Chapter Text
Once Jaeyi searched a website that claimed: ‘You can tell a person likes someone by how they frequently smile around them.’
By then, countless corners hid Jaeyi with each day she spent on her hunt. She could count with only her fingers how many candidates of the phantom Seulgi had interacted with.
Although Jaeyi knew assumptions were invaluable, she was self-assured enough to rule out each man as the phantom; every interaction Seulgi had with them was, by any means, boring; oftentimes, she would only nod as her reply to their comments, sometimes she would smile at them out of politeness, but at most times she looked disinterested with them.
There were no signs that suggested Seulgi liked any of them; her smile would disappear the moment they turned around, she never even once laughed around them.
It was a part of her that Jaeyi thought was ‘odd’. Seulgi’s brief smile never much lingered with anyone, nor did she smile with her teeth. The only time she would smile sincerely was when professors gave her reaffirmations, that part—at least for Jaeyi—was the only time Seulgi would let her smile linger.
Seulgi was the same aloof woman she knew in class. In the eyes of her classmates, she was someone whose life was too ‘boring’. She was too studious to spare a glance at anyone, too quiet yet too opinionated for a normal small talk. When she spoke outside academic means, it was only out of obligation.
Jaeyi herself was not excluded from how Seulgi treated everyone else. She was the first to know these things about her, frankly because she was the first cause of it.
Jaeyi would initiate a small talk with her, but Seulgi would brush her pass by. It was a specific instance in fact, there was a time she waited for Seulgi outside their building just to say ‘congratulations’ but Seulgi only nodded, and briefly smiled at her like it was nothing,
like outranking her for the first time was nothing. Although that was during their first semester together.
As the second semester began, other’s hearsay circulated about them had been clearly established between the two; she and Seulgi were the two sides of the same coin; opposites yet alike. They were as fierce as the other once a question was raised.
So, for Jaeyi, if someone could make Seulgi, of all people, invert her character,
she would be the first to know.
It had been nearly three weeks since she read Seulgi’s poem. Jaeyi had then adapted to Seulgi’s routines. Even if she decides not to follow Seulgi, under certain occasions, she had a strong ground as to where Seulgi might be.
On Monday mornings, Seulgi would come early for their first class, and would wait in their building’s public lounge. After their first class, she would go about studying, sometimes with a random classmate, or by herself in the library until their next class. It was the same routine as the next days, Seulgi would wait for their first class in their lounge, and pass her vacant hours to the library.
But within the past week, a new routine had emerged on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Seulgi would go to another building. To the arts building, where she would meet with a group, with a man.
Jaeyi didn’t quite discern who exactly she kept meeting up with during those days. All she could make out of her own squinting was that he was tall, his hair was a messy dark of strands.
Since then, Jaeyi limited her reasons not to follow Seulgi.
Once again, Jaeyi squinted her eyes between a narrow space of two books. Across from where she stood, she saw two opened notes, the other untouched, the other Seulgi was writing on. Across from where Seulgi sat, there were piled up books, also untouched.
She had already collected her own pieces to puzzle. When Seulgi flipped her book’s pages, between paragraphs she read, she would check her left and right, before moving on to her text. Jaeyi, a student herself, was fond of that pattern; it was unmistakable to her that Seulgi was to study with someone. Jaeyi had been waiting to see if, like Wednesdays and Thursdays, there was also something new in Seulgi’s time in the library.
The library air was filled with rustling papers and exhausted voiceless yawns from students studying in the late afternoon, its drowsiness evoked other’s focused minds, except for Jaeyi, her eyes and ears were her own sharpened pencils.
It had been nearly twenty minutes of retrospecting her ‘hunt’, since she was waiting for whose books those belonged to,
when at last, someone was quietly making way to the chair across from Seulgi. They exchanged nods.
Jaeyi’s brows knit, displeased by the reveal. She knew who met up with Seulgi, she knew her well, and disliked her. She sighed at once.
After all her waiting, only for it to be Kyung.
Kyung and Seulgi’s faint voices didn’t reach a word to Jaeyi’s ears. Defeated, she shifted on her feet, and grabbed a nearby book, making her way over to them. There was no point in probing now.
Kyung couldn’t be the phantom.
“Look who’s here.” Kyung whispered, she shot a certain look at Jaeyi. Seulgi slowly turned her head.
“Good afternoon,” Jaeyi whispered behind Seulgi, her hand on Seulgi’s shoulder. “Can I sit here with you?”
Seulgi nodded, moving her things to make space for the other. She looked over at Kyung, a question forming on her face.
Jaeyi sat beside her, pulling out her own notes, and her book on the table. She leaned in close to Seulgi. And didn’t waste a second longer to ask,
“Why is she here?” she whispered between them.
“Kyung and I are,” Seulgi second-guessed the obvious.
“To study, obviously.” Kyung continued. Her voice stern. “I heard that.”
Jaeyi then darted her eyes at Kyung. “Shouldn’t you be with Yeri.”
“For what?” Kyung’s eyes were unwavering at hers.
Jaeyi shrugged as her answer.
Kyung hissed. She returned her attention to Seulgi—who already began annotating her notes without their notice. She too then began her session.
All three of them went quiet. Both Seulgi and Kyung were casually noting down their texts, whereas Jaeyi only read. She held her book close to her face, her notes abandoned on her side. The book she had picked up wasn’t in her interests; it was a text about patents, they were supposed to be Kyung’s. She only read two paragraphs of its introductory page.
Jaeyi fought a yawn escaping her. She peeked over at Kyung, casually running her fingers in horizontal motions on her book’s page. The sight made Jaeyi even more subjected to sleep. She yawned.
Kyung glared at her at once. Jaeyi raised a brow in question, before lowering her profile down, her book hid another yawn about to escape her.
Then, her eyes wandered to Seulgi’s side; she glanced at her.
Seulgi’s hand paused from writing, she was frowning. She flipped a page back of her book, tapping her pencil in what seemed like annoyance, hinted when she pressed her lips into a line, as well as her brows drawing closer.
Jaeyi took in the sight of her being annoyed. She pressed her book in hand closer to her face, its pages obscuring her fixed glance at the other.
A hair strand fell from Seulgi’s tied hair. Before her mind could tickle her to her senses, Jaeyi reached a hand and brushed Seulgi’s hair back to her ear.
Seulgi immediately whipped her head to her, thrown off guard by the sudden gesture. Her book thudded shut, alarming Kyung from the silence of the library. Her eyes flicked to Jaeyi’s, then at Kyung who seemed bewildered by the shift of tension around the other two.
