Vanilla white

You first met Yoon Seoyeon when you were both six years old, on a warm summer afternoon in the narrow alleyways behind your apartment complex in Daejeon. Your mother had taken you outside to play while she chatted with the neighbors, and there she was, a small girl with straight black hair tied in two neat pigtails, crouched beside a puddle and poking at a struggling beetle with a twig. When you wandered over curiously, she looked up at you with those large, dark eyes and declared matter-of-factly, “It’s hurt. We have to help it.” That was the beginning.

From that day on, the two of you were inseparable. Your families lived in the same mid-rise building, yours on the fourth floor, hers on the fifth, and the stairwell became your private kingdom. You walked to elementary school together every morning, your small backpacks bouncing against your spines, sharing stolen pieces of tteok or the last sip of banana milk. Seoyeon was quieter than most kids, thoughtful in a way that made her seem older, but with you she laughed freely. She had a habit of humming old trot songs her grandmother taught her when she was happy, and you learned every note by heart just to hear her voice.

As the years passed through elementary school, your friendship deepened into something that felt like family, yet carried an undercurrent neither of you could name. You defended her when older boys teased her for being too shy in class. She stayed up late with you during exam week, drawing silly cartoons in the margins of your notebooks to make you smile when you got frustrated with math. Summers were spent at the riverside paths along the Gapcheon, splashing in the shallow water, building small stone towers that the current eventually washed away, or exploring the green hills near the apartment complex, collecting pretty stones and fallen leaves from the trees. Winters meant huddling under the same blanket in your living room, watching cartoons while your mothers cooked kimchi jjigae that filled the apartment with warmth.

By middle school, the bond had grown, more layered. Puberty began to stir awkward changes. You noticed how Seoyeon’s cheeks would flush when other girls teased her about “having a boyfriend”, and you felt an unfamiliar tightness in your chest whenever boys started glancing her way in the hallways. She had grown into a graceful girl but still short like a hamster, soft features, and a gentle smile that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t understand. She was your best friend, after all.

You shared everything, secrets, dreams, fears. Late at night, you would sneak onto the rooftop of your building and lie on an old blanket, staring at the city lights of Daejeon and the faint stars that managed to pierce through the haze. She confessed she wanted to become a writer one day, to capture the small, quiet moments of life that people usually overlooked. You admitted you dreamed of studying engineering, perhaps at KAIST right there in Daejeon or moving to Seoul, but the thought of leaving her behind always left a hollow feeling. Sometimes your hands would brush while reaching for the same snack, and you’d both pull away too quickly, hearts beating a little faster. You felt things, warm, fluttering things, when she leaned her head on your shoulder during those rooftop talks, her hair smelling of the coconut shampoo she used. But you never acted on them. She was Seoyeon. Your Seoyeon. Crossing that line felt impossible, like risking the only constant in your life.

The two of you advanced together through the ups and downs of adolescence. You celebrated each other’s birthdays with homemade cakes that always turned out slightly lopsided. You practiced for school festivals together, she helped you with your clumsy dance moves for the talent show, and you listened patiently while she read her short stories aloud, her voice soft and earnest. There were moments of jealousy too, quiet and buried. When she started getting closer to a guy in her art club, you felt an irrational sting. When a girl from your class confessed to you, you turned her down gently, your mind drifting to Seoyeon’s face instead. These feelings remained unspoken, simmering beneath the surface of your easy camaraderie. You hugged her often, quick, friendly hugs after good news or bad days, but you always held back from letting your arms linger, from breathing in the scent of her too deeply, from noticing how her developing body felt against yours during those innocent embraces.

Then came high school.

The three years of high school marked a slow, painful distancing that neither of you seemed able to stop. You both tested into the same competitive high school in Daejeon, but the new environment brought pressure, new social circles, and different paths. Seoyeon threw herself into literature clubs and writing competitions, staying late at school to edit the student magazine. You focused on science and math tracks, preparing rigorously for university entrance exams, joining study groups that kept you out until late evenings. The daily walks to school became less frequent as your schedules diverged. Texts grew shorter, replies slower. The rooftop meetings became rare, replaced by occasional weekend catch-ups at a café near the apartment complex that felt increasingly formal.

