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The scent of expensive Cabernet and artisanal goat cheese crostini usually signaled a successful evening for Aeri and Yizhuo. They had spent weeks curateing the perfect vibe for their new home's debut: dim, amber-hued lighting that flattered every guest, a playlist of obscure indie-pop that hummed at the exact decibel to facilitate deep conversation, and a guest list that was supposed to be "mature." They wanted to prove that they were finally real adults with a mortgage and a taste for fine things.
However, as a particularly soulful synth-pop track transitioned into the next, the sound was drowned out by a jagged, guttural wail coming from the second floor.
"Jimin, please," Aeri whispered, her forehead pressed against the cool mahogany of the primary bathroom door. Her hand gripped a half-empty glass of wine like a lifeline. "People are starting to look at the ceiling, honey. Just unlock the door."
Inside, the sound of a heavy body sliding against tile was followed by another sob. Yu Jimin wasn’t just "sad" about the divorce anymore; she was in the middle of a spiritual exorcism fueled by too many glasses of the housewarming punch. The vents carried her voice with cruel efficiency, funneling her despair straight down into the living room where their colleagues and friends were currently pretending not to hear her.
"Minjeong!" Jimin’s voice cracked, thick with the kind of congestion that only comes from forty minutes of continuous weeping. "Why isn't she here, Aeri? Why did she leave me in this house with all these... these fancy crackers? I want my wife!"
Yizhuo stood a few feet back, looking absolutely mortified. She checked her watch, then looked at the closed door with a mixture of pity and utter exhaustion. "It’s been forty-five minutes," she mouthed to Aeri. "She’s going to dehydrate or get us evicted before we even pay the first installment."
"She’s not coming back, Jimin," Aeri tried again, her voice straining with forced patience. "You guys have been divorced for six months. You signed the papers. Remember the nice pens? You bought a celebratory cactus?"
"The cactus died!" Jimin howled, her voice hitting a register that made the mahogany vibrate. "Everything dies! Bring her back! Someone call the universe and tell it I’m sorry!"
Aeri and Yizhuo exchanged a look of pure defeat. This was the exact reason they had debated for three days straight about whether or not to invite both of them. They had gambled on Jimin’s professionalism and lost spectacularly.
Finally, realizing that Jimin was currently unreachable by logic, Aeri pulled her phone from her pocket. She scrolled past several missed calls from her mother and tapped the contact that sat like a ghost in her recent history: Kim Minjeong.
The phone rang three times before a very groggy, very confused voice answered.
"Aeri? Is everything okay? It’s way past midnight on a Tuesday," Minjeong murmured, her voice heavy with the unmistakable fog of someone who had been deep in sleep.
"Minjeong. I am so, so sorry to call you," Aeri started, spinning away from the bathroom door to keep the noise level down, though it was a futile effort.
"Is someone hurt?" Minjeong’s tone sharpened instantly, the sleepiness giving way to a hint of genuine alarm.
"Not physically. But we’re at the new house. Jimin is... she’s locked herself in our bathroom. She’s been in there for nearly an hour, and she’s currently shouting your name into the plumbing. Everyone downstairs can hear her. We can’t get her out, and we’re worried she’s going to pass out on the floor."
There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line. Aeri could hear Minjeong shifting in bed, the rustle of sheets sounding like a wall being built.
"No," Minjeong said firmly. "Aeri, no. We’ve been over this. I’m not the person who fixes her anymore. Call her sister. Call a cab. Call the police if you have to, but I’m not coming."
"Minjeong, please," Aeri pleaded, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "She won’t move for us. She’s grieving. She’s actually grieving you in my primary bath. It’s embarrassing for her, it’s mortifying for us, and honestly? She sounds like her heart is literally breaking. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency."
"She’s just drunk," Minjeong snapped, though the edge of her voice was beginning to fray. "She always gets like this when she drinks too much of that sugary punch you make. Just give her some water and wait for her to fall asleep."
"She’s begging for you, Minjeong," Yizhuo chimed in, leaning closer to the phone. "She’s begging the universe. Please. Just for ten minutes. Just get her into a car so she can go home."
A long sigh echoed through the speaker, the sound of a woman who was losing a battle with her own boundaries.