Both Kyung and Jaeyi raised their brows in question. “What’s wrong?” Jaeyi asked. Her words were crisp of confusion.
In her unusual stirred voice, Seulgi spoke, “Kyung,” she set her attention over to Kyung, “how’s your stomach pain?” She digressed.
Jaeyi’s brows knit, Seulgi’s reaction didn’t exactly affirm her of any light welcome. She followed Seulgi’s gaze, setting her book aside.
Two pairs of expectant eyes stared directly at Kyung. She crossed her arms, lowering her gaze to think in hindsight as to what Seulgi suddenly mentioned. “It… my period might come tomorrow.”
Seulgi sighed. “Okay, I see. Don’t forget to take your pain killers.” She said, returning to her notes.
“It might be appendicitis.” Jaeyi scoffed. “Your appendix might blow up tomorrow.”
“What did you just say?” Kyung shot her another look. This time sharper.
Seulgi looked back and forth between the other two, sensing another session of petty bicker. She replied, formally. “If your pain travels south—to your right side, your stomach pain might be appendicitis. If it does happen you should immediately drink antibiotics, and get it checked.”
Kyung then darted her eyes at Seulgi. “What the fuck?”
Slowly, Jaeyi diverted her attention back to Seulgi. Her eyes narrowed into what seemed like a smile, from how there was a glint in them.
Seulgi continued, “Appendicitis starts off as a normal stomach pain. But you won’t notice that, as the days go on and your stomach pain’s still there, your appendix might be already clogged. You’ll feel nauseous. Eventually, you’ll feel your pain travel noticeably to your lower-right abdomen.” She looked over to her shoulder, glancing at Jaeyi.
Jaeyi smiled. What started off as a joke, became a lesson.
“How exactly does the appendix clog?” Kyung pressed, in her curious tone.
This time Jaeyi formally replied, picking up her chair to move closer to Seulgi, while the other two could only stare at her do so. “It can be feces blocking your appendix, or pus.” She said once when she was close enough to see Seulgi’s notes. “When your appendix does get clogged, it starts to get inflamed and therefore swollen from infection.” She paused, noticing the handwritten words on Seulgi’s notes.
It was the same handwriting as the poem’s.
Seulgi flipped a page, she continued where Jaeyi left as she diverted her attention back to her work, “When you neglect your body, you won’t notice that something’s already infected your appendix. You think it’s just ‘stomach pain’ at first, but as you keep neglecting that pain even when it has already moved to your lower-abdomen, your infected appendix will eventually tear, burst open and spread, infecting the rest of your organs. You’ll die.”
Then, her writing arms came to a halt, she turned to Jaeyi. With a tilt of her head, she directly dared to stare at Jaeyi’s curious eyes, she added:
“It begins as something small. It’s a pain you think is ordinary. But you won’t notice it already settled somewhere more specific, a deep and vulnerable part inside you. By the time you realize it is not just stomach pain, it may already be infected. It’ll burst, and kill you.”
Her voice was a deliberate line of derisiveness.
She drifted her attention at Kyung in front, shrugging like her words didn’t just settle between them heavier than they should have.
Jaeyi did not miss the way Seulgi’s voice steadied at the end. It wasn’t dramatic, now was it joking. It was as if she was not talking about an organ at all,
It was as if she was warning about something that begins small, almost harmless, that is something easy to dismiss until it finally bursts.
--
Another day has passed since. It was Thursday morning. Sets of yawns and sighs battled off each other’s urge of early morning drowsiness, it all stopped the moment the door slid open to reveal their professor.
Across next to Jaeyi’s row, Seulgi cautiously stood from her seat, making her way to their classroom’s door. Jaeyi followed glance of her steps, and saw Seulgi turn left without haste. It was peculiar, Seulgi was never the student to leave just moments after their professors came in, especially in this subject.
Although there was nothing hurried in the way Seulgi moved. No fumbling with her bag, no apologetic bow to excuse herself—just a quiet rise, a soft push of her chair, and the faint click of the door sliding shut behind her. It was subtle enough that no one else seemed to register it.
Jaeyi tapped her fingers against her table, in rhythm to a second’s waste. Seulgi has gone off somewhere else.
The professor’s voice rang through her thoughts, her back turned to the class as she wrote a table. “Listen up everybody, let’s do some recap on the basics just in case.”
Jaeyi turned her attention back to their professor. Her tapping fingers came to a pause.
“You can start with the first element and go straight down the list—yes,” The professor said, writing a neat table on the board with quick strokes. “And if it doesn’t work, you can adjust the coefficient of the first compound.”
She turned around, facing the class. “It can be in that linear order. However that’s wrong, as you already know some elements are jumbled, you’ll just be going back and forth with the coefficients and subsequently ruin its atoms, your formula won’t make sense. Am I right?”
The room fell silent. The only sound was chalk scraping against the board as the professor drew circles on her table. Then she spoke again, sharper this time, “Based on our previous brief exercise some of you might have forgotten this very basic technique. So listen properly,” Her gaze moved across the students in hoodies and jackets. “Just because oxygen appears first doesn’t mean you start with oxygen. Focus on balancing the complex compounds and the metals first. Hydrogen and oxygen should be last.”
She paused, letting it sink in. “Fewer appearances first. The ones that show up everywhere—H and O are last,” her voice continued, but reverbed as Jaeyi’s attention drifted once again.
More seconds were passing. Her gaze flicked to the door.
Before then, Jaeyi’s sharp wit had caught up to where Seulgi had gone. And it was not the presumed bathroom; the nearest restroom was a right turn from their door. She stood up from her seat, her chair pushed back. The scrape of its legs against the floor sounded louder than intended. A few heads turned.
“Jaeyi what’s the matter?” A seatmate asked.
Came Jaeyi’s typical calmness, her voice dignified in that same tone as any other day, “Excuse me I have to use the bathroom.” she said with a bow, and swiftly made her way outside their room with a soft slide of the door.
With light steps, Jaeyi turned left.
Down a hall, she turned right, then another left. Her pace remained controlled, though her eyes were anything but. She scanned corners, doorways, empty benches by windows. The building hummed faintly with distant lectures and the muted echo of footsteps from other floors.
She crossed many rooms, ran its halls and corridors, but in every corner she checked, there was no single trace of Seulgi. She had checked each floor’s restrooms, and still, there were no signs of Seulgi.
A thin irritation threaded itself into Jaeyi’s breath.
