Chapter Text
Jisung
I take comfort in small things — the way steam curls up from a warm cup like a gentle whisper, carrying the faint scent of tea and honey into the thick air.
I really like matcha. Lavender matcha.
I sit at my desk, fingers lingering, forgotten, on the smooth paper as the rain paints the world outside in watery shades of gray and blue, blurring the edges of the trees and the streets until everything feels like a dream just beyond reach.
I really like the rain.
There’s a strange comfort in this stillness — Jisung, 24, me; sitting in my worn-down apartment, staring at each and every little raindrop. But somewhere else in the world — even in the apartment next to mine — someone is experiencing life differently.
The only thing predictable about life is its unpredictability.
Anyone can be anything.
You can be everything.
I stare back down at the paper beneath my frail hand. Why are my hands so small? They’re so dry. Ew. Why can’t I have soft hands? No matter how many lotions, and creams I use, they’re cracked.
I don’t really like my hands.
I found solace in the simple, almost silly ritual of watching raindrops race down the windowpane—each drop a tiny champion in a slow-motion battle against gravity. My eyes searched the blurred glass, tracing their delicate paths as they weaved and merged, some faltering, others speeding with quiet determination. And then, there it was—one solitary drop that seemed to shimmer with a quiet promise, gliding faster than the rest, carving its way through the rain-soaked glass like it carried a secret victory. This one was different. This one was mine. I held my breath, knowing without doubt it would win the made up race in my mind.
I wish I could be someone’s favorite rain drop.
I miss it.
That’s ok.
I’m fine.
I hate the way I embarrass myself no matter what I’m doing. It sounds stupid, but I always end up tripping, or stuttering too much. I don’t have an ounce of confidence. I get so overwhelmed I hate it — I always get looks of annoyance, or simply pity.
I don’t really like myself.
I blink out of my thoughts. Focusing back onto the paper.
”Useless. This is useless.” I mutter to myself as I stand up, closing my notebook and resting my pen beside it. I was going to try journaling since videos on my ‘For You Page’ kept saying that journaling makes you happier. I don’t think so, I feel worse.
I step over cups and plates on my floor. I need to clean. It’s fine.
I tug my washed out, knitted sweater over my head. The knitting is a washed out, light green. There is a dark pink lining — but it’s starting to fray at the edges.
I really like this sweater.
The lock to my apartment door is really stiff, so it takes some effort to actually lock it. So after about 35 seconds of pure struggle, I started my walk to the coffee shop. I’ve been to this particular coffee shop hundreds of times. The employees are mean though. They’re cold, and always stare at you intensely. I always end up looking like a fool around them — stumbling across my words, losing my balance, trailing off like I am now.
I don’t really like the staff here.
Apparently, the ground is really interesting. Well, when I’m walking in public. I’ve counted thirteen snails, seven worms, and two… half worms. Ew.
Without even registering that I arrived, I entered the coffee shop. Gaining awareness when the bell above me jingled. My head still down, I step in line. The scent of coffee suddenly hit me.
I don’t really like coffee.
I rock back and forth, trying to not look so stiff. I stumble a bit and have to stop.
”Can I please have a 16 ounce, lavender matcha please?” I quietly repeated to myself several times, most likely looking crazy.
The moment I lift my head, I lock eyes with one of the employees. He looks away immediately. Oh? He’s cold to the customer he’s talking with. Oh. I don’t know him. He must be new. He was staring at me. He’s attractive. Oh.
His shirt was black, crisp against the glow of his skin. I watched the way his fingers wrapped around the mug he handed off, how they moved like he’d done this a thousand times, but still cared about getting it right. There was a rhythm to him — calm, certain, the kind of presence that made the air quieter. Even the espresso machine seemed to respect him.
His hair fell just right, soft around his face like someone painted it there on purpose. And when he glanced up, just briefly — eyes sharp but not cold… to me. I’m not good at reading people. His eyes softened. No. He doesn’t like me. He can’t. I didn’t even know his name, but in that moment, I felt it — the tiniest ache in my chest.
After contemplating if I should turn back home, and never come back, I approached the majestic ass man standing behind the counter. Fidgeting with the sleeve of my sweater, my steps were slow and uncertain.
Minho
The moment this boy entered, my eyes were glued. This isn’t a phenomenon I’ve ever experienced before. I don’t like people. I act like I do, but I don’t. I’ve never dated anyone, no one ever really has had interest in me because they think I’m cold. But — If I do have interest in someone, I will care about every molecule, every breath, every stupid detail most people overlook. Obsessive? No. Obsessed. Big difference.
There was something about this man. His eyes were big, and sparkly. Really sparkly.. and his hair was so silky. I wanted to feel it. I liked his glasses. The frames are cute. He has really plump lips. He looks like a quokka. He’s really cute. Really fucking cute.
