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He didn’t know what possessed him to say yes.
Maybe it was the way Yoo Sangah tilted her when she asked. Or maybe it was the slight lift of her brow, daring him to come up with an excuse not to. Or maybe, more likely, it was the fact that she didn’t ask.
She just told him: “Meet me at the grocery store at five. We’re buying pumpkins.”
And then she hung up and he saw his own face on the screen.
Which brought him here. Standing in the produce section of their local supermarket, holding a plastic cart filled with three lumpy orange pumpkins, one small enough to be a melon, the other two big enough to qualify as heavy lifting.
Yoo Sangah inspected a fourth one like a jeweler examining a diamond. “This one’s got character.”
“It’s got a dent,” Kim Dokja said, leaning on the cart.
“Exactly. That’s character .”
He didn’t argue. She placed it gently next to the others and straightened up. “That should be enough. Unless you want one for yourself.”
“I wasn’t planning to make one in the first place.”
“You are,” she said, smiling faintly as she turned the cart toward the checkout.
He stared after her for a second, then followed with a sigh.
They carved them at Yoo Sangah’s apartment. Her living room floor was covered in newspaper, a large trash bag waiting nearby for the pumpkin guts. She handed him a cheap carving kit—two stubby saw-like knives, a scoop, and a few paper templates.
“I googled a tutorial,” she said.
Kim Dokja stared at the pumpkin in front of him like it was about to explode. “Do people actually do this for fun?”
“Millions of people. Every year.”
“Seems excessive.”
She sat down cross-legged beside him, already rolling up her sleeves. “You’re the one who said you wanted to experience a ‘normal’ October.”
He frowned. “I meant, like, drinking warm coffee. Watching movies. Maybe buying discounted snacks. Not… this.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘Anything seasonal, as long as it doesn’t involve crowds or parties.’ ”
“This was clearly not what I meant.”
She snorted. “Too late to back out.”
With that, she plunged a kitchen knife into the top of her pumpkin and began to cut. He flinched at the scraping, squeaking, wet sound. She handed him another knife. “You do the top first. Cut a lid. Like this.” She pointed.
“Doesn’t it seem a little… violent?”
“It’s a vegetable, Kim Dokja.”
“Pumpkin is a vegetable?” He didn’t know that…
“I guess? I think it’s botanically a fruit, but in culinary terms, it’s considered a veggie.”
This was why he liked hanging out with her. He learned things he hadn’t considered learning whenever he was with her. It was nice.
“I’m just saying. If someone made a holiday about gutting watermelons, people would call it disturbing.”
She didn’t answer, but she was laughing.
Pumpkin guts were disgusting. No one mentioned that part.
The inside was full of slimy orange strands and seeds. It clung to everything. His hands, the scoop, the edges of the knife. He tried to scrape as much out as he could, but halfway through, he gave up and just started using his hands.
Across from him, Yoo Sangah worked with efficiency. Her sleeves were still rolled up to her elbows, and there was a smudge of orange on her cheek. She looked too focused. It's almost funny to see her like that.
She caught him staring and raised a brow. “Something wrong?”
He looked back at his mess. “I think mine’s defective.”
“Maybe you’re defective.”
“That’s uncalled for.”
She tilted her head, amused. “I’m kidding. Want my help?”
“No.” He absolutely did.
He watched as she leaned over her own pumpkin, carving two round eyes into the front. She didn’t use a template, instead she just drew the eyes and mouth lightly using pencil and went to work. Her fingers were steady.
He looked at her pumpkin then back at his.
His pumpkin was hideous. The eyes were uneven, the nose too big, the mouth jagged and crooked like a bad dental ad. He looked at it with a mix of horror and admiration.
Yoo Sangah leaned over. “…Is it screaming?”
“No. She’s just… expressive.”
“Oh, it’s a she?”
“Yep.”
She stared at it, then said, “She looks like you.”
He glanced at her. “How? Are you calling me ugly?”
“No, I mean, she’s confused, but trying her best. Like her dad.”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t disagree.
Later, when they had three finished pumpkins sitting in a row by the window, they turned off the lights and placed tea candles inside each one.
Yoo Sangah’s had a classic grin—soft triangle eyes and a neat crescent mouth. It looked clean and warm, like something you’d see in a cozy cartoon.
His, on the other hand, looked haunted.
The third one, which they did together, had tiny dot eyes and a flat, unimpressed mouth.
“He looks done with everything,” Yoo Sangah said.
Kim Dokja nodded. “He’s the spirit of adulthood.”
They sat on the couch afterward, watching the flickering candlelight through the pumpkin faces. There was a bowl of roasted seeds between them. Yoo Sangah had insisted they save some to try roasting. They were lightly salted, slightly burnt and surprisingly good.
They hadn’t talked about anything serious all day. Not about the past, not about work, nothing serious was ever brought up. Not their strange relationship, either. That was the way they kept things lately. Simple. Light.
“I used to hate autumn,” he said suddenly.
She glanced over. “Why?”
“I mean, school starting again and cold mornings. ”
“And now?”
“I think I like it.”
She leaned back against the couch. “Well, I always did.”
“Of course you did.”
She smiled faintly. “What does that mean?”
“I mean, you’re the kind of person who likes pumpkin carving. Not surprising whatsoever there.”
“And you’re the kind of person who needs to be dragged into it.”
He laughed.
The glow from the pumpkins reflected in the window glass. It made the whole room look warmer than it really was.
He glanced at her again. She was leaning against the side of the couch, arms folded, legs tucked under her. Her hair was tied back, loose strands framing her face. There was still pumpkin on her cheek.
He reached over and wiped it off without thinking.
She blinked, surprised.
He pulled his hand back, awkward. “You had something…”
“Oh.” She didn’t say anything for a second. Then, quietly: “Thanks.”
The silence returned, but it was a different kind of quiet now. More awkward, if you will.
He thought about saying something else. About how it had been nice. About how her apartment always smelled like home to him. About how he liked this version of them—not pretending to be anything but ordinary.
But in the end he just shut his mouth. Instead, he looked at the pumpkins again. At the one she said looked like him. Confused, but trying her best.
He didn’t know if he agreed, but he for sure didn't disagree.
It was late when he got up to leave.
She walked him to the door, holding a blanket around her shoulders like a cape. “You should take the screaming one home. He needs you.”
“Absolutely not.”
“He’s your son now.”
“You keep him. Consider it a gift.”
She rolled her eyes at his words, smiling.
He put his shoes on slowly.
She opened the door and cool air swept in. The hallway was quiet, the kind of quiet that only happened in residential buildings past ten.
He hesitated. Then turned back.
“Hey.”
She looked up.
“Thanks. For this.” He wasn’t good at words, but this felt like something that should be said.
She nodded. “Anytime.”
He stepped into the hall.
“Dokja-ssi.”
He turned.
She stood in the doorway, the light from inside casting a glow behind her.
“You can come then we can do something like this again. Doesn’t have to be October.”
He didn’t smile, but something in his expression softened.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Then he left.
And behind him, the door closed quietly and the pumpkins kept glowing in the window.