Perhaps Seulgi had already returned to their room.
From the first floor, Jaeyi retraced her paths, when suddenly, an unfamiliar voice piqued her attention. Around a corner between lockers, a faint voice of a man was heard. “You should go now Seulgi-ssi,” the voice said.
Instantaneously did Jaeyi follow the source. She hid herself behind a locker next to Seulgi's, peeking anew to see a man privately converse with Seulgi. Her breath caught. It was the same man from the arts department. He was a few years older than both of them; a senior from how he formally dressed in complete uniform.
Jaeyi waited for a response from Seulgi, she narrowed her eyes only to see her bow before the man, as the senior smiled at her.
She winced, it was a queer sight.
When Seulgi began to move, Jaeyi quickly withdrew herself from her spot, following the same path to the stairs back to their lecture room.
Once both women finally returned seated in their row, Jaeyi scanned Seulgi’s unknowing figure. She tilted her head slightly in deep thought.
The senior seemed like a man of character; a woman’s type so to say. But other than formulas and theories, Seulgi never once insinuated what she liked about someone, even when one time a classmate directly asked her about it. To find out she did have someone in mind, made Jaeyi’s hunt more endearing than it should be.
Absently, she recalled the phantom’s character: ‘tall’, dark, and smart. She hardly knew the senior for her to tally ‘smart’ out. In lieu, she thinks in hindsight about the way he smiled at Seulgi, Whether it was mischief or naivety she saw in that form of smile, she told to herself that if she saw the same smile from him, she needed to be sure which is which.
Later that noon, the sunlight streaks reached every edge of their campus’ field; the clouds came in the gradient of its hues, and the grass seemed more alive under the sun’s smile.
Just early on, Jaeyi was asked to meet up by Yeri, under the premise of ‘paying her back’—the only time she bothered to be an excuse for her mission. But much to her surprise, faith twisted itself.
The one thing she was in search of presented itself to her.
The bustling bodies of students around fell in a blur of motions. The noon framed one lone figure sit across from where she stood.
Jaeyi distanced herself out of sight, hidden behind a vending machine. Across from where she hid, there was the same man, with Seulgi.
The sunlight gathered around him as if deliberately isolating his outline from the rest of the field, casting a clean shadow behind his back while the others around him dissolved into indistinct shapes and laughter.
Conversations overlapped in careless waves, shoes scraped against pavement, a ball bounced somewhere near the bleachers, yet all of it dulled into a distant hum in Jaeyi’s ears. Her focus narrowed, precise and involuntary.
The man was seated with ease, one leg stretched forward, the other bent, sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms as he gestured while speaking. A small crowd formed a loose semicircle around him, leaning in without realizing they were doing so. Even from afar, Jaeyi could tell he was mid-story.
Then there was Seulgi, she sat not too close, nor too far, positioned at an angle that allowed her to face him without appearing entirely centered on him. Her posture was attentive and composed, hands resting neatly on her lap. She had her usual hair bun free, her bangs framed her scene. Every so often, she nodded, a faint crease forming between her brows as though she were genuinely processing each word.
Jaeyi felt something tighten in her chest.
“This one’s on me,” Yeri said, flaunting a can in hand. “Promise I’ll pay you in time.”
“Thank you.” Jaeyi took the can, absently popping it open with one hand, still deep in thought.
Yeri raised a brow, passing her gaze across the field. “What are you looking at?” her eyes darted to a group behind her.
Jaeyi flicked her gaze to Yeri. She hissed. “I forgot to remind my group about something—”
“Isn’t that Seulgi with…” Yeri narrowed her eyes, “HEY!” she shouted, waving her hands. “Yeon oppa! Hey!”
The same senior panned his head in search of Yeri’s voice. Once he saw the vending machine, he shouted back, “Yeri!” he beckoned Yeri with a single wave of hand.
Yeri grabbed Jaeyi’s hand. “Perfect,” said she, cheerfully smiling as she guided Jaeyi over to the group.
“Hi everyone,” Yeri greeted at once. A collective ‘hi’ greeted her back. “What’s the project?” she asked casually. She knew this group, it was a club that often collaborated with hers.
“Just an intermission number. We were planning on showing off a fun skit for valentines.” The senior replied.
“A skit?” Yeri hummed as she scooted a seat for herself in the semicircle, across from the senior. “That’s new coming from you.”
“New is good. Isn’t that right Seulgi?”
Jaeyi’s ears perked up. She stood idle behind Yeri, across from Seulgi.
Seulgi softly nodded, her face a serious look. “New is necessary.” She amended. The word necessary did not sound light on her tongue. It carried weight, as though she meant more than a simple change in performance.
Jaeyi’s attention was set on her. The voices around went still, as if submerged underwater. She began to cross her way over to Seulgi. “Can I sit with you?” she asked at once, placing a hand on Seulgi’s shoulder.
Seulgi scooted, giving Jaeyi a seat beside hers. She didn’t look at Jaeyi back; occupied to be attentive with the ongoing conversation. Yet her shoulder remained subtly aware beneath Jaeyi’s palm, rigid for a fleeting second before easing.
“So you’re a part of a club?” Jaeyi asked between them. Deliberate of her choice of words.
Seulgi nodded, her eyes remained fixed on the group. While she did, Jaeyi trailed her frame, taking in the sight of her own wonder: Seulgi had her hair down, her hair-tie on her wrist. It was unlike her usual neat composure. The loose strands softened her face, almost unguarded. The sun shone its streaks through her strands of her hair, it made the edges of Seulgi’s hair glow brown.
Vowels were forming on her lips, but her words didn’t register into Jaeyi’s head, by then Jaeyi’s attention shifted on Seulgi’s reappearing dimple with every spoken word, a small crescent that surfaced and disappeared like something meant only for those close enough to notice.
then, Seulgi smiled.
Similarly, an involuntary grin twitched on Jaeyi’s lips. Dare she admits to herself Seulgi’s smile befits her this up-close. “I’ve never seen you like this. You’re glowing.” She said, too quiet in the bustling of voices around them for the other to hear her whole sentence. The word 'glowing' felt dangerous once released, as if she had revealed too much of what she was seeing.
Seulgi darted a single glance at her, her smile disappeared before lowering her head. “Glowing?” she asked. The question was not disbelief alone; it was caution.
Perhaps reaffirmation, if known about.
“I said you’re glowing.”
