Work Text:
inside you
I’ve seen it through a crack in the door
the landscape is nothing special yet
if you wait for a while you’ll meet it
oh my girl ✧ secret garden
Hyojung wakes up once, briefly, in the middle of the night. It’s pitch black but she can hear a faint noise; the sound of practiced movement. She keeps her eyes closed and pretends to still be asleep as she listens to the patter of quiet footsteps. Rustle of fabric and the covers of the futon on the other side of the room being pulled back.
There’s silence for one, two long minutes.
“Sorry,” Mihyun whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She’s been caught. Hyojung opens her eyes, but it’s impossible to make out Mihyun’s form without any source of light, let alone her expression or whether or not she’s even looking back at her. She has to settle for whispering back, “It’s fine. You didn’t.”
There’s no answer. She’s probably already fallen asleep, Hyojung rationalizes. She rolls over on her bed. Pulls the covers up to her chin and tries to do the same.
After that, it’s just the sound of the two of them breathing in the dark. Quietly; carefully.
At six AM Hyojung quietly gets out of bed and gets dressed. She goes into the washroom, closing the door, and comes out with her face washed, her teeth brushed, her hair combed neat. A bit of peach pink on her eyelids, because she’d liked the colour; because she felt like it. She makes her bed, punching her pillow back into shape. She waters the potted plants on the sill, limp and drooping as they are in the lack of light. She does it all without making a sound.
Over on the futon Mihyun’s form is motionless. Her face is buried in her pillow and half her covers are bundled at her middle, leaving her ankles bare to the cold. Hyojung shivers at the sight of them. She steals across the room and ever so carefully tugs the end of the covers back down over Mihyun’s feet.
Mihyun makes a snuffling sort of noise. Hyojung freezes in her tracks. But all that happens is that Mihyun burrows deeper into her covers, face slack, still sound asleep. There’s a piece of her own hair stuck in her mouth. Hyojung stares at it, as though the force of her gaze will move it. It doesn’t. She has to settle for looking away.
When she leaves, she closes the door quietly but firmly behind her, lock clicking shut. Down one flight of stairs, skirt of her dress flying out behind her, and she’s arrived, heels clicking against tile. Her coat is exchanged for an apron, her hair tied up into a bun. She checks on the appliances, espresso machine and coffee grinders and smoothie blenders, the dishwasher and toaster oven and every surface polished and gleaming and waiting.
There’s a blue post-it note stuck to the fridge:
MILK
STRAWS
APPLES
The lettering is hurried but readable. Hyojung scratches her head. There’s nothing on their menu with apples in it. She scavenges in the drawers for a pen, and adds a ? after the word.
She cranks open the shutters, letting in the beginnings of pale sunlight and a blast of wintry air. She breathes in. Out. Sets the handlettered CLOSED sign to the side.
“Welcome to Secret Garden Café,” she says. “Thank you for visiting. What can I get you today?”
Before her, the street is empty, the city just beginning to wake. Dawn breaking slow and subtle over the sky.
She smiles back at it.
The story isn’t that interesting. It’s simple. Hyojung opened a café. She hired Kim Mihyun. They’ve been living together ever since.
Okay, maybe it isn’t that simple. Maybe it went more like this:
Hyojung opened a tiny café wedged between a laundromat and a convenience store. It’s not really a café. It’s more a stall with standing room outside. Every day Hyojung stands behind the counter for eight hours and stares at the giant, six-floor Hollys Coffee directly across the street. She’s never tried their drinks, but she uses their bathroom all the time. Five stars for cleanliness and public access.
The location isn’t bad. It’s perfect, really, or would be if it weren’t for the aforementioned franchise chain soaking up customers like a sponge. She lives right overhead so there’s no worry of opening shop on time. The laundromat owner next door gives her a discount. And they’re only a couple of steps from a bus stop, which means every so often at certain hours of the day they get a wave of patronage like clockwork: the office workers in their pantsuits and elegant coats at the crack of dawn, the students on their way to cram school in the afternoon, the young twenty-somethings filling up the streets in the evenings looking to blow off steam or for a trendy new Instagram hotspot. They get all sorts of types at the Secret Garden Café, but mostly the ones who are in a hurry, rushing to get from one place to the next.
Hyojung did the opposite of that. Settled in and stayed. But she couldn’t do it alone, that much was obvious, so she put up posters. Someone who is reliable, enjoys meeting new people, doesn’t mind long hours, has an open heart. Only one person showed up for an interview. Pulled up to the store in a robin’s egg blue motorbike, took off her helmet, and said, “I’m here about the night shift.”
Hyojung stared at her. She was wearing a red flannel and black boots and had flyaway bits of blond hair all mussed up from her helmet. She blew a strand out of her face, revealing long lashes and a sleepy-lidded gaze. She tilted her head at Hyojung, as though expectant.
Right. Of course. “It’s not really a night shift,” Hyojung said brightly. “It’s more of an afternoon and evening shift, if that works for you. I know the hours are quite long. But you get to sit, and you can do coursework whenever there’s a lull in customers. And there’s a really nice bathroom across the street you can use whenever you need!”
The girl lowered her helmet in her hands. Squinted at her a little. Hyojung didn’t really know what she was looking for.
“I’m not a student,” she said.
“Oh. Sorry. Well, whatever you need to do—I’m sure you’re quite busy!” Hyojung clasped her hands together before her on the countertop.
The girl was still looking at her funny. “Isn’t this an interview?” she said dubiously. “Don’t you have any questions for me?”
