Work Text:
Six months is too long to pretend that certain things have passed. And not nearly long enough to say they are finished.
Na walks along the sidewalk without hurry. Distracted, she might even risk calling herself content. She is fine with how things have ended in the end, seeing that Nine has found someone who wants the same things he does, and there is relief in knowing her decision was the right one. She feels nothing for him now except a genuine wish for his happiness. The walk is light and unmeasured. Untethered from hours, numbers, omens, promises.
But destiny, if one insists on calling it that, has a peculiar habit of intervening without permission. It nudges lives into certain directions, rearranges timing, or simply lets things collide when they’re least expected. Na hadn’t planned on being just a few meters away from Leemhai that afternoon. She certainly hadn’t planned on seeing her at all.
Had she thought about her during those months apart? Of course she had. Anyone claiming otherwise would be lying, or worse, rehearsing denial as a survival strategy. Na simply hadn’t allowed herself to linger there. She’d needed to protect the choice she made, to honor the work it took to choose herself over all the possible versions of a life that might have unfolded beside that woman.
For a brief, treacherous second, the thought intrudes again: maybe the time away was excessive. She shuts it down just as quickly.
It wasn’t too much! It wasn’t too long! It was necessary. Necessary in the way oxygen is necessary, even when you don’t notice yourself breathing. Necessary for survival, even if it had disguised itself as distance. Even if, she admits, reluctantly, it might not survive close inspection.
Still, she had lived through it. And that, she decides, has to count for something. But, her pace falters. Then stills completely.
Because, yes, Leemhai is seated at an outdoor café. Looking devastatingly familiar. Just as beautiful as the first time Na noticed her at the bus stop, waiting for Nine, back when Na didn’t yet possess the language for the kind of gravity this woman would eventually exert over her life.
And she is not alone. Of course she isn’t. Who wouldn’t take the chance to sit across from her, even briefly? To be the focus of her attention. To receive her kindness, without defenses or dilution. God, she misses her.
The realization doesn’t arrive with drama or surprise; it simply surfaces, unannounced and fully formed. It isn’t shocking or charged with the weight of a confession. Instead, it comes in light, warm waves, like a truth quietly making itself known. Na obviously doesn’t fight it. She knows there’s no point pretending it isn’t there, because it is. So she lets it exist and settle within her. She even risks the sensation of almost welcoming it.
Leemhai is mid-conversation with another woman, her profile almost unfair in its composure. Na registers details without consciously deciding to: the relaxed slope of her shoulders, her bare arms catching the light, the loose strand of hair falling near her ear, as if it belongs there. The reflexive tilt of her head when she listens. The small, habitual smile that appears and vanishes like punctuation, marking pauses only she seems to hear.
This woman...Na allows herself to think it fully now.
And for a moment, she lets herself stay exactly where she is: anonymous, unclaimed, suspended in the quiet privilege of observation. Nothing has happened yet. Nothing has been disturbed. Leemhai hasn’t seen her, and that, unexpectedly, gives Na an advantage. She almost feels guilty for it.
She watches without urgency. There is no jolt of pain, no sharp intake of breath. Just a precise, unfamiliar attentiveness, as if her body is quietly verifying something her mind already suspects. Something her heart, annoyingly, has known for a while now. There is, perhaps, a small voice, persistent and unhelpful, still asking if she waited too long. Has the other woman moved on? This is ridiculous. Na never asked Leemhai to wait. She would never have done that. And yet, the sensation lingers, a subtle pressure beneath her ribs.
Is she jealous? Na almost dismisses the word outright. Almost. Maybe it deserves to exist, if only briefly, just to be acknowledged before being set aside.
The other woman stands. Their goodbye is unceremonious and warm, an easy embrace, two kisses on the cheek, familiarity without weight. A smile. A wave. Then she steps away, dissolving back into the movement of the street. As Leemhai turns, she sees her.
Na is vaguely aware that she might have stopped breathing while waiting for this part.
Surprise lands on Leemhai first, clean and unmistakable. Then something softer settles behind it. Not pain or regret. More like the delayed recognition of a moment that could have unfolded differently, under other circumstances, in another version of time.