“Oh, thank you.” Seulgi chuckled awkwardly, before turning her head to her other side, hiding her profile with her bangs. Her bangs fell like a curtain, shielding whatever flicker had passed through her eyes.
Jaeyi’s brows knit together, a thin line between confusion and being displeased. It dawned on her what a smile from Seulgi meant. At last, there was evidence that verified the website she sought.
But somehow, she couldn’t approve of the obvious. Approval meant surrender, but she had never been fond of surrendering.
She set her eyes on the specific man just beside Seulgi. To the same senior. This time his dark hair was neatly pushed back. “He looks,” she carefully laid out her next words,
“What’s the right word?”
“Charming.” Seulgi’s fingers began to fidget. She said, her voice kept casual—a contrast to her current meek demeanor. The word slipped out smoothly, rehearsed perhaps, or simply honest.
“Are you close with him?”
“Everyone is.” Seulgi replied with a sigh. Her eyes remained fixed as the unknowing man continued to gesticulate his words. She drew herself closer to Jaeyi, ineluctably brushing their folded knees together. And extended her arms behind, leaning her head close to Jaeyi’s shoulder. The proximity felt deliberate and accidental all at once, like a line crossed under the guise of comfort.
She whispered, “Charming, but he talks too much.”
Charming. No other word could perfectly describe someone sophistic, cunning. Jaeyi held onto the second half instead. ‘… Talks too much’. It was an imperfection, a crack she had rummaged.
Before Jaeyi could provide a comment, Yeri’s voice called out to her. “Jaeyi!” Both women whipped their attention to her. “I think you fit the role of the prince.” Another collective ‘yes!’ followed her suggestion.
Jaeyi retreated her thoughts away from Seulgi’s last comment, shaking her head lightly. “I’m not a man.” She laughed off the suggestion.
“You just have to dress up as one,” another member said.
“Convince me.” Jaeyi said, demanding. She disliked the idea of it, more responsibility would pile up from her list of duties. She could have directly declined, but declination meant incompetence in Seulgi’s ears—she knew well of that. And she refused to appear lesser in front of her.
The members huddled to give her question an answer. As they did so, Seulgi leaned an inch closer to her, still her eyes were on the others. She tugged Jaeyi’s sleeve, hinting the other to lean into her.
Jaeyi blinked, she leaned an ear closer to her until their distance measured Seulgi's palm.
Seulgi whispered something new between them cautiously, “That ‘charming’ guy will be your scene partner, you'll technically fight over someone.” her voice gave no hint as to what she had in mind to consider Jaeyi would like the reason.
It was absurd in Jaeyi’s ears, yet sensible from Seulgi’s mouth.
"We want to make this valentine's day better than last year." Seulgi sat up straight, and glanced at Jaeyi—whose eyes were on hers already. The mention of last year lingered, a shadow neither of them elaborated on.
She instantly diverted her attention away.
Nonetheless, it was a new means to her end, Jaeyi grinned. She shifted on her spot. “That’s not really convincing,” She drifted her attention to the others, and took a sip of her can. The metal was cold against her lips, grounding her. “But fine, I’ll do it.” The acceptance was too quick to be casual.
“She’s in!” Seulgi exclaimed amid the huddling of bodies. The group instantly went into an uproar. She mumbled a "Thank you" after. It was quiet, almost swallowed by the cheers, but it reached Jaeyi nonetheless.
A member theatrically proclaimed, “Oh Your Highness, it is by your behest that I, your to-be-foe, shall be of great—”
“Shut your mouth extra.” The senior interrupted, in the voice of someone who knew how to instruct those around him. Laughter engulfed them, when instantly,
Jaeyi’s ears perked up pointier than before. She set her eyes on Seulgi.
Seulgi was laughing along with.
Jaeyi’s frown became overt. Seulgi’s shoulders were shaking from laughter, her dimple lingered as well as her teeth.
The sound was unrestrained, untouched by the guarded tone she used with Jaeyi earlier. “What’s so funny?” she asked the other, forthright The question came sharper than intended.
She didn’t know why it suddenly bothered her. It just did.
“It’s nothing.” Seulgi said, before laughing once more. Voices layered themselves in one tangled laugh, and yet, it was her laugh that called Jaeyi out from the rest. It rang clearer, closer, as if it belonged somewhere Jaeyi almost believed was hers to gate.
Then, “Yeri, let’s go.” she said authoritatively, her cold voice sliced through the warm laughter. The shift was abrupt.
Everyone fixed their attention at her rising from her feet. “Excuse me, Seulgi.” She said in that same cold tone. The politeness felt like armor hastily put on.
Seulgi held a word from throat, she swallowed the opportunity to question the sudden shift of mood. She could only watch Jaeyi’s long black hair sway as she walked away.
And for a fleeting second, the laughter around her dulled.
Moonlight loomed around Jaeyi, she leaned back on her lounge chair with a cigarette between her fingers, dazingly staring at the stars flickering above her. Her usual Thursday evening welcomed itself once more for the week.
She took another puff, smoke curling upward as Seulgi's startled face flashed through her mind.
Despite the latest occasion she had with Seulgi, she helplessly recalled back to the time in the library. The way Seulgi’s book had thudded shut, the way she had whipped around like Jaeyi's touch had burned. It was just a strand of hair, anyone would have done the same.
But Seulgi hadn't reacted like it was 'anyone', she had reacted like it was Jaeyi.
The thought unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. It implied a specificity, a line drawn in invisible ink between them, something that did not exist with others. And Jaeyi could not decide whether that line was accusation or invitation.
It was a pinpoint of a new kind of question emerging from the moments Seulgi spent with her; Jaeyi had asked herself what she would do if she did unmask the identity of the phantom.
Would she be cured of its plague? Or would it fester in her, the same way Seulgi’s laugh did?
Amidst her retrospecting, a text notification tinged on her phone. It was a message from Yeri:
“I didn’t know Seulgi was a member of that club. I only found out recently too. They said Yeon just recruited her last week.”
“You’ll like Yeon. He’s funny.”
“Tell me more about him.” Jaeyi replied.
Yeri’s text bubble was immediate. She replied back, “He’s the head member of the creatives club. Everyone likes him. He’s also a senior in the theater department.”
“That’s all I know.”
“Thank you.”
“Why ask? Do you like him?”
“He already has a girl though. Sorry.”
Jaeyi sat up right. Her cigarette rested between her fingers, putting her phone down on her lap. Yeri’s last message triggered a certain line from Seulgi’s poem:
“The phantom kissed another, as once for me—sincere.”