"I hate both of you," Minjeong muttered, the sound of a bedside lamp clicking on audible in the background. "Give me twenty minutes. And Aeri? If there is a single person with a camera downstairs when I walk in, I am turning around and leaving her there."
"Thank you. Truly," Aeri breathed, hanging up before Minjeong could change her mind. She looked at the bathroom door, where the wailing had subsided into a series of pathetic, wet hiccups. "The countdown starts now."
(...)
The twenty-minute mark had barely passed when the house was pierced by a sound far more intimidating than Jimin’s wailing. It wasn’t the polite chime of the doorbell that Aeri and Yizhuo had programmed with such care. Instead, it was a sharp, rapid-fire succession of knocks that sounded like a final warning.
Yizhuo scrambled to the foyer, nearly tripping over a decorative floor vase. When she swung the door open, the "sophisticated" air of the party seemed to vanish, replaced by the cold, lethal energy radiating from the woman on the doorstep.
Kim Minjeong looked impeccable, even though she had clearly been in bed thirty minutes prior. She wore a long trench coat over silk pajamas, her hair swept back with a clinical neatness that suggested she had spent at least five minutes composedly suppressing her rage before leaving the house. Her eyes darted between Yizhuo and Aeri, who was hovering at the top of the stairs, with a look that promised a very long, very painful conversation at a later date.
Minjeong didn't wait for a greeting. She didn't offer a "hello" or ask how the housewarming was going. She stepped inside and began to march through the living room. The rhythmic, aggressive click of her heels on the hardwood floor acted like a metronome for the sudden silence that fell over the room. Guests paused mid-sip, their eyes trailing the petite woman who moved with the authority of a high-ranking officer. She ignored them all, her gaze fixed solely on the staircase.
"Minjeong, wait!" Aeri whispered-shouted, scurrying to keep up as Minjeong reached the second floor. "Please, just... try to be gentle? She’s really fragile right now. Just talk her down softly, okay?"
Minjeong didn't even turn her head. She reached the mahogany door of the primary bathroom and hammered on it with a force that made the frame groan.
"Yu Jimin," Minjeong commanded. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was low, dangerous, and carried a weight that made the air in the hallway feel thin. "Open this door. Right now."
The sobbing inside stopped so abruptly it was as if someone had cut a wire. A long, heavy silence followed, broken only by the muffled sound of the indie-pop playlist still humming downstairs.
"Minjeong?" A broken, watery whisper drifted through the door. "Is that... is it really you? Am I hallucinating? Aeri said you weren't coming."
"It’s me," Minjeong snapped, her patience having evaporated somewhere during the drive over. "And I am not in the mood for a game of twenty questions. Open it before I break it."
A second later, the lock clicked. The door swung inward, revealing a version of Yu Jimin that would have been unrecognizable to the public. Her mascara was a charcoal smudge that reached her cheekbones, her hair was a bird's nest of tangles, and her expensive silk blouse was wrinkled and damp with tears.
The moment Jimin’s blurred vision landed on Minjeong, she didn't just move; she lunged. She collapsed into the smaller woman, her weight nearly toppling them both. Jimin buried her face deep into the crook of Minjeong’s neck, her fingers tangling desperately into the shorter blonde hair at Minjeong’s nape.
"Minjeong-ie," Jimin murmured against her skin, the name sounding like a frantic prayer. "You came. You actually came for me."
Minjeong remained perfectly still, a marble statue of disbelief and irritation. Her arms stayed rigidly at her sides, refusing to return the embrace. Her face was a mask of sheer annoyance, her eyes staring blankly at the wall over Jimin's shaking shoulder.
"Minjeong, look, we really didn't want to bother you, I swear," Aeri started, her hands fluttering nervously as she tried to bridge the gap between them. "She was fine when she got here, she was actually laughing and talking about her new project, and then after the third glass of punch, she just... she saw a photo on her phone and it was like a dam broke. We tried to take the phone away but she ran in here."
"We tried everything, Minjeong, honestly," Yizhuo added, her voice high with the stress of the ruined party. "We spent forty minutes pleading through the door. I even tried to tell her the bathroom was flooding just to get her to unlock it, but she just kept screaming your name and crying about how she missed your voice. We're so incredibly sorry to drag you out of bed for this, this is the last thing we wanted for our housewarming."
