

You sighed, but a reluctant smile crept onto your face. Yuju had that effect — her affection was warm and persistent, like sunlight breaking through clouds. She had always been the one to drag you into adventures when you were younger, whether it was sneaking you backstage during GFriend promotions or teaching you guitar chords in the living room late at night.

“Fine,” you muttered, swinging your legs off the couch. “But if I get sunburned and end up peeling like a lizard, I’m blaming both of you.”

Gyuri clapped her hands once, triumphant. “That’s my boy. Pack in thirty minutes. We leave at four. Ja-ho already had the caretakers stock the fridge and air out the house.”

Yuju pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in a few graceful strides. She ruffled your hair with one hand — fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary, the scent of her light floral shampoo drifting over you. “Don’t forget your guitar. I want to hear what you’ve been working on during break. And maybe I’ll sing something new I’ve been fiddling with. Deal?”

Her touch was casual, sisterly. Yet something in the way her fingertips brushed the nape of your neck sent a faint, unplaceable spark down your spine. You shoved the feeling aside. It was just the heat. Just exhaustion from university.

“Deal,” you replied, voice steadier than you felt.

The next half-hour became a whirlwind of activity. Gyuri moved through the house with practiced efficiency, her voice calling out reminders — “Don’t forget the beach towels!” and “Yuju, grab the portable speaker!” — while humming an old KARA melody under her breath. You caught glimpses of her in the hallway: bending to zip a suitcase, the curve of her waist visible when her blouse rode up slightly; reaching for something on a high shelf, stretching on tiptoes so the hem of her shorts lifted just enough to reveal the smooth line of her thighs. She was your mother — adoptive, yes, but the only mother you had truly known since age seven. The thought of noticing her body in any other way felt wrong. Dangerous. You looked away quickly each time.

Yuju was different. She helped you pack, lounging on the edge of your bed while you tossed clothes into a duffel bag. Her long legs dangled, one foot swinging idly. “You’ve gotten taller again,” she observed, eyes tracing your frame with open appraisal. “University life suits you. Or maybe it’s all that gym time you claim you do but never show me pictures of.”

You snorted, folding a shirt with more focus than necessary. “Jealous I’m finally catching up to you?”

She laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “Maybe. But you’ll always be my little brother. Even if you tower over me one day.” She stood then, stepping closer to help fold a pair of shorts. Her shoulder brushed yours. The contact was brief, but you felt the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her tee. Her scent — something clean and faintly sweet, like vanilla and stage lights — wrapped around you.

“Remember when we used to go on short trips like this before everything got busy?” she asked quietly, handing you the folded item. Her gaze lingered on your face a moment too long. “Eomma would drive, singing at the top of her lungs. You’d fall asleep on my shoulder in the back seat. You were so small back then… now look at you.”

There was a softness in her voice — nostalgic, almost wistful. You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close she stood. “Yeah. I remember.”

Gyuri’s voice floated down the hallway again. “Ten minutes! The car’s packed!”

The drive to the east coast was long — nearly four hours if traffic cooperated. Gyuri insisted on taking her sleek black SUV, the one with tinted windows and leather seats that still smelled faintly of luxury. She claimed the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror with a satisfied hum. “I haven’t had a proper road trip in ages. This feels good.”

Yuju claimed shotgun without discussion, stretching her long legs as far as the space allowed. You settled in the back, earbuds in but not playing anything yet, content to watch the cityscape give way to highways lined with green hills.

The conversation flowed easily at first — family time, the way Gyuri had always orchestrated it. She kept one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally gesturing as she spoke.

“So, tell me about university,” Gyuri said, glancing at you in the mirror. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled — warm, inviting, the kind of look that made you feel seen. “Any interesting classes? Or girls I should know about?”

You chuckled, leaning forward slightly between the seats. “Classes are fine. No girls worth mentioning. I’m focusing on finishing strong.”