Jaeyi called back to the same man. He was indeed taller than Seulgi, had a ‘dark’ character from how he carried himself artfully around others that only by his voice alone did others fall victim to his stories. And he was smart in his own ways—Jaeyi was sure that, ‘sophistic’, also meant Seulgi’s mind alike.
Much to her unbidden thoughts, Jaeyi imagined them side by side; two silhouettes that matched in height and gravity, two people who could meet each other without flinching. It made sense in a way that felt almost too neat.
At last, Jaeyi could paint it then with thick strokes, that the senior was the phantom. She layered the image deliberately, convincing herself with each added detail, until the portrait looked complete enough to believe.
But she couldn’t help but ask herself again, ‘what will she do now?’
If the phantom had a face, what would she gain from it? Relief? Vindication? Or merely a clearer target for ‘disdain’ she refused to replenish the description?
It was true that ‘… through the Phantom’s identity she sought answers to her actions’. And yet, the closer the phantom was, the more distant her answers were. The certainty she expected did not arrive. Instead, doubt multiplied, much to herself.
Jaeyi wasn’t sure of herself anymore.
That awaited revelation conjured an unfaithful memory, she didn’t realize had begun to simmer.
Seulgi’s laugh replayed again in her head. It had been since that late afternoon when that same laugh alarmed her; she never once heard that woman laugh to herself. To anyone. It had slipped out unguarded, almost childlike, as if Seulgi had momentarily forgotten to be composed.
It was an erratic thing to witness from Seulgi. Perhaps for Jaeyi it was. She had seen Seulgi smile from time to time, but never that wide, raw, sincere. She wasn’t sure herself why that laugh threw her off-guard, and frankly uneasy. But Seulgi’s voice as she laughed, it was open, sweet, soft, mellow, it was as if there was another side to her that Jaeyi never had the privilege to see.
And privilege was an infamous and prominent part of her character. She was accustomed to access, to knowing first, to being chosen. And to realize there were rooms within Seulgi she had not stepped into, unsettled her more than the thought of any phantom ever could.
That voice, that laugh, that poem, Seulgi, no matter how much she tried to obfuscate them under her own predispositions; their intricacies would come unpolished. At times, it would pull her down to her deepest, and most vulnerable part of her own mind,
swelling her own thoughts.
The poem was no longer Seulgi’s alone. It had threaded itself into Jaeyi’s consciousness, each line tugging whenever she tried to detach.
Jaeyi has yet to realize that.
She puffed out more. Vapors rose around her, clouding her overhead, as well as her thoughts did to her senses.
The smoke did not simply vanish; it hovered, blurred the constellations, softening the vast emptiness of the night. In that haze, the phantom and Seulgi almost overlapped, indistinguishable silhouettes in the dark.
And for a fleeting second, Jaeyi wondered if the plague she feared was not the phantom at all, but the quiet, persistent light of Seulgi herself—glowing even when she tried to smother it.
--
It was another week, another Wednesday Jaeyi anticipated. But she hadn’t seen the senior since the start of Seulgi’s usual routine. Seulgi went to her usual spots, and followed her usual schedules. But it was already evening, and Seulgi hadn't met with the senior once.
Jaeyi suspected something had happened. Before their last lecture of the day, she had asked Seulgi about the skit. But other than Seulgi reminding her about the upcoming rehearsal, and memorizing her script, she didn’t give anything to Jaeyi to measure what could've happened.
The professor cleared his throat, alarming the students.
“Sometime in the 1900s, the polio outbreak was paralyzing thousands of children every year. Parents were terrified, and hospitals were filling in children with iron lungs,” the professor went quiet, scratching his chin before continuing, “Jonas Salk developed a vaccine, now known as IPV, that showed strong results in trials. And the public demanded immediate rollout, but it depends on perfect manufacturing—if the virus is not fully inactivated in a batch, the vaccine itself can cause polio. Long-term effects were also not fully known yet.”
The professor then scanned his eyes throughout the students, supervising the suspense for his question of a moral dilemma:
“Should the vaccine be rolled out immediately to stop the polio crisis, even if it may harm a small number of healthy children due to manufacturing errors or unknown risks? Or,” he moved over to a row, “should the rollout be delayed until safety and production controls are nearly perfect, even though thousands more children may contract polio in the meantime?” He added, amused on his own.
The students’ deafening silence was immediate to envelop the room. No rustles, nor sighs and coughs registered into their shaking minds, thinking of their choice.
“On one,”
No one raised their hand.
“Two,”
Still, no one raised their hand. Some students looked left and right, praying for any sign that someone will while most looked at Jaeyi expectantly.
“Thre—”
“I think the ethical practice of manufacturing the vaccine safely and surely before an official roll-out should be considered. Even if it contracts more children overtime.” Seulgi claimed in a single draw of breath. She was standing poised, and proud as she did. “That is all.” She didn’t sit down just yet.
The professor acknowledged her answer, nodding casually. “Does anyone think otherwise?”
Jaeyi raised a hand. She stood up immediately. “This is a moral dilemma, not an ethical, question. For the sake of the argument, I’ll have to say it should also be considered that the small number of healthy children having risked for an immediate roll-out is a better choice than more children contracting polio over time.” She gave Seulgi a brief glance before continuing, “The interval of the production control to its promised safe cure might take years. It will put more children at risk of polio.”
Seulgi spoke just after, assertively—heightened by her defiant eyes shot at Jaeyi, “‘Long-term effects were not fully known yet.’ You can’t be confident the time exchange of those two options varies if IPV itself wasn’t yet fully developed safely. The better option here is ethical practice, exactly how it should be professionally.”
“’Professionally’, medicine involves risks.” Jaeyi rebuked, mirroring the same daring stance of Seulgi. She continued, her voice an unwavering tool: “Edward Jenner was able to make a small-pox vaccine from contracting a child with cow-pox—that was how he proved its ‘absurdity’ during his time.”
The rest of the students were taken aback, most weren’t familiar whose name Jaeyi mentioned, or how cow-pox had something to do with small-pox. They only listened, and now anticipate if Seulgi knew the contextualized reference.
The professor, too, only listened to the two women. Nodding every now and then as he smiled throughout the exchange, clearly enjoying himself.