Hyojung thought about it. She looked her up and down, her face still flushed sweaty from the ride here. Where had she come from, Hyojung wondered, blown in like the breeze? Across the city? Another work shift elsewhere?
“Would you like something to drink?” Hyojung asked. “I have a freshly made batch of iced tea in the fridge. Free of charge, to celebrate our working together.”
The girl’s mouth turned down. “I’ll work hard,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I have no doubt,” Hyojung said, and smiled.
The frown deepened. “I mean it. I can give you references if you like.”
“You’re hired,” Hyojung said patiently. “This isn’t a test. I just thought maybe you’d like something to cool you down.”
The girl stared at her for a minute. Then said, “Yes. I’d like that.”
She came up to the counter to wait as Hyojung busied herself about the kitchen. Hyojung could sense her scrutinizing the cramped space, the neat and orderly row of appliances, the bubbly lettering of the sparse chalkboard menu. She paid her no attention. Focused instead on setting out two tall glasses, humming slightly under her breath all the while.
“Here,” Hyojung said, returning with the drinks. The girl took it with a newly neutral expression on her face, like she’d made up her mind about something and was resolutely not going to show it. They clinked their glasses together.
It wasn’t until the girl had downed her entire iced tea in one long swallow and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand that she said, “My name is Mihyun.” And then, a shade softer, a little sheepish: “Thanks.”
“I’m Hyojung,” said Hyojung. “Welcome to the Secret Garden Café.” She looked down at her own glass, and let out a little laugh. “I’m going to need to order another apron, aren’t I?”
Mihyun set her glass down on the counter. There was a faint smudge on the rim, the barest trace of a lip print, a tiny fogged-up hollow of breath leaving its mark.
Kim Mihyun, 24, Jeju-born, turned out to be a jack of all trades. She’s worked as a stagehand, a waitress, a graphic designer, a door-to-door salesperson, a busker, a data entry clerk, a makeup artist, a flyer distributor, a DJ, a camp counsellor, a parking attendant, a pizza deliverer. She was part of a band in her college days, a two-woman act; the single music video on their Youtube channel shows two distant figures performing on a deserted city street, and it’s impossible to make out their faces in the low light, but Hyojung’d instantly recognized Mihyun’s husky voice on the overlaid audio. Not that she’s searched them up online or anything. And that day, Mihyun was coming from a brief stint at a digital media startup that she’d just quit when she happened upon one of Hyojung’s posters stapled to a telephone pole.
“It wasn’t about the pay, or anything like that,” Mihyun said, though Hyojung hadn’t asked. “Our interests just didn’t align much anymore. And they didn’t really need me in the first place.”
“What did you do there?” Hyojung wanted to know.
“This and that,” Mihyun replied, shrugging her shoulders. “Whatever they needed me for. Up until they didn’t anymore.”
“You don’t need to sell yourself short,” Hyojung said.
But it only made Mihyun look uncomfortable, so she stopped and went back to showing her how to operate the espresso machine.
Mihyun had neither a deft hand nor a knack for precision. On her first day she nearly broke the coffee grinder; another time she started blending a smoothie before she put the lid on. She had trouble remembering customers’ exact orders so she had a habit of repeating it to herself over and over, muttering under her breath as she made the drinks. The apron arrived—plain black with no decorations, though Hyojung was thinking of coming up with a logo—and fit her perfectly.
“Wow. It was totally your destiny to become a café barista,” Hyojung joked.
Mihyun looked alarmed.
“Ah, Mihyun-ah, you’re so funny,” Hyojung said. “Don’t forget the whipped cream!”
After a while things settled down and no longer did Hyojung have to hang about all hours to supervise Mihyun in the guise of training in case she accidentally exploded the toaster oven. If Mihyun was surprised to see Hyojung leave in the afternoon dressed in uniform for her second shift she never showed it. In the same vein Hyojung refrained from comment when Mihyun started looking—not rough, exactly, but exhausted, face gaunt and eyelids drooping, up until she couldn’t anymore.
“If you need to cut back on your hours,” Hyojung said, very carefully, one night as Mihyun was hanging up her apron.
“It’s not that,” said Mihyun. “I’m just between places right now, that’s all.”
Spoken so casually like it hardly mattered at all. Hyojung did a double take. Mihyun didn’t look bothered, but the shadows under her eyes told a different story. Hyojung nodded, but as Mihyun was getting on her motorbike, she rushed outside to grab her arm.
“I have an extra futon upstairs,” Hyojung blurted.
Something clouded over in Mihyun’s eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. But I want to help.”
“It isn’t your problem,” Mihyun said firmly. “I’ve got it figured out, boss.”
Hyojung kept her face blank, though she felt like flinching. “It would be more convenient.”
Mihyun hesitated.
Slowly, Hyojung let go of her sleeve. Inclined her head ever so slightly at the open doorway.
“It’s not a pigsty, I promise,” Hyojung said.
But Mihyun didn’t crack a smile. Not until she followed Hyojung through the back door and up the staircase and Hyojung flicked on the lights and Mihyun’s gaze landed on the embarrassing display of stuffed animals arranged on Hyojung’s bed. Her eyebrows shot straight up under her bangs.
“Um, the bathroom’s over here,” Hyojung said, loudly drawing Mihyun’s attention away. She could feel her cheeks flooding with colour. “And here’s the kitchenette. You can go next door for laundry, just tell the owner you’re with me. She’s really nice. The heating can be a little difficult, let me know if it’s too cold for you. I’ve got the futon in the closet, wanna help me set it up?”