Yuju turned in her seat to face you better, resting her chin on her folded arms along the headrest. Her ponytail slipped over one shoulder, a few loose strands framing her face. “Liar. I saw that notification on your phone last week — some girl from your department liking your story. Spill.”

Her tone was teasing, but there was a curious edge beneath it. You met her gaze. Her eyes — bright and expressive, the same ones that had captivated audiences during GFriend’s peak — held yours steadily. For a split second, the air in the car felt thicker.

“Nothing to spill,” you replied, keeping your voice light. “She’s just a classmate.”

Gyuri laughed from the front, the sound bright and unrestrained. “Leave him alone, Yuju-ya. He’s allowed his secrets. Though if he brings anyone home, I expect to meet her first. Mother’s privilege.”

The word “mother” landed with its usual weight — comforting, grounding. Yet today, with the summer sun casting golden light across Gyuri’s profile as she drove, highlighting the elegant line of her neck and the subtle swell of her chest beneath the thin blouse, it carried an undercurrent you couldn’t quite name. You shifted in your seat, looking out the window instead.

As the hours passed, the conversation drifted. Yuju plugged her phone into the car’s system and played a mix of old GFriend tracks mixed with her recent solo work — soulful R&B tones that showcased her powerful yet emotive voice. When “Reply” from her latest mini-album came on, she sang along softly under her breath, eyes half-closed. Gyuri joined in on the chorus, their voices blending in effortless harmony. You found yourself watching them both: Gyuri’s confident, slightly raspy tone from years of leading KARA; Yuju’s clear, soaring range that still gave you chills.

At one rest stop, Gyuri pulled over so everyone could stretch. The late afternoon sun was warm but not oppressive. She stepped out first, arching her back with a satisfied groan that made her blouse pull taut across her chest for a brief moment. “Ahh, that feels better. Who wants iced coffee? My treat.”

Yuju hopped out next, adjusting her shorts that had ridden up slightly during the drive. The motion drew your eyes involuntarily to the smooth skin of her thighs before you forced your gaze upward. She caught you looking — or maybe she didn’t. Either way, she smiled and looped her arm through yours casually, tugging you toward the convenience store. “Come on, slowpoke. I’ll get you that melon flavor you like.”

Her arm pressed against yours, bare skin on bare skin where your sleeve ended. She was warm from the car, and the contact lingered as you walked. Inside the store, while Gyuri paid at the counter, chatting animatedly with the cashier who recognized her “Aren’t you Gyuri from KARA? My dad loves your songs!”, Yuju leaned close to you by the drink cooler.

“You’ve been quiet today,” she murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. Her breath brushed your ear. “Everything okay? Or are you just sulking because we ruined your couch plans?”

You turned your head slightly. Her face was inches away — full lips curved in a gentle smile, eyes searching yours with that familiar sisterly concern mixed with something deeper, unspoken. “I’m fine,” you said. “Just… adjusting to leaving my cave.”

She squeezed your arm once before letting go. “Good. Because this vacation is going to be fun. I promise.”

The rest of the drive passed in comfortable quiet punctuated by music and occasional stories. Gyuri recounted funny behind-the-scenes moments from her radio shows; Yuju shared anecdotes from her recent fan meeting in Hong Kong, laughing about how fans still screamed for old GFriend choreo. You contributed when prompted, but mostly listened, letting their voices wash over you.

As the sun began to dip lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, the scenery changed. Coastal roads replaced highways, the air growing saltier and fresher through the cracked windows. Gyuri’s private beach — technically Ja-ho’s, but always referred to as the family’s — was located on a secluded stretch of the east coast, accessible only by a private gated road. Tall pines lined the final approach, and the sound of waves grew louder.

“We’re almost there,” Gyuri announced, her voice carrying a note of excitement. She glanced at you again in the mirror, her expression softening. “Thank you for coming, even if we had to drag you. It means a lot to have both my kids here.”

The word “kids” should have felt normal. Instead, it sent a quiet ripple through you as you watched her fingers tap lightly on the steering wheel, the delicate bones of her wrist catching the fading light.