In your first year, you still sat together during lunch sometimes, sharing earphones to listen to music. By second year, those lunches happened maybe once a month. You watched from afar as she bloomed, more confident, more beautiful, with her hair grown longer and a quiet poise that drew quiet admiration from others. You felt that familiar twist in your chest whenever you saw her laughing with new friends in the hallways, but you told yourself it was natural. People grew apart. It was part of life. She seemed busier, more distant, focused on her future as a novelist. You buried yourself in textbooks and part-time tutoring, trying to ignore how empty the stairwell felt without her footsteps echoing behind yours.

The distancing wasn’t dramatic, no fights, no dramatic confessions. It was the quiet erosion of time and circumstance. By third year, you exchanged polite nods in the hallways, occasional “How have you been?” messages on KakaoTalk that went days without replies. The childhood closeness, the middle school warmth, the unacted-upon feelings, all of it seemed to fade into memory. You graduated separately, attending different after-parties with your respective groups. As you stood on the stage receiving your diploma, you caught a glimpse of her across the auditorium, her eyes meeting yours for a brief second before the crowd swallowed the moment.

That chapter ended with both of you stepping into adulthood, carrying the weight of what once was, and what was never said.

After graduation, the distance that had grown between you and Yoon Seoyeon in high school carried over into the start of university. Both of you were accepted into KAIST in Daejeon, your dream school for engineering, and a strong fit for Seoyeon’s literature and creative writing interests through their interdisciplinary programs. The campus, with its modern buildings nestled among green hills and the nearby Gapcheon river, felt both exciting and overwhelming. You moved into a dorm on the east side of campus with your assigned roommate, while Seoyeon settled into a different dormitory block closer to the humanities buildings. For the first semester, your paths rarely crossed. Occasional polite KakaoTalk messages “Did you settle in okay?” and the random sighting across the expansive central plaza were the extent of your interactions. The childhood warmth and middle-school closeness felt like echoes from another life.

That changed during the second semester of your first year.

A big freshman mixer party was organized by the student council at a large off-campus venue near the Yuseong-gu area, a lively night of music, cheap soju, snacks, and group games designed to help new students connect across departments. You attended with your growing circle of engineering friends: Kim Tae-sung, your loud and energetic roommate from Seoul who was studying mechanical engineering and always dragged you to social events, and Park Ji-hoon, a quiet but sharp-witted guy from your calculus study group. On Seoyeon’s side, she came with her literature-focused friends, Han Ji-eun, a bubbly short-story enthusiast who quickly became her closest friend, and Lee Min-kyung, a more reserved poetry major.

The mixer was chaotic and fun. Group icebreakers turned into team games, and as the night progressed with rounds of drinks and loud K-pop blasting, two couples unexpectedly formed. Tae-sung hit it off instantly with Ji-eun; their loud laughter and shared love for webtoons led to an impulsive kiss during a truth or dare segment. At the same time, Ji-hoon, usually so reserved, spent the entire evening in deep conversation with Min-kyung about philosophy and literature, and by the end of the night they exchanged numbers with shy smiles and plans for a study date.

This double pairing acted like glue. What started as two separate friend groups fused rapidly into one big, overlapping circle. Weekend gatherings, late-night study sessions at the 24-hour campus library, group trips to the nearby hot springs in Yuseong, and casual dorm parties became the new normal. Suddenly, Seoyeon was back in your daily orbit.

At first, the reconnection was tentative, wrapped in the safety of the larger group. You were both polite, almost formal. But the old familiarity was still there, like muscle memory. During a group dinner at a samgyeopsal restaurant near campus, when someone asked about childhood stories, Seoyeon glanced at you with a small, knowing smile and said, “Hyun-woo once tried to ‘rescue’ a pigeon that was perfectly fine and ended up chasing it around the rooftop for twenty minutes.” The table erupted in laughter, and for the first time in years, you felt that old, warm feeling in your chest as her eyes lingered on yours a second longer than necessary.

There was an easy trust between you two that the others noticed. Seoyeon would naturally sit near you during group study sessions in the library, and you’d slide her your notes on technical writing without her even asking, remembering how she struggled with structured essays. In return, she’d quietly bring you a can of coffee from the vending machine when she saw you pulling all-nighters for engineering projects, remembering your habit of drinking it black during stressful times. The group dynamic made it safe, there was always someone else around, so the rekindled closeness didn’t feel threatening. Yet you couldn’t ignore how your gaze would drift to her during group movie nights in someone’s dorm, watching the way the screen’s light played across her face: softer jawline, longer hair that she often tied back loosely, and the same gentle eyes that had once looked up at you from that puddle years ago.