Mihyun didn’t move. Her fingers were fidgeting at her sleeve. She seemed strangely fixated on the array of stuffed animals, eyes never straying from it as she spoke.
“I’ll pay my share of the rent,” Mihyun said. “And I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible. I’ll be gone before you know it.”
Hyojung nodded encouragingly. “Absolutely,” she said.
They’ve been living together ever since.
And that’s how the story ends.
“Unnie,” says Yewon, eyeing her up and down warily. “Why do you look so weird?”
Hyojung leans across the counter to pinch Yewon’s cheek. “Why are you so mean to me? Who else is gonna give you a discount on your medium vanilla matcha latte every day?”
“It’s out of my love and appreciation for you!” Yewon protests, good-naturedly letting her cheek be pinched. “I’m concerned, that’s all! It’s too early in the morning for you to look like this!”
“Like what?” Hyojung says, slapping her own cheeks in dramatic horror.
“Like...” Yewon screws up her face. “Like you’ve got some kind of problem to fix?” She lowers her tone dramatically. “Unnie... you’re not going bankrupt, are you?”
“Of course not!” Hyojung clasps a hand to her chest. “Do you have that little faith in the Secret Garden Café? The place that, need I remind you again, gives you a discount on your medium vanilla matcha latte every day, coming right up—”
“Okay, okay,” Yewon says, taking the cup, “I got it, sorry for jumping to the worst possible conclusion. Maybe I’m just projecting my own nervousness—I’ve got a group presentation to do in less than two hours.” She fidgets with the strap of her bag. “It’s worth forty percent of my grade!”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Hyojung swoops down upon the miniature bakery display and packages a couple of lemon squares in a paper bag. “You’ve got to get your energy up! Did you even eat breakfast?”
“Unnie, you’re so annoying,” Yewon says fondly, taking the paper bag. “Hey, by the way, is Mihyun unnie around?”
It’s Hyojung’s turn to squint at her, sizing her up. There’s something suspicious about the nonchalance with which she changed the subject. “No, she’s still sleeping. Why?”
“No reason,” Yewon says, shrugging. “She gave me some music recommendations the other day and I wanted to chat with her about them, that’s all.” She takes a bite of one of the lemon squares. “Mmm, delicious. Thanks, unnie!”
Hyojung gapes at her. “Since when do you hang out with Mihyun?”
Yewon raises an eyebrow. “Umm, she works here, too? I see her when I come by after class.”
“I didn’t know you two talked.”
“Unnie. She’s been working here for half a year.”
“So?”
“So that’s a long time.”
“Is it?” Hyojung wipes down the spotless counter mindlessly with a towel. It doesn’t feel like it. For one thing, Mihyun never gives her music recommendations.
“There’s that look again!” Yewon points an accusing finger at Hyojung’s face. “You’re not planning something overly ambitious and expensive like renovating this place into a concept café, are you? It’d totally ruin the charm!”
“Don’t be silly,” Hyojung says dismissively. “Hey. Yewon-ah. What do you think about apples?”
“Apples?” Yewon repeats. She actually thinks about it, like it’s a trick question. “Um... they’re crunchy?”
Hyojung sighs. “Never mind!” She swats her with the towel. “Shouldn’t you be getting a move on? You’re going to be late for your presentation!”
Yewon hastily stows her half-eaten lemon square back into the paper bag. “Okay, okay, I’m going. But for what it’s worth, unnie—last time you had this look in your eye, you ended up opening a café.” She shoots her a grin, over her shoulder, as she’s leaving. “So you can’t fault me for wondering what’s next!”
Hyojung leans forward across the counter, elbows propped up, chin in her palms. Blows out a breath. Watches Yewon go, running to catch the bus, and quirks her lips up in a smile.
No, she supposes she can’t. Because she’s wondering it herself, too.
Afternoon always brings with it a bit of a lull. Hyojung sets the CLOSED sign back up and ambles across the street for a bathroom break. The bell chimes when she opens the door of the Hollys Coffee, and the girl behind the counter instantly zeroes in on her, shooting her an evil eye. Hyojung ignores it, returning her with a sunny smile, and makes straight for the restroom.
In the bathroom mirror, as she’s washing her hands, she puckers her lips at her reflection, then shoots herself a wink. Pats her cheeks and makes a face. Blows a kiss.
When she leaves the bathroom she spots a new advertisement on the coffee shop menu. They’re having a special: hot apple cider.
She walks up to the counter.
The cashier levels her an unimpressed stare. Her nametag reads KIM JIHO. “Can I help you?”
“Hi,” Hyojung says brightly. “Yes. Can I get the special, please?”
Of course, when she makes her way back to her side of the street with the hot apple cider in hand, it’s to find Mihyun behind the counter in a long-sleeved sweater, unscrewing the lid of a large thermos. She stares at Hyojung, or more accurately, at the overpriced drink in her hand.
“It was on sale,” Hyojung says, unsure of why she’s being defensive.
“Cool,” says Mihyun. “You didn’t eat lunch, right? I made kimchi ramyun.” She rummages in the drawer for a pair of chopsticks. “Not exactly fine dining cuisine, but it hits the spot.”
“How’d you know I didn’t eat lunch?” Hyojung asks.
Mihyun raises an eyebrow. “Because you always forget?”