Minjeong raised a single hand, cutting them off mid-sentence without even looking at them.
"I’m taking her home," Minjeong said curtly.
Before anyone could ask how she intended to manage a woman who could barely stand, Minjeong shifted her weight. With a move that looked entirely effortless despite the clear disparity in their heights, she scooped Jimin up into a bridal carry.
Jimin didn't protest. She simply tucked her chin further into Minjeong's shoulder, her eyes closing as she blissfully inhaled the familiar, sharp scent of Minjeong’s perfume, a mix of sandalwood and expensive laundry detergent.
Minjeong turned and carried her back down the stairs, past the stunned silence of the party guests who watched the ex-wives exit into the cool night air. Not once did Minjeong look back.
The night air was crisp, but it did nothing to clear the heavy fog of alcohol and heartbreak clinging to Yu Jimin. Minjeong reached her black SUV and managed to open the passenger door with one hand while keeping Jimin securely balanced against her hip. She practically poured the taller woman into the seat, the leather creaking under the sudden weight.
From the brightly lit doorway of the house, Aeri and Yizhuo stood like two guilty children, their silhouettes casting long, apologetic shadows across the driveway. They looked ready to shout another round of "I’m sorry" or "Call us when she’s safe," but Minjeong didn't give them the chance. She didn't spare them a single glance, not even a nod to acknowledge their existence. She simply slammed the passenger door shut and rounded the front of the car with a predatory stride.
As soon as Minjeong slid into the driver's seat, the silence of the cabin was immediately broken. Jimin, who had been momentarily stunned by the movement, began to stir. Her eyes, glassy and unfocused, fixed on Minjeong’s profile with a terrifying intensity.
"Minjeong-ie," Jimin slurred, her voice vibrating with a sudden, misplaced warmth. "Your car is so clean. You always kept it so clean."
"Don't talk, Jimin," Minjeong said, her voice like a sheet of ice. She jammed the key into the ignition and brought the engine to life. "Just sit back and try not to vomit everywhere."
But Jimin was past the point of following instructions. As Minjeong pulled out of the driveway, Jimin shifted in her seat, the seatbelt straining against her chest. She reached out, her fingers clumsy and wandering, and found the sleeve of Minjeong’s trench coat. Her hand slid down until she was gripping Minjeong’s forearm, her thumb tracing the line of the bone beneath the fabric.
"You're so tense," Jimin whispered, leaning across the center console. "Why are you so tense? We're just going home, right? To our place?"
Minjeong felt a muscle jump in her jaw. She didn't pull her arm away immediately, mostly because she was merging into traffic, but her grip on the steering wheel tightened until her knuckles turned white.
"It isn't our place anymore, Jimin," Minjeong reminded her, her tone flat. "I’m taking you to your apartment. The one with the empty queen size bed and the empty fridge. Remember?"
Jimin didn't seem to hear the bite in Minjeong's words. She was leaning further into Minjeong’s personal space now, the scent of the housewarming punch radiating off her in waves. She let out a small, contented sigh and pressed her forehead against Minjeong’s shoulder.
"You smell so good," Jimin murmured, her lips brushing against the shell of Minjeong’s ear. "I missed this. I missed you so much it felt like I was dying. Did you miss me? Even a little bit?"
Before Minjeong could answer, she felt the soft, damp press of Jimin’s lips against her jawline. It wasn't a proper kiss, just a desperate, wandering attempt at contact. Minjeong’s reaction was instantaneous. She raised her right arm, forming a stiff, immovable barrier between them, and pushed Jimin back toward the passenger side.
"Stop it," Minjeong commanded, her eyes locked firmly on the road ahead. "Sit back. Right now. I am not doing this with you, Jimin."
"Just one more," Jimin pleaded, her voice cracking as she tried to bypass Minjeong’s arm. Her hands reached for Minjeong’s neck, her fingers grazing the sensitive skin there. "Just let me look at you. I haven't seen you in weeks. You look so beautiful when you're angry."
"I am not just angry, Jimin, I am exhausted," Minjeong snapped, her voice rising for the first time. She caught Jimin’s wrists and forced them back down into the woman's lap, holding them there for a second to emphasize the point. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to call me in the middle of the night and then try to kiss me in your drunken stupor. We are divorced. We are over. Act like it."