Throughout the rest of the first year, this familiarity deepened without anyone addressing it directly. You trusted her implicitly. When you bombed your first major physics midterm and felt crushed, you found yourself texting her late at night instead of Tae-sung. She met you at a quiet bench by the Gapcheon river path, listening patiently as you vented, then sharing her own insecurities about whether her writing was “good enough” for the competitive KAIST environment. You walked her back to her dorm that night, the silence comfortable rather than awkward, your shoulders occasionally brushing. She trusted you too, confiding in you about how overwhelming the transition to university had been, how she sometimes missed the simplicity of your old rooftop talks at home.

By the start of your second year, the fused group was tight-knit. Tae-sung and Ji-eun were officially dating, often dragging everyone on couple-heavy outings that somehow still included the whole crew. Ji-hoon and Min-kyung moved slower but were clearly serious, studying together almost every evening. This created natural moments for you and Seoyeon to pair off within the group. During a group hiking trip to the nearby mountains in the fall of second year, you ended up walking beside her on the trail. The conversation flowed effortlessly, from complaining about professors to reminiscing about stealing tteok as kids. When she slipped on a loose rock, your hand instinctively shot out to steady her waist. The contact was brief, but you both froze for a heartbeat, her cheeks flushing the same way they had in middle school. You pulled away quickly, muttering “You need to be careful,” while your pulse raced.

In the later half of your second year, the evolution became more noticeable, at least to you. The trust had matured into something deeper and more intimate within the bounds of friendship. Late-night group study sessions often spilled into personal talks. You began to notice, and feel, things again: the way her laughter made the room feel brighter, how she unconsciously leaned toward you when tired, the subtle coconut scent of her shampoo that still hit you with nostalgia. During a rainy evening when the group was stuck in your dorm watching movies, she fell asleep against your shoulder. You didn’t move for two hours, hyper-aware of her warmth, the soft rise and fall of her breathing, and the way her hair spilled across your arm. Tae-sung looked at us and smirked but said nothing.

Seoyeon, for her part, seemed to seek your presence more. She asked you to review her short stories before submission, valuing your honest feedback because, as she said quietly one evening, “You’ve always understood the parts of me I don’t like to say out loud.” You helped her with presentation slides for her literature seminars, staying up until 3 a.m. in the common lounge, shoulders touching as you both hunched over the laptop. The unacted feelings simmered stronger now, the quiet jealousy when other male students approached her after class, the protective urge when she looked stressed, the flutter in your stomach when her hand brushed yours while passing snacks during group gatherings. But with all the friend group always around, and the fear of ruining this comfortable arrangement, neither of you crossed any lines. It remained a deep, trusting friendship layered with history and unspoken tension.

By the end of your second year at KAIST, the group had become family. You and Seoyeon existed in a space of profound familiarity and trust, able to read each other’s moods with a glance, share vulnerabilities the others didn’t see, and support one another through the intense academic pressure of KAIST. The childhood friends had become university companions again, closer than ever, yet still carefully balanced on the edge of something more.

By the start of your third year at KAIST, the friend group had become the anchor of your university life. The easy familiarity and deep trust between you and Seoyeon continued to grow in quiet, steady ways, but the unspoken tension underneath it all had begun to feel heavier. The group noticed it too, though they never said anything directly. Tae-sung would occasionally nudge you with a knowing smirk during group dinners, while Ji-eun would whisper something to Seoyeon that made her cheeks tint pink before changing the subject. Ji-hoon and Min-kyung, being the quieter pair, simply observed with soft smiles, content to let things unfold naturally.

The build-up to the turning point stretched across the third year and into the fourth. Academic pressure at KAIST was relentless, midterms, capstone projects, research presentations, but the group made time for each other. In the fall of third year, Tae-sung and Ji-eun organized a group trip to a small pension house near the mountains outside Daejeon to celebrate their one-year anniversary. The five-day stay was meant to be a break from being on campus: hiking during the day, barbecue and drinks at night, and a fire pit. It was during this trip that the tension between you and Seoyeon became impossible to ignore.