Fair enough. Hyojung nurses the hot cup in her hands and watches Mihyun ladle noodles out into two bowls. It’s a simple meal, but Mihyun’s right: it’s nice to eat something hot and delicious on a cold day like today. She thanks Mihyun as she takes the bowl and chopsticks, and lets the spicy steam waft over her face.
“Yewon came by this morning,” Hyojung says, blowing over the noodles to cool them down.
“Oh, she has a presentation today, doesn’t she?” Mihyun immediately takes out her phone and starts texting. “I hope it went well!”
“It did,” Hyojung says, because Yewon’s sent her a flurry of messages by now confirming exactly that in relieved excitement, but more to the point: “I didn’t know you talked with Yewonnie.”
Mihyun doesn’t pause in her texting. “Why not? She comes by every day.”
“I just never saw it happen,” Hyojung admits. “I really live under a rock, don’t I?”
Mihyun doesn’t look up from her phone. “Yeah, you work so much every day, it doesn’t really surprise me that you’d miss some things.”
“But I’m glad you two are so close!” Hyojung beams. “We should hang out sometime, the three of us!”
Mihyun snorts. “We don’t even hang out, the two of us.”
Hyojung freezes. “What? We literally live together.”
“That’s not the same thing.” Mihyun looks up, as though noticing Hyojung’s shift in tone. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like it was bad or anything. Just that you’re so busy working all the time, and our schedules are so different I rarely get to see you, that’s all.” She stares at Hyojung, something uncharacteristically uncertain about it. “That’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I just...” Hyojung’s voice trails off. Yewon’s words are echoing in her head: half a year is a long time. “Well, maybe when we have time, we can hang out together! Sometime soon!”
“Sure,” Mihyun says. She puts her phone away and starts eating her ramyun. “Sounds good.”
She sounds genuinely agreeable to the idea, so Hyojung doesn’t know why the sound of her own voice feels fake to her, reminiscent of the routine of overenthusiastic small talk when you bump into someone from your hometown high school for the first time in years and make hollow plans to meet up in the future. The kind of idea that sounds good if you say it, but both parties know there’s never any intention of following through. Still, in the moment, it’s nice to pretend—and perhaps it’s that fantasy you’re agreeing to in the end, that imagined possibility. Hyojung gnaws on her lower lip; thinks, but I mean it, but all the weight of that conviction doesn’t feel enough to reach Mihyun slurping down her ramyun noodles down at the other end of the counter.
Hyojung’s not too hungry anymore. Still, she eats all of her share of the ramyun, because Mihyun went out of her way to make some for her. Their shift switch-over is due soon; she’s got to get to her second job. But she has to ask.
“Mihyun,” Hyojung says. “What’s with the apples?”
Mihyun stares at her. “Uh... the what?”
“On the shopping list on the fridge.”
“Oh, that?” Mihyun shrugs. “A customer came by last night, wanted to know if we sold apple turnovers. It sounded like a good idea, so I thought I’d bring it up with you.”
“That’s it?”
Mihyun pauses with her chopsticks in the air. Her lips are reddened by spicy soup. “Was there supposed to be something else?”
“No, I just—” Hyojung sighs. “You’re right, it’s a good idea. I’ll think about it.”
“Okay,” Mihyun says, like that’s it. Simple as anything.
Hyojung thinks about it.
She thinks about it all through her bus ride, to when she arrives at work—The Fifth Season is a classy, high-end restaurant with luxurious decor, cuisine that looks more like art than food, and silverware that costs more than Hyojung’s rent—to when she’s getting changed into her uniform—smart black collared shirt and high-waisted trousers, deep maroon apron around her waist, hair up in a neater bun and pinned into place—to six hours into her shift when she’s listening to Yoobin and Seunghee shit talk a customer who’d dropped a bottle of wine at Hyojung’s feet and then tried to blame it on her.
“She could have just apologized like a normal human being, honestly!” Seunghee says, helping wipe down Hyojung’s pant leg.
“Rich people are the worst,” Yoobin says flatly.
To be clear, Hyojung isn’t thinking about the apple turnovers. They’re a good idea, popular with all kinds of customers, and keeping her menu updated with new options for her beloved customers is always something she’s felt strongly about. But expanding the menu has been put on the backburner lately, what with the business of everyday life catching up to her in this tough time of year. So what she’s thinking about is how the Secret Garden Café was and is a part of her that nobody else has ever touched, up until now.
It’s the first mark that anyone else has made, as simple as it is—a suggestion taken as a possibility and forged into permanence. I didn’t know you wanted to open a café, friends used to tell her after the fact. What’s the concept? Every piece of it has been grown not from the ground up but from somewhere deeper, inside of her, since it was just the faintest seed of a dream to a concrete reality, one in which she lives and works and builds. It’s her ideas written on the chalkboard menu in her lettering; it’s the fruition of her plans and calculations and compromises; it’s her name that she kept to herself until the day it was engraved on the sign. But that isn’t entirely true anymore, not when Mihyun has been working here for six months, for her and with her. When she’s behind the counter right now, on the other side of the city, handing out lattes and hot chocolates and smoothies.
And what does she look like—is she sitting on the stool, or on the back counter leant against the wall, dozing off in the downtime? Does she play music on the speakers of her phone? Is she in a world of her own, or making small talk with strangers and regulars? Hyojung gets home late, late enough to miss the end of Mihyun’s shift, but early enough to be asleep by the time Mihyun comes back from whatever she gets up to at night. She’s never seen Mihyun working, but now she suddenly wants to, more than anything else in the world--watch her take care of the café Hyojung dreamed into being, like it’s no more nor less than the work that’s expected of her; watch her count the cash, lock the doors, close up shop for the night. Ready for opening again in the morning, another new day.