Seulgi remained poised in her stand. “‘First, do no harm.’ regardless of ambitious innovations. Jenner didn’t exactly harm the child. When he infected the child with cow-pox, it saved him from any actual harm beforehand, Jaeyi what—”
“Now you’re being utilitarian. That’s counter-intuitive to your ‘non-maleficent’ it weakens your—”
“Okay that’s enough. I’ve heard enough.” The professor interrupted, aware of the usual habit of their class. Both women immediately sat down. “Seulgi, Jaeyi, you both have good arguments, but let’s hear the others.” He ran his eyes throughout the rest of the class. “You,” he pointed a finger at a student, “if one child is harmed by the vaccine, who is morally responsible? The scientist, manufacturer, the government, or the public who demanded speed?”
As the student stammered his answer, Jaeyi glanced at Seulgi to see her fix her attention to the speaker, unknowing of a grin forcing its way on her lips.
What happened wasn’t about polio, or moralities and ethics, it was about them.
This was their habit. A professor would raise a question, both of them would wait who gets to detonate the spark. Once either of them did, academic exercises washes itself away as something intimate to only them surfaces.
For once, the phantom didn’t reach Jaeyi’s swelling thoughts. It wasn’t due to the sudden inconsistency of Seulgi’s routine.
It was because when they challenged each other’s wits, everything else in Jaeyi’s mind dissolved. There was no senior, no poem, no phantom, it was only the shred of Seulgi’s voice meeting hers;
the only time she would forget her hunt was when Seulgi acknowledged only her alone.
--
The rehearsal Amphitheatre stood at the far end of the campus field, its stone seating curving outward like a half-open shell beneath aging acacia trees whose branches filtered the late afternoon light into uneven golden streaks across the weathered steps. The open air carried dust carried by warm wind, mingling with the faint scent of sun-heated stone and sweat slowly drying into fabric.
Students’ footsteps echoed faintly when they shifted on the stone benches, and crumpled scripts lay scattered along the rows like abandoned notes forgotten between practice sessions.
Outside, the field hummed faintly with distant chatter from other students, but within the Amphitheatre, the world felt pulled inward despite being open to the sky—narrowed to taped stage marks on stone, raised voices carrying upward through open air, and the constant repetition of lines spoken too many times and carried by wind rather than walls.
They had practiced their skit for days now, and along the weekend Jaeyi had willingly wasted time rehearsing, she grew more and more impatient with herself.
Her composure, that was once worn effortlessly like a pressed cape, had begun to weigh on her shoulders, as though maintaining it required more effort than memorizing an entire script.
What unsettled her was not the exhaustion of repetition, but the slow realization that rehearsal had ceased to be about performance and had turned into something far more personal.
From the first rehearsal, their blocking had been mapped out with precision. Marks chalked onto the stone stage dictated where each body should stand, when each turn should occur, how long a pause must linger before the next line entered.
Jaeyi needed only one full run to memorize her placements. As everyone had expected, she delivered beyond adequacy. She did not stumble, did not hesitate, nor require correction twice. She refined rather than relearned.
In the eyes of the club, she was perfect for the role, and she knew it.
Yeri had visited once, dragging Kyung along to observe. They sat on the middle stone rows, whispering until Jaeyi’s first monologue carried upward through the Amphitheatre and quieted them. When the scene ended, Yeri clapped without restraint.
Kyung, however, tilted her head and remarked that the premise was predictable, almost cliché.
Yeri had countered immediately, insisting that cliché was precisely what made something compelling, that familiarity was not weakness but was structure. Their disagreement grew louder, voices bouncing slightly against the open stone structure, until a few members joined in, and the argument dissolved into something lighter;
who between the senior and Jaeyi, dressed as a man, appeared more charming on stage.
They laughed as they compared, as did Seulgi. But Jaeyi did not.
While they debated in jest, Jaeyi’s thoughts wandered elsewhere, as they had begun to do too often. Throughout the weekend rehearsals, she noticed that Seulgi kept laughing. Not politely, nor the brief smile reserved for professors or classmates, but openly. Her smile lingered whenever the senior delivered his lines with dramatic flourish, carried upward by the open space rather than contained by walls.
At first, Jaeyi dared to dismiss it as coincidence, yet repetition has a way of sharpening perception. When Jaeyi and the senior shared a scene, she would, against her own will, glance toward the higher rows of the Amphitheatre seating.
More often than not, she would find Seulgi watching, her lips curving upward.
There were moments during the senior’s soliloquies when Seulgi’s cheeks would tint faintly, a blush subtle enough to deny yet distinct enough to disturb. The sight unsettled Jaeyi in a way she could not immediately dissect.
A lingering smile was excused. Laughter could be tolerable with practiced composure. But a blush implied something private, something that was unspoken.
Perhaps Jaeyi was just exhausted that she thought unspeakable things about instances.
But then came a certain rehearsal break, when a club member teased Seulgi about who would win the Prince’s heart in the story, betting confidently on the charming senior.
Seulgi had replied with a mild, “I suppose so,” her tone was neutral, detached, her voice had carried slightly by the open air before dissolving into the sound of wind moving through leaves.
Jaeyi had told herself the response meant nothing, that it was devoid of implication. Yet the question lingered in her thoughts long after the laughter subsided,
and she would be lying to herself if she claimed it did not bother her.
Because during the next rehearsal sessions, whenever the senior was granted space to command the stage, Jaeyi felt an unspoken urge to surpass him. At her next cue, she would deliver her lines with sharper clarity, her gestures more deliberate, her voice steadier and more resonant as it traveled across the Amphitheatre.
She did not exaggerate; she restrained. She let precision do the work. Compliments followed, murmured admiration rising from the others seated on the stone rows, and still she felt unsatisfied.
She told herself it was discipline that drove her, not competition, nor envy, and certainly not the need to reclaim someone’s attention.
Seulgi, meanwhile, played a gungnyeo—an extra who entered and exited without spectacle. She had no grand monologues, declarations, nor spotlight that lingered under stage lights. Yet she smiled as though none of that diminished her.
Jaeyi had expected dissatisfaction. In their class, Seulgi never settled for mediocrity; in debates, she met Jaeyi’s arguments head-on with equal force. They measured each other’s intellect like duelists testing the sharpness of blades.
Here, however, Seulgi seemed unaffected by hierarchy, content even in the periphery of the stage.
That was what Jaeyi could not reconcile. Even when her own performance drew murmurs of approval echoing faintly through the Amphitheatre rows, Seulgi’s gaze did not harden with rivalry. It softened, and more often than not,
it softened toward the senior.
After one full run of the finale, Jaeyi caught Seulgi looking at him in a way that lingered a second too long. It was not admiration for technique, nor polite acknowledgment. There was warmth in it. Familiarity—that was the only thing that she could shake from her senses.