On the third night, after a long hike and too much soju, the group sat around the fire. Tae-sung, ever the loud one, started a game of “Never Have I Ever,” which quickly turned nostalgic. When he said, “Never have I ever had a childhood friend I secretly wanted more with,” Ji-eun elbowed him, but everyone’s eyes flicked toward you and Seoyeon. She laughed it off lightly, but you caught the way her gaze lingered on you across the flames, the firelight dancing in her dark eyes. Later that night, as the group dispersed to their rooms, Seoyeon stayed behind, poking at the dying embers. You sat with her in comfortable silence for a while before she spoke softly.

“Hyun-woo… do you ever think about how we drifted apart in high school?” Her voice was gentle, almost hesitant. “And how it feels like we found each other again.”

You nodded, heart beating faster. “Every day. It feels like we never really left, though. Like you were always there.” You wanted to say more, but the words caught in your throat. She smiled, a small, sad-sweet smile, and the moment passed. But it planted the seed.

Back on campus, the group continued to create spaces where you two were thrown together. Ji-hoon and Min-kyung, now deeply serious about their relationship, often paired up for couple activities and subtly invited you and Seoyeon as the “singles” to balance things out, study dates that turned into four person dinners, or movie nights in the dorm lounge where they conveniently left two spaces together. Tae-sung was less subtle; he once loudly announced during a group lunch, “You two have known each other forever. It’s kinda cute how you still finish each other’s sentences.” Seoyeon had blushed deeply that day, avoiding your eyes while you felt warmth spread through your chest.

As fourth year began, the weight of graduation and future plans added another layer. You were deep into your engineering thesis, spending long hours in the lab. Seoyeon was polishing her creative writing portfolio, hoping to publish a short story collection. The unacted feelings had become a constant undercurrent. You noticed everything about her now: the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when focused, how her voice softened when she spoke to you compared to others, the gentle curve of her smile that still made your stomach flutter after all these years. She seemed to seek you out more too than ever, texting you first to review her drafts, asking you to walk with her along the Gapcheon river path after evening classes because “it feels safer with you.”

The climax came on a quiet evening in late spring of your fourth year, just weeks before final exams and graduation preparations. The group had gathered at a small pojangmacha tent (those red tents from K-drama) near campus for dinner, grilled pork, cold beer, and endless side dishes. The mood was bittersweet; everyone was talking about post-graduation plans. Tae-sung and Ji-eun were planning to move to Seoul together. Ji-hoon and Min-kyung had applied to the same graduate program. When the conversation turned to you and Seoyeon, she grew unusually quiet.

After the meal, as the group began to split up, Seoyeon pulled you aside. “Can we talk? Just us?” Her voice was steady, but there was a nervous determination in her eyes. Tae-sung gave you a thumbs-up behind her back before Ji-eun dragged him away, leaving the two of you alone on the dimly lit path back toward the KAIST campus.

You walked in silence for a few minutes, the spring air cool and carrying the scent of blooming cherry blossoms. Finally, Seoyeon stopped under a streetlamp near the edge of campus, turning to face you. Her long hair swayed gently in the breeze, and her cheeks were flushed, not just from the soju earlier, but from something she had been waiting to say for some time already.

“Hyun-woo,” she began, her voice soft but clear, eyes locked on yours with a vulnerability you had rarely seen. “I’ve been thinking about us a lot lately. About how we’ve known each other since we were six… how you were always there, even when we drifted in high school. How coming back together at KAIST felt like fate giving us another chance.” She took a small step closer, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her light cardigan. “All these years, I felt things for you. Warm feelings. Safe feelings. The kind that made my heart race when you smiled at me on the rooftop as kids, or when you steadied me on that hike. I never acted on them because I was scared of losing you. But I don’t want to graduate and wonder ‘what if’ anymore.”

Her confession hung in the air, raw and honest. Before you could respond, Seoyeon closed the remaining distance. She reached up slowly, her fingers lightly touching your arm, then sliding up to rest on your chest as if drawing courage from the steady beat of your heart. Standing on her tiptoes, she pressed her lips to yours in a gentle, tentative kiss. It was soft, achingly soft, her mouth warm and slightly trembling against yours. Her free hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your skin as she lingered there, pouring years of unspoken affection into that single, romantic moment. You could taste the faint sweetness of the strawberry soju she’d had earlier, feel the delicate press of her body as she leaned into you, not demanding, but offering.