“Hey, unnie,” Seunghee says. “You okay? You look kinda spaced out.”
“I’m fine,” Hyojung says automatically. “Just thinking about—”
A friend. She was going to say friend. But for a startling moment Hyojung realizes she doesn’t know if she’s making an overestimation. It’s happened before, in far less strange situations like this. A coworker, an employee, a roommate. What does she know about Mihyun? She likes to stay up late, music—both the experience and the performance of it—and dogs. She doesn’t overly care about her appearance or what others think of her. She has a habit of biting her nails and she has simple tastes but obscure knowledge and though she’s not the most graceful nor efficient with coffeeshop machinery, she’s one of the most dedicated people Hyojung knows. She just doesn’t make a big show of it, but she’s a constant, a sure presence. Is that enough to call someone a friend? Should she have asked? When’s the right time to ask? Right there over their shared ramyun noodles, in the warmth of the café, should she have said—hey, Mihyun. Are we friends?
With anyone else, Hyojung would have said right away without hesitation: yes. Silly—of course we are. With Mihyun, she doesn’t know why, but there’s a strange tremor in her heart, at not knowing where they stand. An air of mystery she’s not used to. With everyone Hyojung likes to make her intentions clear, but Mihyun’s broken every single boundary by just existing, a grey area, not uncertain but undefined. A nearby presence, push and pull of a tide washing ashore, then drawing slack, receding; then forward once more. How strangely comforting. How startlingly familiar.
“Unnie, don’t worry too much about it,” Yoobin says. “It’s been a rough day, but it’s almost over. We can all get out of here soon.”
“I can’t wait to go home!” Seunghee says, a singsong lilt to her voice.
Hyojung’s heart is racing. To go home. And to sleep, and wake up, and do it all over again.
“The night is young,” Hyojung says. She smiles. “Come on, let’s get back out there.”
The bus comes early and traffic is smooth. She ends up catching the tail end of Mihyun’s shift, walking down the street lit by streetlamps and the glow of apartment windows and closing stores, towards the light that belongs to her, in her corner of the world. The sign for Secret Garden Café warmer than any welcome. And Mihyun behind the counter, handing out a drink to the last customer of the night.
“Thanks!” Hyojung can hear the girl say as she draws closer. She’s never seen her around before, but maybe she’s a regular who only comes by in late afternoon or evening, or else a first-timer just looking for something sweet to warm her hands in the chill. She’s got a pink whale charm dangling from her purse. “Good night!”
“Good night,” Mihyun says, and then she looks up and catches sight of Hyojung. Something relaxes in her expression. “Hey.”
“Hi!” Hyojung gives the departing customer a wave, and opens the door to enter the stall. “How was your night?”
“It was fine. Not that busy.” Mihyun brings out the CLOSED sign, sets it on the counter. “How about you?”
“Good,” Hyojung finds herself saying.
Mihyun raises her eyebrows. “Why are your socks stained red? Is that blood?”
“No! A customer spilled wine on me, that’s all.”
Mihyun makes a face. “Ugh. That sucks.” If she has any thought or judgment about Hyojung’s second job, she doesn’t say it. “You’re probably heading for an early night, then?”
This is something Mihyun knows about her, of course: Hyojung usually goes to sleep at a reasonable hour. Nothing if not reliable. But as Hyojung opens her mouth to reply, she finds herself saying something else.
“Hey, Mihyun.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you...” She hesitates. She’s never known herself to hesitate so much before. “Do you want to do something together? Let’s go eat something, or go somewhere nice. Just the two of us. What do you think?”
Mihyun stops in the middle of untying her apron. She looks at Hyojung appraisingly. Hyojung looks back and hopes her smile looks genuine rather than manic.
“I already have plans,” Mihyun says.
A split second to falter; that’s all she needs. “Oh, okay! That’s no problem at all! Have fun—”
“But you can come with.” Mihyun cocks her head slightly. “If you want.”
“Oh.”
A longer pause this time. Funny. It’s late, but Hyojung feels wide awake.
“Okay,” Hyojung says. “Sure. I would love that.”
And Mihyun just nods as she hangs up her apron, but she’s smiling, too.
“This is my friend Yoo Shiah,” Mihyun says. “Shiah, this is Hyojung.”
“Ah,” says the most intimidatingly gorgeous girl Hyojung has ever seen, nodding her head. A martini glass is perched in her fingers, arm elegantly braced against the bar. “It’s good to meet you.”
“Wow,” Hyojung says, though thankfully it’s lost in the chatter of the pub. “Hello! It’s great to meet you too!”
Shiah raises her glass in response; Hyojung downs her own and lets the warmth flush through her senses. When she looks back up again she catches Mihyun watching her with a faint smile on her face. Hyojung grins back at her.
“This place is nice,” Hyojung says, though she has to raise her voice to be heard. Nice is probably not the most accurate word—the interiors are dingy and the floors stick to the soles of her shoes. Smoke clings to the air, obscuring naked neon bulbs; a couple of disco balls throw errant shards of light around the room, illuminating the crowd in slivers. There’s a stage at the back of the bar, and someone’s performing right now, a guy with a lip piercing and sleeve tattoos crooning, of all things, an IU song. But all of it’s refreshing, like a return to her early university days, or else a glimpse of a life she’s never had. “I like it.”