Jaeyi’s jaw had tightened overtly before she could temper the reaction. She disliked how Seulgi preferred the other prince over her own classmate, over her. She disliked how easily she laughed at his mistakes while her own flawless delivery earned only quiet approval.
At last, it was the final day of their rehearsal, the air felt heavier than before. Lines overlapped, cues faltered, and fatigue clung to every movement as wind moved through the open Amphitheatre, instead of sealing tension inside walls. Costumes were half-fitted, scripts worn and crumpled, and anticipation for the event hummed beneath the surface.
The Amphitheatre had grown quieter as dusk pressed itself against the stone tiers of the seating rows, the orange of the sinking sun spilling across empty benches and stretching long shadows down the wide, circular stage. The open sky above the Amphitheatre deepened into fading blue, its evening wind moved through the stone arches like a low, distant breath.
And the air felt heavier then, not from confinement but from space itself—vast, exposed, as if every word spoken could be carried outward and still somehow return to last around them. Scattered footsteps echoed faintly whenever someone shifted on the stone steps, and scripts rustled against fabric as members sat scattered across the curved seating rows, their voices softer now, swallowed by distance and open air.
Yet what frayed most was not the performance itself, but Jaeyi’s restraint. She no longer rehearsed merely to perfect her role;
she rehearsed as though proving something unspoken.
The more she had commanded the stage, the more she realized the battle was not there. It existed in the glances she intercepted, in the smiles she counted carried by wind and distance, and in the blush she wished she had not seen.
And it was in that quiet, open, off-script space between Seulgi’s laughter and her own growing silence that Jaeyi felt something within her unravel.
“The Phantom I now hunt; / Through filigrees of sweat,” Jaeyi mumbled while she drank from another student’s tumbler, dazingly staring ahead. “I hope to receive another kiss.” She continued.
After knowing who ‘The Phantom’ was, she has come to the realization that what she sought wasn’t for herself—to make sense of what she was doing. It was for another thing she was yet to have the name for. Because if what she sought was for herself, she’d feel gratitude from her actions,
not this restless heat in her chest when Seulgi laughed at someone else.
And now, as she sat rest on the stone bench, the same unabating question occurred to her once more:
‘What is that you seek?’
Jaeyi was that student who valued knowledge; she was much assured to know that a sense of self-fulfillment is what is acquired from both practical inquiries, and personal delight;
just like what knowledge a student gains from inquiring ability from a textbook,
and delight by coinciding it with personal entertainment,
it evokes satisfaction.
But instead she had grown more annoyingly dire to catch this ‘Phantom’. So much so that her frustration had travelled down to her ‘deepest, vulnerable part of her mind’
She shot a glare at the senior across from her, preoccupied with practicing his lines, with Seulgi practicing beside him, smiling as she ran down their script.
Jaeyi called out to them, “Are you done?” she asked, handing the tumbler back to its owner beside her. She didn't glance at Seulgi, fanning her script in hand.
“We were waiting for you,” said the senior back.
“Okay, let’s rehearse.”
The senior called the other members to gather around, beckoning them closer. He cleared his throat before beginning to act his lines,
“Far east from the great walls of Hankuk, lay the fierce guardian of a vast terrain.” He paused dramatically, gesticulating his arms before continuing his line, “Who slays the heart of its hibernating beast, shall be deemed worthy of Your Highness’s hand in marriage!”
Jaeyi didn’t waste a second to act her cue, “Hear me now councilors, with this oath I undertake in, will Your Highness’ faith be sealed with mine. Let the Gods strike down those who dare violate.” She turned to the presumed Princes of the skit, subtly changing her expressions softer, “My dear, pray for me,” she gently took the actor’s hand, kissing them, “not for him.”
The senior then spoke in one breath, his voice rose, echoing through, “Pray for me! as I do to you and your Kingdom’s vitality.”
Jaeyi’s lips drew back a fraction for the next actor’s cue. “As fair as I, who the Gods bid I cannot question.” The supposed Princess spoke, in that perfectly crafted tone. She inclined her body, removing her hand from Jaeyi’s before extending them for Seulgi’s cue.
With swift feet, Seulgi turned and took her hand, leading her off with a grace that made Jaeyi forget her next line—
and smiled. Just to herself, for a moment.
Jaeyi saw it. The smile did not belong to the script, nor to the imagined audience seated across the stone tiers; it was unguarded, and worst of all,
not directed at her. Her jaws tightened. She clicked her tongue.
Then,
“What’s so fucking funny?” she blurted out, the vulgarity carrying farther than she intended, bouncing faintly across the stone seating like a thrown stone skipping across water
The supposed princess gasped. A script slipped from someone’s hand. The senior halted mid-gesture as Seulgi’s smile halted with, burying her teeth under her lips.
The quiet that followed was not rehearsed. It felt too wide and exposed, stretched thin by the open space and distant echoes drifting from beyond the Amphitheatre’s walls.
“Me?” Seulgi looked left and right as if to confirm the question belonged to her. Every pair of eyes did. “Nothing’s funny.” She smiled anew.
“Why do you keep smiling?”
“I’m not?”
Jaeyi moved immediately on her feet, the ground scrunched under the pace of her strides. “You think this skit is funny?” her voice was gruff. Her face however, went awfully calm.
Seulgi poised herself with her feet, straightening herself as her stance welcomed Jaeyi’s raging steps. “It’s not... but a skit is satirical.”
They stood a breath apart.
The wind tugged faintly at their costumes.
“Then stop smiling,” Jaeyi whispered between the stirring space them. Her voice was that of as-a-matter-of-fact, condescending in the way she looked down at Seulgi.
A hand seized her arm, she turned around. “We can stop here.” The senior said, concern lining his brows.
Jaeyi’s eyes drifted to where he held her. The touch lingered a second too long before disgust hardened her features. “Don’t touch me.” She peeled his hand away.
“Tomorrow’s the event. Let’s continue.” Seulgi reminded. She took a deliberate step close to Jaeyi.
Then, with a tip-toe she whispered close to her ear,
“Jaeyi, it’s because you’re funny.”
Jaeyi didn’t have the opportunity to make up what Seulgi meant. The senior clasped his hands just after. “Let’s finish this, people. From the top.” He spoke in his voice that made others feel at ease, thinning the tension.
Seulgi's words lingered longer than she had expected, carried slightly by the wind before settling somewhere inside her chest.