Jimin slumped back into the leather, a pathetic, wounded sound escaping her throat. She looked out the window at the passing streetlights, her bottom lip trembling. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of the tires on the asphalt and Jimin’s shaky, uneven breathing.
Then, like a moth drawn back to a flame, Jimin’s hand began to creep across the console again, her fingers searching for even the smallest piece of Minjeong to hold onto. Minjeong scowled, her gaze fixed on the red light ahead, her heart hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated frustration against her ribs.
(...)
The elevator ride up to Jimin’s floor was a test of endurance. Jimin’s weight was a constant reminder of their history, her head lolling against Minjeong’s shoulder as she continued to hum a melody that Minjeong recognized as their wedding song. Minjeong didn't hum along. She didn't even look at the numbers ticking upward. She kept her gaze fixed on the stainless steel doors, her jaw set so tight it was beginning to ache.
When they finally reached the apartment, Minjeong didn't need to ask for the code. Her fingers moved automatically over the keypad, a muscle memory she hadn't managed to erase in the last six months. The door clicked open with a familiar beep, and the scent of Jimin’s life, lilies, expensive coffee, and a lingering trace of vanilla, hit Minjeong like a physical blow.
The tension shifted the moment they crossed the threshold. The "sophisticated" mask Minjeong had worn at the party was still there, but it was thinner now, stretched over a growing sense of panic. She didn't play the role of the doting ex-wife. She didn't gently tuck Jimin into bed or whisper soothing words. Instead, she marched her straight into the master bathroom.
"Minjeong, what are we doing?" Jimin asked, her voice slightly clearer but still heavily slurred. "Are we taking a bath together? Like we used to?"
Minjeong didn't answer. She stood Jimin up against the wall of the walk-in shower and, without removing a single piece of Jimin’s ruined silk clothing, reached in and turned the handle. She didn't aim for lukewarm or even cool. She turned it all the way to the right, unleashing a torrent of icy water.
The shock was instantaneous. Jimin let out a sharp, strangled gasp, her body jerking as the freezing spray hit her chest. She shivered violently, her hands coming up to cover her face as the fog of alcohol began to lift through sheer biological necessity.
"Stay there and sober up," Minjeong commanded, her voice sounding louder than usual in the tiled space. "Don't move until you can look at me without seeing three of me."
Jimin let out a pathetic whimper, her teeth already beginning to chatter. "It’s... it’s so cold, Minjeong-ie. Please, make it stop."
"No," Minjeong said firmly, turning away so she wouldn't have to see the way Jimin’s wet clothes clung to her. "You wanted me here? This is what you get. You get the person who is going to make sure you don't wake up in your own vomit."
Knowing the layout of the home by heart, knowing which drawer held the softest cotton pajamas and which cabinet housed the plush white towels, Minjeong moved through the bedroom with efficient, clinical precision. She found a pair of navy blue silk pajamas that she remembered buying for Jimin during their honeymoon in Paris. She grabbed a clean towel from the linen closet, her fingers brushing against the fabric with a bittersweet familiarity.
She returned to the bathroom and dropped the bundle on the marble counter, far enough from the shower to keep them dry. The sound of the water was still roaring, accompanied by the occasional sob from Jimin that sounded more like a shiver than a cry.
"I’m leaving the clothes here," Minjeong called out over the noise. "Get out when you’re done and put them on. I’ll be in the kitchen."
She slipped out of the room before she could even get a new glimpse of Jimin through the glass. She didn't want to see her wet and vulnerable; she didn't want to see the way the cold water made Jimin’s skin turn a pale, porcelain white. Minjeong was terrified that if she stayed even a second longer, her "annoyed" mask would finally crumble, revealing the raw, aching hole that Jimin had left behind.
She closed the bathroom door and leaned her back against it, closing her eyes and taking a single, shaky breath. The silence of the apartment was louder than the shower, and it tasted like a life she was no longer allowed to live.