“Honestly, I didn’t even know you drink,” Mihyun says.
“Every once in a while,” Hyojung says. “When I have the time...”
“And money,” Mihyun offers.
“With friends,” Hyojung says.
“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Shiah laughs. “To being busy, and broke, and happy!”
Mihyun takes a swig of her beer. “Fuck yeah.” She looks—she always looks carefree, like she’s half tuned into another world even in the moment, but right now she looks like she’s here, all of her, and her energy’s too much to be contained, every molecule thrumming loud and radiant and alive. Is this what everybody else gets to see, when she’s on shift at night? Hyojung wonders. But she has a feeling about the answer.
“Hey, aren’t you on next?” Shiah says.
“Oh, shit. Yeah.” Mihyun hastily wipes her mouth with a napkin. Some red lipstick smears off. She’d applied a heavier face of makeup before they’d come out tonight; Hyojung had showered, and felt washed out afterward, like she’d absorbed the weight of all that water. They’d taken the bus, though—Mihyun left her motorbike behind, because they were going to be drinking—and that had woken her right back up, sitting next to Mihyun watching the lights of the city go by, windows steamed over with condensation. Mihyun’s hand next to hers on the seat, an inch apart, distance close enough to be broken by a shiver.
“On for what?” Hyojung asks.
“Hey, watch my drink, will you?” Mihyun says in lieu of answering. “Don’t let her steal any.” She jabs a finger at Shiah, who pouts at her, full-lipped and doe-eyed.
“I don’t even like beer!”
“Whatever.” Mihyun hangs her leather jacket on the back of her seat. She’s wearing a black ruched spaghetti-strap tank underneath, shimmery and delicate in a way Hyojung never would have associated with her before. But she’s coming to understand that Mihyun shies away from definitions.
“Break a leg!” Shiah says, blowing her a kiss.
Mihyun flips her the finger as she walks away—to the stage, where the guy is handing her the microphone. Hyojung straightens up in her seat. Oh.
On stage, Mihyun taps the microphone, sending a screech of feedback reverberating around the bar, to a chorus of groans and shouts. “Is this thing on?” she says innocently.
“Get on with it!” someone yells from the crowd.
“Gladly,” Mihyun says. Her voice is deep, but so clear, Hyojung thinks—and then Mihyun is stepping forward, taking in a breath, and starting to rap.
Hyojung gradually becomes aware that her mouth is hanging open. She closes it. Still, she feels struck dumb, awash by the unrelenting wave that hits the room, syllables brash and fast-paced and precise. Some people are letting out whoops and cheers, others are yelling louder over the noise, but all Hyojung can hear is Mihyun’s voice filling up every corner of the room.
Hyojung drinks some more. She likes the way it blurs the world by drawing certain things into sharper definition. The glitter of Shiah’s earrings, the arc of light caught in the rim of a glass, the girl on the stage belting out I want to be crooked! into the microphone. Not as though it’s the first time Hyojung has seen her clearly, but that it’s a piece she’s missed. That her coworker, her employee, her roommate, her friend—that Mihyun glows.
“GO, KIM MIHYUN,” Hyojung calls, hands cupped around her mouth. She turns to Shiah. “Hey, isn’t she great?”
An amused smile is playing at Shiah’s lips. “Yeah. Of course she is.”
“I always knew, but.” Hyojung props her elbow up on the bar, chin in her palm. “I think this is my first time seeing it for myself.”
Shiah looks surprised. “I thought you were friends. Mihyun always told me—”
“Told you what?”
Shiah considers it. “Well, I guess she said you two were different. But that you got it.”
“Got it?” Hyojung repeats. “What does that mean?”
Shiah gives a vague, one-shouldered shrug. “You’d have to ask her,” she says.
It’s such a cop-out answer Hyojung shoots her a look over her glass. Shiah grins back, sheepish, and sips her beer. Wait. Hold on a minute.
“That’s Mihyun’s,” Hyojung says accusingly.
“Whoops,” says Shiah, making no move to put down the bottle. “It’s also disgusting, though? So it’s like I’m doing her a favour.”
“You are really weird,” Hyojung tells her. “I’m glad.”
Shiah snorts a laugh. “What? Why?”
“Because I’m weird, too. So that means I have a chance at being Mihyun’s friend.”
“Are you serious?” Shiah levels her a pointed look.
On the stage, Mihyun drops the mic. The crowd goes crazy, and Hyojung misses whatever Shiah says next.
“What?” Hyojung shouts.
Shiah takes another swallow of beer, and sets the bottle back exactly where Mihyun’d left it, as though it’d never been touched. “Unnie,” Shiah says. How’d she know Hyojung’s older than her? “Listen. We’re all busy, and broke, and we could be happier than we are. I think you can stand to be a little greedier than that.”
Hyojung blinks at her. “Excuse me?”
“What’d I miss?” Mihyun’s voice is scratchier after her performance. She clambers back onto her seat and swats Shiah on the shoulder.
“Ow! What’d you do that for?”
“For stealing my beer,” Mihyun says. She knocks back what’s left in the bottle, wipes her mouth at the back of her hand, and then catches Hyojung’s eye. Her gaze is bright in the half-darkness of the bar, in the afterglow of her performance, skin flushed with a sheen of sweat and glitter. “Hey. What’d you think?”
“I think,” Hyojung begins. She hiccups; her head is feeling light. Her vision swims, and when she blinks Mihyun is still there, waiting for an answer. I think you did pretty amazing, she means to say, but what comes out instead is: “I think you’re pretty amazing.”