Na remains still. Not guarded, but careful.
Six months taught her that feelings survive longer when they aren’t dragged into the light without cause. Less chaos that way, she thinks. Less mess.
For a moment, Na thinks Leemhai might say something. Or maybe that’s just hope, wearing intuition’s coat and hoping not to be noticed. She doesn’t. Instead, Leemhai smiles. Not as an invitation, Na understands that immediately, but as recognition. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission or promise anything in return, and simply acknowledges what already exists.
Na holds her gaze a fraction longer than necessary. Necessary for whom, she isn’t sure, but the thought arrives anyway, fully formed and inconvenient. Then, quietly, deliberately, she lets it be. As if consenting to something she has known for longer than she’s willing to admit, she smiles back.
And she understands, even now, that there is no promise in this. No neat resolution waiting to be claimed. Only the calm certainty that chance does not always provide answers. Sometimes, it simply returns.
So Na moves first. It feels fair. Necessary, even. The last time they stood this close, Na was the one who asked for space. She remembers how carefully Leemhai had listened then, how she’d pushed back just enough to be human, maybe just enough to be honest, but hadn’t chased. Hadn’t tried to hold on where she wasn’t invited to. Na remembers how much that restraint had hurt. And how much it had helped.
So now, Na steps forward.
Her body does it before her confidence can object. There’s nothing elegant about it. No practiced composure. Just a slight hitch in her breath, a nervous recalibration of her weight, the familiar awareness of her own limbs taking up space.
— Hi — she says.
The word lands quietly, like it’s unsure of itself. Like she’s saying it out loud to see if it still belongs to her, if it still means what it used to.
Leemhai is watching her. She hasn’t stopped since their eyes crossed, like she’s taking her in piece by piece, committing the sight of her to memory. And for a fraction of a second, the calm falters. Her breath stutters, then deepens, quick and deliberate, as though her lungs are suddenly unsure how much air they’re meant to hold. Her mouth opens on instinct, searching. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.
Na knows then, without vanity, that this is what she still does to her.
— Hi — she says.
Even with the storm flickering in her eyes, her voice remains steady. Calm in the way Na has always noticed, like nothing inside her is scrambling for balance. She doesn’t flinch or rush. She simply meets Na where she is, as if this moment has all the time in the world.
The sound of her voice hits harder than Na expects, threading through her from the inside out and setting something old and aching back into motion. Na’s fingers twitch at her side. She resists the urge to tuck her hands somewhere safer. Her heart is doing that familiar, inconvenient thing, too fast, too loud, while Leemhai stands there, grounded again, exactly as she remembers.
It’s too much for Na and for a moment, she can't look directly at her. Her gaze drifted instead to neutral places: the edge of the table, the empty chair, people passing by them like a convenient distraction. It feels safer this way, easing into proximity sideways. But she can feel Leemhai’s eyes still fixed on her, intense, like she always did, she had this power of just…fixe you and bare your soul with it. So it burns her.
— How… — Na starts, then clears her throat. — How have you been?
Leemhai lets out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh.
— Okay — she says. — I think I’m doing okay.
Her eyes drift away for a brief second, as if checking the space around them, then return. — And you?
Her voice lifts just slightly at the end, not quite a question or a statement. More like a careful offering. As if she’s asking permission to ask at all.
Na nods, as if the question requires movement before language.
— I’m… okay too...better.
It’s true. It’s also incomplete. They let it stand anyway.
Leemhai shifts, glancing at the café behind her, then back at Na.
— I was actually about to leave — she says. There’s no pressure in it. Just information. — But I could… change my plans?
She lets the question hang, unfinished, giving Na the space to step into it or not.
— If you want… — Leemhai adds, softly.
Na’s instinct is to look away again, and she does. Then she doesn’t correct it. Instead, she listens to herself think.
— Um… I’ve been walking — Na says, motioning vaguely down the street, her hand making an imprecise arc as if the pavement itself has been carrying her thoughts for her. Her shoulders lift, then settle, like she’s bracing for a reaction that hasn’t arrived yet. — It’s been helping.