The boy I’m watching from a distance is ethereal. He doesn’t seem to know. He’s spinning the ring on his finger as he looks at the menu, and he’s rocking back in fourth. Adorable. The boy blinks, 3 times, when he notices me staring. I must’ve zoned out.
I smirk as I lock eyes with him.
I look back to the person I was speaking with. They had been talking about their dog. I don’t care for dogs.
“I’ll show you a picture!” The woman says, obviously trying to flirt, “My pupper is adorable!”
Pupper? Ugh
“No, it’s ok. Please go. There are people behind you,” such as the cute boy I want to fuck, “have a good day.” I say, more unenthusiastically than I intended.
Han
I step up to the counter, already a nervous wreck. Damn it!
“Good morni- uhm, evening,” what the fuck is wrong with me, “c-can I please, uhm, get a matcha.”
Wait no, not just a matcha. Lavender. 16 ounces. I stand there frozen, lost in my stupid thoughts.
”Oh. 16 ounces please,” I look down back at the menu, even though I’ve ordered this drink every day, “with a pump of lavender.”
I didn’t look into his eyes once. His hot, intimidating eyes. What’s wrong with me? I look at his nametag. I hadn’t noticed him wearing it.
‘Minho’
I like that name.
I really like that name.
“Can I get a name for that order?” Minho said. Oh my god. His voice. His fucking voice.
”J-Jisung.” Damn it I stuttered.
“Jisung.”
He repeated my name like it mattered. Like it tasted good in his mouth.
I nodded, awkward, unsure if I was supposed to say something else. I think I smiled? I hope I didn’t smile. I don’t know.
He tapped the screen a few times. His fingers were long. He had nice hands. I bet they’re soft. Probably never cracked like mine.
“Lavender matcha, 16 ounces,” he confirmed, like he hadn’t already memorized it. I nodded again.
Say something.
Say thank you.
Say you like his hands. No, don’t say that—what the hell.
Say something.
“Thanks.”
I stepped to the side, tucking my hands into my sleeves and pretending to read the napkin dispenser. I could feel his gaze. Or maybe I was imagining it. Probably. I do that.
The shop was quiet except for the hum of machines and the soft hiss of steamed milk. I tried not to glance at him again. I failed. He was moving with that same rhythm — precise, practiced, like even the coffee beans trusted him. The sleeves of his black shirt were pushed just high enough to see his wrists. He looked serious, but not unhappy. Focused. Warm in a distant kind of way.
He called out someone else’s name. I wish it was mine again. That’s dumb. Ugh.
And then — my name.
“Jisung?”
The way he said it made me blink. He said it softly. Carefully. Like it was something fragile. I walked up like I wasn’t dying inside.
He handed me the drink with both hands. I liked that. I didn’t know why, but it made my chest feel tight in a good way.
“Thank you,” I said, quieter this time. I forced myself to meet his eyes. Just for a second.
He smiled. Not big. Just a tiny tug at the corner of his lips.
I walked out of the shop before I could trip on my own feet or drop my drink or do something else humiliating. The bell above the door jingled again, and the air outside hit my face like a reminder that I’m still real. Still here.
I wrapped both hands around the cup. It was warm. It smelled like lavender and matcha and maybe — maybe the start of something I didn’t understand yet.
I really like this drink.
But I think I might like something else more.
Minho
“Jisung?”
He looked up like the sound startled him. Like hearing his own name out loud wasn’t something he was used to.
God, that name fits him. Small. Soft. It felt good rolling off my tongue. I might say it again later just to see how it sounds when he’s not panicking.
He walked up to the counter slow, like his feet were second-guessing every step. He had this sort of… cautiousness to him, like a deer or something. Wide eyes, shaky fingers, sleeves tugged over his hands like a shield. Cute.
He didn’t take the drink right away, so I held it with both hands — just to make it feel a little more like a moment. His fingers brushed mine when he finally reached out.
He flinched.
Not in a dramatic way. Just the tiniest jolt. Like he wasn’t used to being touched.
Noted.
“Thank you,” he said, barely audible.
He looked at me. Finally. Just for a second. Long enough for me to catch it — the way his eyes shimmered like they were always on the verge of breaking or blooming. I don’t know which. Maybe both.
He has those eyes that hold everything but say nothing.
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. Just a little. And he noticed. His face flushed like it was the first warmth he’d felt in a while.
He turned and walked away, quick but not rushed. Like he didn’t want to run, but he needed to leave before his brain exploded. I watched the back of his sweater as he reached for the door — light green, frayed pink edges. It looked handmade. It suited him. Delicate, but not weak.
The bell chimed when he stepped out. The door shut behind him.
I kept watching even after he was gone.
Then I turned around, leaned back on the counter, and muttered under my breath,
“Fuck.”
Because I already knew.
This was going to mess me up.
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