The rehearsal resumed after that, voices echoing faintly.
By the time dusk deepened into early night, scripts were folded, zipping of bags and crunching shoes were the only sounds Jaeyi bothered to listen to. She waited until the last of them dispersed, waving the others goodbye.
She turned around, Seulgi was rather slow in packing up. “Now,” Seulgi said once the last footsteps faded, turning to face Jaeyi beneath the dimming sky, “let’s talk.”
Jaeyi cocked her head to the side of where Seulgi’s things could be seen, somehow still unpacked.
It was unmistakable, Seulgi too, waited for the others to disperse. She then crossed her arms, standing still to where she stood.
Jaeyi began, “Do you want me to say sorry?”
“I’m not expecting you to.” Seulgi replied, in that voice that was too calm. She too crossed her arms.
“Then tell me exactly how I was so funny.”
Seulgi breathed out the words she wanted to say. Instead, she went silent, providing Jaeyi the moment.
Jaeyi leaned her head back as a long heavy sigh elicited from her impatience. Her crossed arms went tighter. “’Let’s talk’ but you’re not even saying anything.”
“You weren’t convinced to join us,” Seulgi said evenly, loosening her arms. “But you’re here anyway.”
Jaeyi glanced down at Seulgi without fixing her stance. She tilted her head to the side, noticing how the clouds blurred the open sky. “I regret this. Really, I can’t stand it.”
Shoes crunched against the stage’s downstage floor made Jaeyi instantly straighten up. Seulgi was already close to where she stood. “What can’t you stand? Me smiling or the three mi—”
“Was my performance that bad for it to be funny to you?” Jaeyi’s breath faltered. She glanced sideways, avoiding the commanding look in Seulgi’s eyes. The wind brushed past them both.
Then, Seulgi’s tone went soft, as did her eyes. “You were,” she tasted the right words on her tongue, “charming.
“Like seonbaenim?” Jaeyi pressed.
Seulgi did not answer directly. She studied Jaeyi for a long moment beneath the fading light before asking, “You regret doing this, but you’re still here. Why?” she digressed, as she always did when she has the need to orchestrate their circular conversations.
The poem brushed against the inside of Jaeyi’s thoughts like a recurring echo. She stared into Seulgi’s eyes glimmer even beneath the dimness, searching for something.
She had believed that once she identified the Phantom, everything would make sense—that the hunt justified her actions, her irritation, and her urge for closeness.
But standing here, with Seulgi watching her too closely,
“I’m here to feel something,” Jaeyi admitted
“Well?” Seulgi asked softly. “Do you?”
“I feel guilt.”
“For yourself?” Seulgi paused just long enough, this time her gaze of the other was unwavering. “Or for me?”
The words dropped cleanly between them.
Then suddenly, time recalibrated its loop to mark Seulgi’s question,
“What is it that you seek?”
Jaeyi’s pulse quickened. “What did you just say?”
Seulgi smiled. Her dimples formed its noticeable deep crescents, her teeth shone under the same faint open light. “You want to know why I think you’re funny?” asked she, pausing unnecessarily longer to let Jaeyi feel the prolonged revelation of her next words. She then looked pass Jaeyi, and turned to grab her stuff, before finally saying the one thing that shattered every logic in Jaeyi’s mind,
“I saw you pick up my poem.”
The world seemed to tilt, the path Seulgi began to walk on trembled as she kept walking away as if her words didn’t just slime every sense Jaeyi tried to clasp on.
“Seulgi-ah,” Jaeyi called out to the other, her voice frail. She dragged her legs in an effort to quickly close the distance between her and Seulgi. She caught Seulgi’s wrist at once, turning her back until they faced each other again.
The certainty Jaeyi had built over weeks cracked at once. “Then who is the Phantom?” she demanded, in that worn out tone that her voice remained frail. “Who is this tall, dark, smart—”
“The Phantom isn’t ‘tall’,” Seulgi interrupted evenly once more, too casual, that it made the other numb on her knees. “‘Outside rests the phantom’s height; stood the progeny of Nyx.’ That doesn’t mean he’s tall, Jaeyi.”
Jaeyi faltered. The words replayed incorrectly in her memory.
Tall, dark, smart.
How many had she ruled out because of something that was never there?
“Then who?” she managed to press. Her visage before then had become of a helpless frame; her furrowed brows, accentuated by her trembling pressed lips.
Seulgi took a step closer to her, she could then see it with how close they had gotten, life mold in Jaeyi’s eyes. But she looked at Jaeyi without smiling now.
She clutched Jaeyi’s other arm, her pinky raised under an unspoken urge, and wrapped them around Jaeyi’s own pinky finger, like how one does to embrace a fragile child.
“Think about it,” she said quietly, and then, with the same calm tone she once used in the library between shelves of quiet books, she added,
“You might have appendicitis.”
For a moment, Jaeyi only blinked. Her fingers went numb even under Seulgi’s touch.
Appendicitis.
The word felt out of place beneath the open sky, too clinical for theatre, too real for performance. Her mind reached back to the library afternoon too vividly, the way Seulgi had explained it in precise, almost detached detail.
Jaeyi’s thoughts moved slowly.
Stomach pain,
Neglect,
Something ignored until it became impossible to ignore,
Something that started small.
The ache in her chest, the irritation she kept blaming on performance, on competition, on pride, suddenly felt less abstract. She tried to trace when it had begun. A laugh carried across the stage. A blush seen from across the seating rows. A smile that was never meant to feel personal but somehow did anyway.
“It begins as something small,” Seulgi had said that day. “But you won’t notice it…”
Jaeyi remembered it now. It was in the derisive tone Seulgi had said it, as if she had already diagnosed something Jaeyi was only beginning to recognize in herself.
Jaeyi then looked down between them. Her hands had gone firmer under Seulgi’s hold, she hadn’t even noticed her pinky finger was clenching Seulgi’s.
By the time Jaeyi opened her mouth to respond, Seulgi retraced her steps back, removing her touch of the other.
“For someone so smart, you’re a bit,” she spoke once more, and picked up her bag, “dense.”
Seulgi turned her back to Jaeyi as she waved her goodbye, crossing the stone steps that echoed faintly under her shoes.
And Jaeyi remained standing on the downstage, absently dazing down at her now two empty feet. Her thoughts raced too slowly through every line she had memorized too late beneath the vast sky, the empty space.
Nonetheless, she managed to mumble to herself a specific line from the poem:
“I scribble words on my tongue, / To savor my own annotations bland,”
---