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Chapter 1 — Mawar
I walked home from work the same way I always did —uniform smelling faintly like freezer air and other people’s dinner plans. Volume at the point where the music stops being music and starts being a wall.
I preferred it that way.
The supermarket I worked at was forgettable by design. Tucked behind two brighter shops. No parking. The sign had been missing a letter since before I was hired. Nobody “found” it. They either already knew it existed, or they didn’t.
Which meant the customers were regulars.
Same faces. Same baskets. Same script.
I was very good at the script.
Smile. Beep. Total. Plastic bag? Have a good night. Next.
One of the kids called me the Ghost Cashier once. Came in after school, said it loud enough for his friends to hear. They laughed.
I kept scanning.
He wasn't wrong, exactly.
My friends — well, the ones who still texted — liked to ask what my type was.
I'd give them the full list. Tall. Broad shoulders. Cold but secretly soft. The whole manhwa male lead description. I had it memorized. Made them laugh, made me sound like I had opinions about things.
The truth?
If someone carried a heavy box for me without being asked, I’d probably fall in love on the spot.
I’ve never admitted that out loud. It sounds like something a therapist would circle aggressively.
I consume fiction like it’s oxygen. K-pop. K-drama. Manhwa. Manga. No brand loyalty. If it hurts, I’m in. I cry when characters die. Not aesthetic tears either. Full collapse. Snot. Regret.
It’s embarrassing.
But I think — even back then — I knew I was searching for something in those stories.
I just didn’t know what it was called.
I used to want to be a writer.
That’s not relevant.
The traffic light turned red. I stopped. The sky above was blank — black, starless. Just dark doing its job.
I didn’t mind. I was used to backgrounds.
The song in my ears hit the bridge. I mouthed the lyrics without thinking.
Behind me, somewhere too far to matter, something metal clattered in an alley.
A cat, probably.
The strange part wasn’t the noise.
The strange part was that I heard it through the music.
I kept walking.
I remember thinking, "I hope tonight is boring."
I remember meaning it.
Because boring meant nothing changed. And nothing changing felt safer than hope.
But something in my chest felt like it was waiting for something big to arrive.
I should have paid more attention to that feeling.
I didn't.
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