She hesitates, fingers flexing once at her side, then again, hoping the other woman might somehow understand the quiet chaos inside her, the words still rearranging themselves before they’re ready to come out right.
— Maybe we could… walk together? — she adds, softer, almost provisional. — Unless you have something urgent.
Leemhai’s smile comes quickly. Honest. Almost involuntary.
— I don’t — she says, and nods at the same time, the movement betraying her relief. Then, as if she realizes she’s allowed to want things too. — I’d like that. Walking with you, I mean.
Na lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She shifts her weight, then makes a small, tentative gesture down the street, nothing dramatic, just a tilt of her head, an open hand, an invitation disguised as movement.
They fall into step beside each other, close but not touching. The space between them is careful, fragile, considerate. It feels familiar in a way that surprises Na with its ease.
— It’s been a while — Leemhai says, quietly.
— Yeah — Na agrees. — It has.
They walk a few steps in silence before Leemhai speaks again.
— I thought about calling you — she says, measured, careful. — More times than I can count.
Na feels her shoulders tense, then ease, like her body had been bracing for this exact sentence.
— But I wanted to honor what you asked. What you said. So I didn’t. I held myself to it. — A pause. Her breath shifts. — Still… I thought about you. I wondered how you were doing. If your arm had healed.
Another step. Then another.
— If your heart had healed.
The last part barely makes it past Leemhai’s lips. A whisper aimed at the ground, her gaze dropping to her feet as if the pavement might absorb the vulnerability for her. But Na doesn’t only hear it, she feels it too, like someone squeezing her beating heart. Her gaze drifts back to the other woman, pulled toward her eyes, aching for them to meet hers again. A second later, Leemhai looks up.
— I’m really glad you look… steadier — she says, weighing the word quietly. — I hoped you were doing better. That you could focus on what truly matters. And that life’s been kind.
The sentence settles in Na’s chest, warm and weighted all at once. She becomes acutely aware of the rhythm of their steps, how easily they’ve fallen into sync, how much closer they are now than when they first began walking, still without touching. Of how this walk, this precise stretch of sidewalk, exists only because neither of them chose to hurry past it.
— It hasn’t always been — she says after a beat. — Life, I mean.
She exhales, something steadying in the sound. — But it’s been mine.
Leemhai turns her head slightly, attentive.
— I had to learn how to run my own life — Na continues. — Without superstition. Without blaming luck or signs when things went wrong. That part was harder than I expected.
She gives a small, self-aware smile.
— It’s easier to blame numbers than yourself.
Leemhai hums softly, low, familiar. The sound settles somewhere in Na’s chest, and she knows, without needing to check, without needing words, that Leemhai understands exactly what she means. The old logic. The quiet relief of calling something chance instead of failure.
— But I’m learning — Na adds. — To live based on what actually happens. On ordinary days. And to deal with whatever comes next.
They walk a little farther before Na asks:
— How about you?
Leemhai doesn’t answer immediately. She slows just enough for Na to register it, as if the thought needs room before it can take form. When she speaks, her voice is steady, but there’s intention behind it.
— I did something similar — she says. — Not in the same way.
She releases a quiet breath, gaze fixed ahead.
— I used to believe there were right moments. That if I waited long enough, things would eventually align. That life would offer some kind of signal when it was safe to move.
Na feels the pull of recognition, subtle and unmistakable.
— But I realized that was still a way of letting chance decide for me. — A brief pause. — Of avoiding the choice.
Her steps remain measured, unhurried.
— So I stopped waiting. I stopped mistaking hesitation for patience. — She tilts her head slightly, reflective. — I just kept moving. Even when I didn’t know where it would lead.
Na nods, the gesture small but resolute. Different paths, but the same quiet work, she thinks.
They continue walking, side by side, the city unfolding around them, neither rushing ahead nor falling behind. It’s not a resolution. But it is a beginning that doesn’t feel borrowed from chance.
They walk a few steps in silence, letting everything settle, before Leemhai speaks again, as if the question had been waiting for just enough distance to surface.