The kitchen was a map Minjeong could still navigate with her eyes closed, yet every landmark felt shifted by a few agonizing inches. It was exactly as she remembered it, the sleek marble countertops, the high-end appliances they had picked out together during a weekend of domestic bliss, yet it felt fundamentally different in the way that only a lived-in space can be once the life has been hollowed out of it. There was a thin layer of dust on the decorative canisters she used to polish weekly, and a stack of mail sat haphazardly where their shared calendar once lived. She moved to the counter, her hands acting on a residual memory that her brain was trying desperately to forget, reaching for the coffee beans and the French press. She needed something to do with her hands, a ritual to ground her in the jarring reality of being a guest in a home that still held the scent of her own history.
The silence of the apartment was a heavy, suffocating thing, far different from the comfortable quiet they used to share while reading on the sofa. Now, the silence felt like an indictment. She set the water to boil, the flame of the stove flickering blue and orange, and began the clinical process of brewing two cups: one for the woman currently shivering under the icy spray of the shower, and one for the driver who was currently wondering how she had allowed herself to be pulled back into this orbit. While she waited for the kettle to let out its mournful whistle, her eyes wandered over the countertop, searching for signs of the woman Jimin had become in the six months of their absence. There, tucked behind a bowl of fruit that looked bruised and forgotten, was a small, crumpled box.
It was a pack of cigarettes. Minjeong picked it up, the cardboard rough against her fingertips, feeling the light, hollow weight of it. She shook it slightly, the dry, rhythmic sound confirming there were only two left inside. A sharp pang of something that felt dangerously like grief tightened in her chest.
The kettle let out a low, steady hiss, and Minjeong turned back to the coffee. She reached into the upper cabinet where they used to keep the glassware, and for a heartbeat, she couldn't breathe. There they were. Their stupid couple mugs. One was a soft cream with a small, hand-painted sun, and the other was a deep navy with a matching moon. They were a gift from Yizhuo for their second anniversary, a joke about their "night and day" personalities that had quickly become the most cherished items in their cupboard.
Jimin had kept them. Not only had she kept them, but by the state of the porcelain, she was using them constantly. The navy mug, the one that had always belonged to Minjeong, was stained with more stubborn coffee rings than she remembered it ever having. It looked worn, the handle slightly chipped, as if it were being put through a cycle of endless, lonely refills in the middle of the night. It was a physical manifestation of a habit born from longing, and seeing it there, so clearly overused, made Minjeong’s "annoyed" mask slip for a fraction of a second.
The sound of the bathroom door finally opening echoed through the hollow apartment. A few moments later, Jimin emerged. She was bundled in the navy silk pajamas Minjeong had left on the counter, her hair wrapped in a damp towel, her skin pale and scrubbed raw from the cold water. She looked smaller than she had at the party, the frantic, weeping bravado of the alcohol replaced by a quiet, trembling vulnerability that made her look years younger and infinitely more fragile.
Minjeong didn't say a word at first. She simply stood there, illuminated by the dim under-cabinet lighting, and held the cigarette pack up between two fingers, her eyebrow arched in a silent, piercing question.
"You started again?" Minjeong asked, her voice steady but laced with a hint of disappointment that she couldn't quite suppress.
Jimin didn't try to hide it. She slumped onto one of the kitchen stools. She looked like a ghost of the woman who had been wailing in the bathroom an hour ago.
"I only quit because you asked me to," Jimin admitted, her voice barely a whisper, thick with the remnants of her tears. She stared at the steam rising from the French press, unable to meet Minjeong’s eyes. "The day you left, after the door clicked shut, I went out and bought a pack. I think I just needed something to hold onto. Something that belonged only to me. The silence in this place... the stress of just living without you... it became too much to bear. It was either the cigarettes or I was going to lose my mind entirely."
Minjeong pressed the plunger down on the coffee, the rich, bitter scent of the dark roast filling the air and momentarily masking the smell of the city outside. She poured the liquid into the two mugs, the sun and the moon sitting side by side on the marble counter once again, a sight that felt like a beautiful, cruel lie. She pushed the sun mug toward Jimin, who took it with shaking hands, her fingers curling around the warmth as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded.
"Can I have the pack?" Jimin asked, looking up at her with large, pleading eyes that were still rimmed with red. "Coffee and cigarettes are a midnight necessity when the world feels this heavy."
