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The breeze is cool, but the air’s so clear, crisp and clean when it prickles her cheeks. Hyo-rin tilts her face towards it, and her hair stirs around her, dancing across her face and off her shoulders. She hears In-hye’s breath hitch and is told, “Oh, that’s perfect—don’t move.”
An artist herself—if a lesser one—Hyo-rin knows this really means don’t move; don’t shift, don’t shiver, don’t even blink—though In-hye won’t say anything if she does. In-hye never has anything bad to say to her. She could push up to her feet, pat the dirt off her knees, and skip right off, and In-hye would sigh but accept it. And follow. She’s good like that. Perfect like that. So much sweeter than any other friend Hyo-rin’s ever had—assuming the girls she used to talk to at school even counted as friends—and more reliable than her parents, kinder than their staff. In-hye’s the best thing that ever happened to her.
So Hyo-rin bites the inside of her cheek to stifle an automatic smile and really tries not to move.
A wild daisy bends in the breeze, the petals tickling her ankle, the small stretch of bare skin between her shoe and the bottom of her dress. They’re not proper hiking clothes, which they were warned of in the village, but they didn’t plan to go far, and the art seemed more important. They bought a few things from local shops, stayed the night in a quaint cabin, and In-hye helped her dress for the occasion—another portrait in charcoal that might become a painting. It’s so different from when Hyo-rin’s mother used to dress her. She doesn’t feel like a doll, but a partner, a muse. In-hye’s always drawing her. Says she’s the best subject. In-hye’s pictures seem sadder when Hyo-rin’s not in them, skewing more creative but so dark, so Hyo-rin poses whenever she can. They’ll be in the middle of a grocery store, seated at a restaurant, boarding a flight to a whole new country, and In-hye will suddenly get that look, and the sketchbook will come out. Hyo-rin will smile, and their cozy conversation will die into an equally comfortable silence, while In-hye’s skilled fingers trace her canvas and Hyo-rin basks in the attention, the love.
In-hye murmurs, “You look really pretty today,” not like a frilly complement but an inarguable statement. A simple truth.
Hyo-rin says, “You too,” and In-hye’s shoulders hike, her lovely face flushing pink as she ducks behind the large page. She’s beautiful too, in a more humble, honest way than Hyo-rin is. It inspires Hyo-rin to draw at odd times of the night when sleep’s just out of reach. She knows she’ll probably never be as talented as In-hye is, but she enjoys sketching anyway and mostly draws her favourite subject: her favourite person. In-hye’s beyond a muse; she’s a guiding star, a sun, Hyo-rin’s true family.
They’ve built a whole life for themselves around just each other. It’s so fulfilling, more beautiful than even the sweeping Swiss fields all around them, full of flowers in bloom. The little town’s picturesque behind them, all the way down the hill, where they’ll wander back to later for a couple more days before their imaginations whisk them to some other scenic place. There are none of the creature comforts of the manor Hyo-rin grew up in, no luxury items, so little space, no wait staff, nothing, but every new bed feels more like a home. She’s been sleeping better than she ever has. They’ve stopped bothering to pay for two beds. In-hye gives good hugs that inspire good dreams.
A strand of hair drifts across Hyo-rin’s mouth and glues to her lip gloss—she can’t help scrunching her nose. She keeps her body in place despite her face’s grimace, and In-hye laughs. “You can get that.”
Hyo-rin makes a noise to the negative: a brave show of loyalty. She’s become a Grecian statue that won’t move until her sculptor’s finished. In-hye prods, “You’re sure you don’t want to?”
Hyo-rin’s nose wrinkles deeper. She almost shakes her head, but statues don’t do that. She wills herself not to be annoyed by the hair flapping against her lip; she tells herself she’s not human, she’s art.
In-hye puts the sketchbook down and leans over, gently thumbing the hair away, rescuing her yet again. In-hye sighs, “You could’ve moved for that, you know,” but she’s grinning, like she understands why Hyo-rin didn’t and appreciates it.
Hyo-rin reasons out, “It’s okay, I knew you’d save me.”
In-hye giggles, and Hyo-rin does too, because she loves In-hye’s laugh, and their moods tend to match up. They come from such different lives, molded by different traumas, but they fit together perfectly and just work in sync. When the laughter dies out, and the book’s back, In-hye tells her, “You saved me too, you know.”
Hyo-rin bites her bottom lip. She doesn’t really think so. Her family’s full of psychopaths that nearly took down all of In-hye’s family. Hyo-rin might’ve brought the money, but she couldn’t have wrestled it free alone, and In-hye’s strength saved her. In-hye looks over like the admiration’s mutual. Warmth twists in Hyo-rin’s gut—that pleasant, wondrous feeling of acceptance and care. She never wants it to end.
In-hye retires her charcoal and turns the sketchbook around, showing the finished work—a pretty girl knelt in lush grass, framed by rolling hills and a gorgeous sky. Even in black and white, it’s captured the world in its best light, solidifying another amazing memory. Hyo-rin always thinks she looks best through In-hye’s eyes; she looks like a princess in the picture, though nothing’s changed, no artificial enhancements or touch-ups, just her. But happy. She’s smiling in the picture, though she was trying to keep her features cool and mature in real life.
She tells In-hye, “I love it,” and means both the sketch and real life.
In-hye answers, “Same,” and Hyo-rin knows what she means.
They pack up, the supplies tucked back into bags, share a drink of pure water from the same bottle, and could traipse back. Instead, they lie in the grass for a little while, just peacefully watching clouds.