— How’s the hospital? — she asks. — How are… things there lately?
Na feels the pause land gently, deliberate, chosen with care. She understands the restraint immediately, an effort to avoid old names, old wounds. An unspoken agreement not to circle back to Nine. She appreciates it more than she lets on.
— Busy — she says, exhaling a little laugh. — Always busy. I’m still doing my rotations. Different departments, different rhythms. She watches the pavement pass beneath her feet, counting steps without meaning to. — I’m learning how to exist there without disappearing into it.
Leemhai nods, considering her.
— It shows — she says. — You look more… present. Like you’re not carrying everything at once anymore.
The smile that follows is small, unassuming, but it catches the light all the same. Sun glints briefly against the gloss on her lips, and Na registers it the way she registers most things lately, not spiraling, just aware and steady enough to let the moment pass through her without grabbing at it. It’s what Leemhai said that lingers.
Na smiles then, a little caught off guard by how true it feels.
— I’m trying not to — she says. — I used to think being exhausted meant I was doing it right. That if I was drained enough, if I gave everything, it meant I was worth my place there.
She exhales, almost amused by her former certainty.
— Turns out that just made it easier for people to take more than they should have.
She hesitates, then asks:
— And you? How’s your work going? Still…experimenting?
The pause is intentional, a small concession to lightness. Na knows the word carries something familiar between them.
Leemhai takes a moment before answering, as if she’s sorting through colors in her head, deciding which ones belong together.
— It’s changing — she says. — I’ve stopped forcing things to make sense. I paint when it feels honest now, not when it feels correct.
Her fingers move as she speaks, subtle and unintentional, as if tracing a line only she can see. Na’s gaze follows the motion without thinking, caught by it the way she always is, like watching something take shape before it knows what it’s becoming.
— Some days that means nothing gets finished — Leemhai continues. — Other days… something finally breathes.
Na registers the words for what they are, a confession offered without ceremony. One that resonates deeper than she anticipated. She nods, understanding that particular uncertainty, the kind that arrives when structure loosens its grip, when control is replaced by trust.
— That sounds like you — she says.
Leemhai smiles, a quiet warmth in it.
They continue walking, the conversation easing into small, unremarkable things, about the heat and how the day keeps refusing to cool down, about nothing in particular and everything that doesn’t need to be remembered. It settles naturally between them, light and unguarded, carried by the simple pleasure of being side by side. Their steps fall into a shared rhythm. Sometimes their hands brush, accidental at first, then less so, a fleeting contact neither of them comments on. Glances are stolen when they happen, unannounced and brief. Leemhai’s eyes stay soft on her, attentive in a way that feels almost patient without ever being distant. Na’s flicker more nervously, always arriving a second too late.
Maybe it isn’t a return to what they were. But it proves that something steady still exists…quiet, possible, waiting.
And it’s only after this, after the ordinary questions, the careful answers, that Leemhai slows, glances around, and says:
— It’s strange… — she says, almost to herself. — All of this. — She lets out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and disbelief. — Running into each other like this. Out of nowhere.
She glances at Na, searching.
— Don’t you think?
Na doesn’t answer right away. She lets the moment stretch, lets herself look. The breeze lifts a loose strand of Leemhai’s hair and lets it fall again against her shoulder. Her long arms hang easy and relaxed at her sides. She stands with that quiet, unforced grace that always makes Na aware of her own body by contrast, of how Leemhai never seems to brace herself for the world the way Na does. For a second, everything feels slightly out of focus, as if she’s watching the scene through glass, present but suspended.
Na nods then, a little too quickly, as if remembering she’s meant to respond. Her hands have gone restless again, fingers worrying at the edge of her pink button-down, picking at the fabric near the hem as her pulse grows suddenly loud in her ears.
— Yeah — she says at last, the word landing softer than intended. — Unexpected.
Leemhai stops walking.