A ripple of surprise flits over Mihyun’s face. All these new microexpressions, these minute shifts and details Hyojung is learning. Had she really not noticed them before? Had she never caused them before?
“I think you’re drunk,” Mihyun says. Her voice is warm. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
There’s a HELP WANTED poster taped onto the glass of the bus shelter, featuring some fried chicken place with a trendy name, part job posting and part advertisement. The bottom of the paper is cut into slips with the restaurant’s phone number written on it, fluttering like streamers in the wind. The text is really small; Hyojung has to lean real close and go cross-eyed to read it.
“Dude, what are you doing? You’re gonna fall over.” Mihyun tugs her back onto the bench. “Also, you’re not unemployed. You’re literally overemployed.”
“Overemployed,” Hyojung says with an airy laugh. “That’s a good one.” Her head lolls onto Mihyun’s shoulder. “Hey, Mihyun.”
“What.”
“We’re friends now, right?”
“What are you talking about? We were always friends.”
“But I never—” Hyojung wets her lips. “There’s so much I didn’t know about you, don’t know about you, like—”
“Like what?” Mihyun pulls back, crosses her arms. She looks kind of annoyed, now. “I go out to bars at night and I like to rap? Does it make that much of a difference to you?”
“—like why you’re here, working behind the counter of a tiny café when you’re so much more.”
Silence. Hyojung looks up. Mihyun is staring at her, disbelief clear on her face.
“Are you kidding me?” Mihyun laughs, a brash sound. “Hey, Hyojung, you’re just gonna talk about your café like that? Like it’s nothing?”
“I didn’t say that!” Hyojung straightens up, indignant. “I just—I thought I understood, but I don’t. Why are you slogging through six-hour shifts when you could be—” She gestures, vaguely, at Mihyun. “You?”
“Me?” Mihyun snorts. “Just a second ago you were saying how you don’t even know me. How would you know?”
“I don’t!” Hyojung says. Are they shouting? Why are they shouting? “That’s exactly why I wanted to, and now—”
“Look, I know you’ve been expecting me to leave you hanging out to dry, but I told you back then—I work hard. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“It’s not that,” Hyojung’s saying, but in her mind’s eye she’s remembering Mihyun on that first day, the way she just showed up in a breeze and took everything Hyojung threw at her. And wasn’t part of it to see how far Mihyun would follow? Wasn’t this always supposed to be a temporary arrangement? Wasn’t Hyojung in some way waiting all this time for her to leave?
It would be more convenient, she can hear herself saying, all those months ago. I’ll be gone before you know it, Mihyun had said back. So maybe some of it’s Hyojung’s fault; maybe some of it’s Mihyun’s. Either way she isn’t entirely free of blame. Coworker, employee, roommate: did I draw the boundaries between us? Did I do it to protect me, or you? Have I held you at arm’s length?
“I didn’t know—I didn’t—” Hyojung closes her eyes. She wishes she were sober, so she could get the words right. It’s important, she thinks, to get the words right. “I’m sorry,” she says. She can feel Mihyun’s wary gaze. “I didn’t mean to suggest any of those things. I know you better than that.”
“Do you?” Mihyun’s voice is cool.
Hyojung opens her eyes again. “You always mean what you say. You don’t do anything half-heartedly. You’ve spent the past half year with me and you’ve never once gone back on your word, but you don’t seem the kind of person who would accept a boring life, and running a café, well—” Hyojung shrugs. “I love it, but it’s not for everyone. Of course I know that.”
“You really don’t know why I stayed,” Mihyun says. She leans back against the glass wall of the bus shelter. Her makeup is smudged slightly, around the corners of her eyes. “Really? You handed over your dream to me thirty seconds after I pulled up on your doorstep. What else was I supposed to do?”
“I didn’t—”
“Yeah, I know you too,” Mihyun says. Her eyes are half-lidded, her gaze is unyielding. “Know you’re the crazy girl who works up to fifteen hours a day and doesn’t mind. Know you live and die for your café and yet you somehow trusted a total stranger with it. Know you mean everything you say, too, as unbelievable as it is sometimes.” Hyojung feels pinned under her stare. “It took me longer than it should’ve, to realize it.”
“What?”
“That for you’re real. About everything.”
Hyojung feels dizzy. She’s said everything so casually, as though none of it surprises her, none of it is new. “You’re telling me that you stayed here for me,” she says, just to hear how astonishing it sounds, to marvel at the words on her tongue.
“I stayed because you had a dream, and it felt like...” Mihyun shrugs. “Like the right thing to do would be to see it through to the end with you.”
Hyojung’s head spins. “So you stayed for me.”
“Okay, asshole, if you put it that way—”
“I think you have a dream, too, Mihyun.”
“What?”
Hyojung wonders if she can rest her head back on Mihyun’s shoulder again, or if Mihyun’d shrug her off this time. “Just now. At the bar.”
“That’s not my dream,” Mihyun says. “It just—”
“Makes you come alive?”
The corner of Mihyun’s mouth lifts up in a wry half-smile. “Something like that.”
“Isn’t that what a dream is?” Hyojung presses.
“No,” Mihyun says. “That’s not a dream. That’s something real. A dream’s something more than that, you know? Something you can look up to.”
There’s something wistful in her tone. Hyojung shifts closer, shoulder knocking against Mihyun’s, and privately thinks that there isn’t that much of a difference, or at least she can’t see one. But she keeps it to herself.