Minjeong looked at the two remaining cigarettes and then back at Jimin. To Jimin’s visible shock, Minjeong didn't launch into a lecture about health or the lingering smell on the curtains. She didn't scold her or throw the pack into the trash. Instead, she let out a short, dry chuckle that held no humor, only a weary sort of recognition.
Minjeong reached into the box, pulled out the second cigarette, and placed it between her own lips.
Jimin froze, her mug halfway to her mouth. "What are you doing? You hate those. You used to spend twenty minutes brushing your teeth if you even stood next to someone smoking in the street."
"Light it," Minjeong said, leaning forward across the island, her gaze intensifying.
Jimin fumbled with a lighter she pulled from her pajama pocket, her hands still trembling as she struck the flame. She lit hers first, taking a shaky drag, then leaned in to light Minjeong’s. For a moment, they were inches apart, the only light in the kitchen coming from the small, flickering orange flame and the digital glow of the oven clock. The heat from Jimin’s skin was a ghost of a sensation Minjeong had spent months trying to exorcise.
As the smoke curled between them in a lazy, gray dance, Jimin let out a shaky laugh, the sheer absurdity of the moment finally hitting her. "You’re a hypocrite, Kim Minjeong. You spent years making me feel guilty for this."
Minjeong took a slow, deliberate drag, coughing slightly as the harsh smoke hit her unaccustomed lungs and burned its way down. She looked Jimin dead in the eye, her expression unreadable, raw, and stripped of all the defenses she had spent the evening building.
"This is my way of telling you I’m not doing well either," Minjeong said, the smoke drifting from her lips in a soft cloud. "And for the record? I only made you quit because I hated the taste when I kissed you."
The kitchen went quiet once more, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of ceramic against the marble countertop. Outside, the sky was beginning to turn a bruised purple, the first hint of dawn bleeding through the city skyline. The smoke from their cigarettes curled between them like a physical manifestation of the things they hadn't said, gray, hazy, and blurring the lines between who they were and who they were trying to be.
The atmosphere had shifted, turning heavy and honest. The "adult" facade that had carried them through the last six months was finally gone, stripped away by the cold water, the bitter coffee, and the silence of the apartment.
Minjeong broke the silence first. She didn't look at Jimin; she looked at the glowing cherry of her cigarette, her eyes tracing the way the ash grew longer with every second.
"We were so efficient about the divorce, weren't we?" her voice was a dry rasp, sounding older than her years. She let out a small, weary smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "We split the bank accounts in a week. We divided the furniture like we were checking off a grocery list. You took the espresso machine, I took the rug. We even argued over who got the monstera plant, even though we both knew it was already half-dead. We were so good at being mature adults; so good about ending us. Everyone was so impressed with how well we handled the fallout."
Jimin let out a shaky breath, a cloud of smoke escaping her lips and dancing in the dim light. She managed a soft, watery laugh. "I think that was the problem. We treated our marriage like a contract that expired, instead of a life. We focused on the paperwork because the feelings were too heavy to carry. I let you have the rug because I knew you'd trip on the hardwood without it. I was still looking out for you even when I was signing my name on the lines that said we were over."
She finally looked at Minjeong, noticing the dark circles under her ex-wife's eyes that even the dim light couldn't hide. It was a mirror of her own exhaustion.
"I go to reach for your hand every morning, Minjeong," Jimin whispered, her fingers tracing the rim of her sun-patterned mug. "Every single morning for six months, I’ve woken up and moved my arm to the left, only to hit cold sheets. I’ve even caught myself talking to the empty space beside me, asking if you want toast or fruit. I’m exhausted from remembering you're not there. I’m tired of waking up and having to lose you all over again before the sun is even fully up."
Minjeong finally turned her head, her gaze piercing and raw. She let out a soft, self-deprecating scoff. "I told myself I was angry tonight because you were making a scene and embarrassing our friends. I told myself I was only driving here out of a lingering sense of obligation."
She leaned in closer, the scent of the cold shower and the bitter tobacco clinging to Jimin, a combination that felt both alien and intensely familiar.
"But that’s a lie," Minjeong continued, her voice dropping to a vulnerable register. "I was angry because when they called me, I felt a spark of relief. I was actually happy I finally had a legitimate excuse to see you. How pathetic is that? I had to wait for you to have a breakdown just to stand in the same room as you without feeling like I was breaking some unspoken law of the universe."