Na stops a half second later, as if her body needs confirmation before it agrees to stillness. Leemhai turns fully toward her then and really looks at her, not the passing glance from before but something held and intentional, the kind of attention that presses into the space between them, quiet but impossible to ignore. Her gaze drops, unhurried, moving slowly over Na’s face, the line of her jaw, the curve of her shoulders, as if she’s taking in more than what’s immediately visible. Na stays still, aware of herself under that attention, of how much space the look seems to occupy. When Leemhai’s eyes lift again, there’s a brightness there, contained rather than tentative.
The feeling is immediate and inconvenient, an uprising of butterflies, chaotic and unhelpful. She is acutely aware of her own breathing, of the way her chest rises too fast, of how still Leemhai stands in contrast. They don’t speak and the silence stretches, thick but not uncomfortable. Leemhai’s eyes move, one eye to the other, back and forth, like she’s trying to take Na in properly this time, afraid she’ll miss something if she doesn’t.
Then Leemhai inhales deeply, slow and deliberate. It’s a small thing, but Na catches it. She’s seen that breath before.
Once, it came with a whiskey glass in her hand, with a black cross dragged across a painting she claimed she didn’t like. Sad, angry even. She had poured into the paint what she felt when Na dismissed her feelings, until it looked as if the composition itself had turned against her. Even then, she held herself together. Especially then.
The breath now carries the same restraint. And Na doesn’t need anything else to know that something is off.
— Naaa… — Leemhai starts, drawing the name out in that particular way she has, soft and weighted all at once.
Na’s chest tightens in anticipation.
— Talk to me — Na says, too quickly. The words tumble out before she can soften them.
Leemhai hesitates like she wants to say something but decides not to.
— I should probably go — she says gently, and Na knows she’s trying not to bruise anything fragile. — I—
The thought of Leemhai turning away, of watching her walk off this time, hits Na hard and fast.
— Wait.
The word comes out in the middle of whatever Leemhai was about to say. Her hand reaches out at the same time, before she can overthink it, not grabbing, just a light, uncertain touch, fingers closing around Leemhai’s wrist like a question.
Leemhai doesn’t pull away. She waits, as she always has, with the same quiet patience.
Na swallows. Her mind scrambles, unhelpful, blank. So she says the first thing that surfaces. The safest and truest thing.
— Do you still make brownies?
Leemhai blinks. Once. Twice.
— Brownies?
— Yeah — Na says, a nervous laugh slipping out before she can stop it. — You know. The ones that taste a little… off. The ones with the secret ingredient.
She says it knowing full well that Leemhai has always insisted there isn’t one. No tricks, no additions, nothing she’d ever admit to. And still, Na wonders, has wondered for a while now, if the difference was never in the recipe at all. If it came from Leemhai herself. From those careful, deliberate hands, so used to translating feeling into form, to making something ordinary feel intentional.
Na shifts her weight, glancing away, then back again.
— Have you… gotten better at them?
The question is light, almost joking. But the hope tucked inside it is real.
There’s a beat of confusion before understanding dawns. Na can see it land, the shift in Leemhai’s expression, the way her shoulders loosen, the way the tension gives way to something softer.
— I think I have. I hope I have — Leemhai says, amused now, the corner of her mouth tipping upward. — But I’m not sure. Nobody eats them besides me.
There it is! Not stated outright, but offered all the same. A quiet exclusivity laid gently between them, waiting to be recognized.
She tilts her head, studying Na with that unhurried attention that has always undone her just a little.
— You’d probably have to taste them to know and give me your verdict.
Her gaze drops then, just briefly, to Na’s mouth. Na feels it immediately, the awareness blooming hot and unmistakable. Her lips part without her quite deciding to let them, breath catching in the small space between thoughts. A nervous, unconscious gesture follows, the tip of her tongue brushing her lower lip, as if tasting something she hasn’t had in a while and suddenly remembers missing. And something warm starts to shift in her chest, it’s neither relief nor certainty. But a quiet and unexpected sense of hope.
Leemhai notices, it is obvious she does.
Na’s response is to give her a tentative and real smile.
Maybe this isn’t about picking up where they left off. Maybe it’s about learning how to stand here again, awkward, honest, breathing too fast, letting the moment exist simply because she’s noticed it.
And this time, not letting it walk away.