“I don’t regret it,” Hyojung says.
“What?”
“Sharing my dream with you.” She smiles. “You took care of it so well.”
“I literally exploded the toaster oven—”
“Me,” Hyojung says. “You took care of me.” She takes the risk; carefully lowers her head onto Mihyun’s shoulder. Mihyun doesn’t budge. Feeling bolder, she reaches out and entwines Mihyun’s hand in her own. If the gesture surprises Mihyun, she doesn’t show it. “Thank you for not letting my dream be a lonely one.”
“Is that all?” Mihyun’s voice is dry with amusement. It sounds lower at this angle, a deep rumble of her throat.
“And for being my friend.”
“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit here. I just man the counter and sweep up when I’m done. You run everything, and might I remind you, you’re the one who took me in like I was some lost duckling—”
“And for the suggestion about the apple turnovers. It’s a good idea. Let’s add those to the menu.”
“Oh,” Mihyun says, like for some reason that’s all it took to shut her up. “Okay.”
“What?” Hyojung can’t see her face at this angle. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts? It’s just a pastry.”
“I made up the story about the customer,” Mihyun admits. “I just really like them, and I’ve been looking up how to make them. It seems kinda fun.”
“I knew it!” Hyojung shouts. In her head, a victory chant: she likes apples!
“Shh, you’re making a racket. It’s like two AM, pipe down.”
Hyojung mimes zipping her lips and throwing away the key.
There’s a long pause after that.
“I don’t think the bus is coming,” Mihyun says after a while.
Hyojung throws her head back and laughs, eyes squeezing shut. When she opens them, Mihyun has that weird half-smile on her face again.
“We could just camp out here for the night,” Hyojung suggests. “We’ve got shelter. Just gotta huddle for warmth.”
“Man, you are really funny when you’re drunk,” Mihyun says. “All right, let’s find a cab.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’d work too.”
“C’mon, let me up.” Mihyun pats Hyojung’s forehead. “Hey. Earth to Hyojung. Hold on—are you falling asleep on me? Hey, Choi Hyojung! You’ve got to be kidding me!”
The night is not so young anymore, but it’s still beautiful. Even more so knowing what comes next; the morning in store, and all the possibilities of the day. Funny. It’s winter, so why does Hyojung feel so warm?
Hyojung gains awareness in stages. Her limbs, bundled warm under the covers. Her pillow, familiar and comfortable under her head. A weight next to her, brushing against her arm, coarse strands of something—hair?—tickling the side of her cheek.
“Good morning,” Mihyun says right into Hyojung’s ear.
Hyojung’s eyes fly open as she sits bolt upright. “How’d you know I was awake?”
“You weren’t snoring.”
“I don’t snore,” Hyojung gasps. “Do I snore?”
“Always,” Mihyun deadpans. She’s—in bed. In Hyojung’s bed. Hyojung’s mind short circuits; revives itself at a clear memory of sprawling facedown onto her mattress, of tugging at an arm and muttering just come on already. She can feel the blood drain out of her face. Mihyun’s smirk changes rapidly into a look of alarm.
“Oh my god,” Hyojung says. Her heart is in her throat; its frenzied thumping pulse comes reverberating out as nervous laughter. “Haha, last night was wild, right? I’m so sorry I don’t know what came over me—”
“Hyojung,” Mihyun says. “Stop talking.”
Hyojung stops talking.
“Actually, don’t,” Mihyun says. “I kind of like it when you talk. But only when you’re saying things like Mihyun, I think you’re pretty amazing or you’re such a great friend, what would I ever do without you—”
“I never said that!” Hyojung’s at least seventy percent sure she never said that. “But if I did, then you know I meant it.”
“Good,” Mihyun says. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
She’s very close, Hyojung realizes. And drawing closer and closer, an intent look in her eyes, reaching out not to hold but to touch Hyojung by the side of her face, extraordinarily gentle. Hyojung forgets how to breathe. It doesn’t matter. Her heart feels like it’s sprouted wings and she can’t contain it anymore. She surges forward to meet her halfway, lips curving up against Mihyun’s in an overeager kiss, drawn long and curious and keen.
“Wow,” Mihyun says when they pull apart. “Your morning breath is so bad.”
Hyojung is grinning ear to ear. “You’re going to have to get used to it, aren’t you?”
Mihyun starts to make a face, but it morphs into a yawn. Her hair is sticking up all over the place and there’s a bit of it stuck in her mouth. Gross, Hyojung thinks. She reaches out and brushes it away.
“I was thinking,” Mihyun says. “I could help you open up shop today.”
Hyojung falls still. “Really?”
“I’m up now anyway, aren’t I?” Mihyun shrugs. “And it’s my fault you were up so late. And hey. Maybe I wanna see what I’m missing out on, in the mornings.”
Hyojung’s chest feels tight. “Okay,” she says. She wants to say more, but she isn’t sure of the words. And Mihyun seems satisfied, anyway, which is what really matters.
Mihyun gives her a sleepy smile. “Well, did you have a good dream?”
A wide open space. Greenery. An outdoor patio. Lights strung from the eaves. Laughter and chatter and warmth. Hello and welcome to Secret Garden Café. Thank you for coming. How may I help you today?
“I didn’t dream at all,” Hyojung says with a laugh. Through the window, the morning is clear, same as any other morning. But somehow brighter than she’s ever seen it. “Come on! Let’s get to work.”
She tugs Mihyun up by the wrist, and Mihyun follows.