Jimin reached out, her fingers trembling as she brushed them against Minjeong’s wrist. The contact was electric, a bridge being rebuilt over a canyon of pride.
"It wasn't a mistake because we stopped loving each other," Jimin whispered, her voice thick with the remnants of her drunken tears. "It was a mistake because we let pride convince us that moving on was the only way to grow. I haven't grown, Minjeong. Not at all. Actually, I’ve just been shrinking since you left. I’m a smaller, quieter version of myself without you around to make me laugh."
Minjeong didn't pull away from the touch. Instead, she sighed, the fight finally leaving her body as she leaned into the contact. A small, sad smile played on her lips.
"I still buy the laundry detergent you like," she admitted, letting out a light, breathy laugh at the absurdity of it. "The one with the lavender and the sea salt. My whole apartment smells like you, Jimin. I’m living in a ghost house, surrounded by scents and shadows that don't belong to me anymore. I even bought those specific oranges you like last week, and they just sat on my counter until they went bad because I don't even like oranges."
Jimin scoffed softly, a genuine smile tugging at her mouth. "I still have your favorite chamomile tea. I hate the taste of it, it tastes like hot grass, but I keep the box right at the front of the cabinet just because seeing the packaging makes me feel like you might walk through the door at any second."
Minjeong looked at Jimin then, asking the million-dollar question that had been hovering in the air for six months. "Can you actually live without me, Jimin?"
Jimin’s answer was a simple, heartbreaking "No."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore; it was expectant. They sat there, two people who had legally severed their ties, realizing that a piece of paper couldn’t undo years of shared breathing and whispered promises in the dark. Minjeong reached out and took the cigarette from Jimin’s hand, putting it out in the ashtray along with her own.
"We're a mess," Minjeong said softly, her eyes searching Jimin's face.
"We are," Jimin agreed. "But I’d rather be a mess with you than perfect alone. Perfection is incredibly lonely, Minjeong."
Minjeong took a deep breath and slowly stood up. She looked at the window, where the light was beginning to change. "I should get going," she said softly, her voice lingering on the words as if she didn't quite want to say them. "The sun is coming up, and we both look like we haven't slept in a year."
She headed toward the kitchen doorway, but as she reached it, she paused. She turned back, and for the first time that night, the coldness in her eyes was completely gone, replaced by a deep, familiar longing. She closed the gap between them in two quick steps, cupping Jimin's face with hands that were finally warm.
The kiss was slow, desperate, and tasted of everything they had just discussed. It tasted of the bitterness of the coffee, the sharp sting of the cigarettes, and the sweet, overwhelming relief of coming home. It was a kiss that apologized for the last six months and promised something better for the next.
When Minjeong finally pulled back, she lingered just an inch away, her thumb tracing Jimin's lower lip with a tenderness that made Jimin’s heart ache.
"Let’s have dinner tomorrow night," Minjeong whispered, her breath warm against Jimin's skin. "Properly. Let's go to that Italian place we used to love, the one with the candles and the good wine. We need to talk about everything, Jimin. About us."
Jimin looked at her for a long moment, a small, knowing smile spreading across her face. She slowly shook her head.
"No," Jimin said softly. "Not the restaurant. Here. Let's eat here. We will cook together, Minjeong. You and me. In our home. I don't want to go somewhere else, I just want to be here, with you."
Minjeong’s eyes softened, a look of profound relief washing over her features. "Okay. Here. In our home."
She pulled back just a bit further, her nose wrinkling slightly.
"I meant what I said, though," Minjeong whispered, her playful side finally resurfacing. "I really, really hate the taste of cigarettes. If we're going to cook tomorrow, you’re brushing your teeth at least three times before I get here."
Jimin’s laughter was the first real sound of joy to echo in that apartment in months, a bright, musical sound that made the dawn light feel a little warmer.
"Deal," Jimin said, watching Minjeong walk toward the door with a smile that finally reached her eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow, Minjeong-ie."
"Tomorrow," Minjeong confirmed, and this time, when she left, the silence she left behind didn't feel quite so permanent. It felt like a breath being held, waiting for the rest of their lives to begin.