When she pulled back after several long seconds, her eyes were shining, a mix of nervousness and relief on her face. “I love you, Hyun-woo. Not just as my oldest friend. As more. I have for a long time.”

The world felt still around you, the distant hum of campus life fading as you stood there, foreheads nearly touching. You wrapped your arms around her waist, holding her close in a warm, secure embrace, finally letting yourself sink into the feelings you had buried for so many years. The kiss had been romantic, full of tenderness and history, a beautiful release of all the pent-up emotions that had built from childhood through university.

From that night on, your relationship shifted. The friends celebrated quietly, Ji-eun squealing with excitement when Seoyeon told her the next day, Tae-sung clapping you on the back with a “Finally!”, but they gave you space as you and Seoyeon began navigating this new chapter together in your final weeks at KAIST.

The night Seoyeon kissed you under the streetlamp marked the beginning of everything you had quietly yearned for since childhood. In the days that followed, you made sure to be more vocal than you had ever been. The morning after, you met her outside her dorm with coffee in hand, black for you, with a touch of honey for her, and pulled her into a warm hug right there on the path.

“Seoyeon-ah,” you said softly against her hair, voice thick with emotion, “I want to say something so it’s clear. I’ve loved you for so long. Not just as my best friend. I loved the girl who saved beetles with me, the one who listened to all my stupid dreams on the rooftop, the woman you’ve become here at KAIST. I was scared too… but no more. I love you.”

She melted into your arms, and from then on, the two of you were official.

The last weeks of university were a whirlwind of bittersweet intensity. Final presentations, thesis defenses, and graduation rehearsals filled the days, but every spare moment belonged to each other. You walked her to classes, fingers intertwined, no longer hiding the affection you had suppressed for years. During late-night study sessions in the library, you would pull her onto your lap when no one was looking, kissing her temple and whispering, “I can’t believe I get to do this now.” Seoyeon would blush and bury her face in your neck, humming the old trot songs from your childhood.

Post-graduation plans became a frequent topic during quiet evenings by the Gapcheon river. You had secured a research engineer position at a semiconductor company in Daejeon, allowing you to stay close. Seoyeon had been accepted into a creative writing MFA program in Seoul but hesitated, worried about distance. One night, sitting on a bench with her head on your shoulder, you spoke firmly: “If Seoul is what you need for your writing, we’ll make it work. I’ll visit every weekend. Or… I can look for opportunities there too. I’m not letting distance pull us apart again. You’re my priority now, Seoyeon. Always.”

She kissed you deeply that night, tears in her eyes, murmuring how much your words meant to her.

The friend group, of course, was thrilled but insatiably curious. A week before graduation, Tae-sung organized one final big gathering at the pojangmacha near campus, the same place where Seoyeon had first confessed. The six of you filled a table with grilled meats, soju, and endless banchan. Laughter echoed as you reminisced about the mixer that had fused your groups years earlier.

At one point, the girls, Seoyeon, Ji-eun, and Min-kyung, excused themselves to the restroom together. The guys stayed at the table. Tae-sung immediately leaned in with a grin. “So, Hyun-woo… spill it. You two have been glued at the hip since the confession. How far have you gone? Don’t tell me you’re still acting like middle-schoolers.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, cheeks heating, but the soju loosened your tongue. “Just kissing,” you admitted with a shy laugh. “Lots of kissing. Holding each other. I want our first time to be… right. Special. After everything we’ve been through, it deserves to mean something.”

Tae-sung clapped you on the back while Ji-hoon nodded approvingly. “Respect, man. But don’t wait too long—graduation is basically tomorrow.”

Meanwhile, in the restroom, the girls surrounded Seoyeon. Ji-eun, ever the bold one, asked directly: “Unnie, be honest. Have you and Hyun-woo… you know?”

Seoyeon shook her head, smiling softly. “Only kissing. Deep, beautiful kissing. He’s been so patient and romantic. It makes me love him even more. We both want the first time to feel special after all these years.”