Chapter Text
Hyunjung’s known Sojung since they were children, which is to say -- forever.
She doesn’t know when they’d first become friends, but she remembers all the times after that.
The quiet moments walking home after cram school, Sojung’s soled feet dragging across the pavement, her hair wind-tussled as she walks backwards, her laughing at Hyunjung’s refusal to share the answers to her math homework again. (Hyunjung had insisted it was for Sojung’s own good and that she had to actually get something inside that thick head of hers and learn.)
She remembers Sojung’s tight lips and the resolute set of her shoulders as she arrives at the unassuming flat four blocks down from Hyunjung’s own, ready to wrangle her younger siblings, who were always a mess of limbs and hungry stomachs into a semblance of order, ready pass yet another evening without the presence of an adult.
Hyunjung tries to help when she can.
Like remembering to ask her mum to pack her extra kimbap for lunch, or by making sure her notes are legible, if not for her, then for Sojung’s benefit later. She’s even taken to staying over (within the limits of her curfew) and keeping Sojung’s siblings preoccupied whilst Sojung does her homework; all of them crowded together over the low kitchen table, its surface illuminated by the warm orange of a halogen bulb.
Hyunjung’s parents always get this knowing look when Hyunjung mentions her friends’ name, like it's a free pass, a convenient excuse that Hyunjung and Sojung would come to utilise as they grew older and more rebellious in the way that teenagers often became.
She remembers the first time they skipped cram school. It surprisingly doesn't take a lot of convincing on Sojung’s part, Hyunjung having had a poor night sleep, had already been half-thinking of home by the time lunch period had rolled around.
They’re fourteen and fifteen respectively; the late afternoon sun is overhead, colouring the world with an orange haze. Cicadas are chirping in the trees. A gentle breeze is blowing, parting Hyunjung’s bangs and revealing her forehead. She has an urge to quickly pat the stray strands down.
Sojung is barefoot for now, her shoes hooked on two fingers as she pads along the low stone ledge on the bank of the river.
“Do you know the amount of bacteria that is there?” Hyunjung says, walking safely on the adjacent path, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie, resisting the urge to pull Sojung down.
“Yeah, enough that I’m pretty sure my feet will evolve and become stronger,” Sojung replies, grinning over her shoulder. Her ponytail is lopsided from their run away from the school gates earlier; she looks utterly unbothered by it.
Hyunjung snorts, the sound is small but fond.
“No wonder you’re borderline failing Biology.”
The river smells like damp moss and detergent from someone’s laundry hanging on the balcony overhead. Distantly, a bus wheezes past. Normally, when they took this way home, it was swarming with people. Today, it’s just the two of them -- playing hooky.
“Come on,” Sojung says, hopping off the ledge and back onto the path. She slips on her shoes again. “If I think I’ll fail the quiz tomorrow, I’ll just copy you.”
“You copied me last time…And the time before that too.”
“Is that a complaint, Hyunjung-unnie? Sucks for you because you’re still here and still my friend.”
Hyunjung rolls her eyes, but she slows her pace until their steps match. Sojung’s shoulder bumps hers once, twice, as they walk. She never apologizes for it. It’s the sort of casual physical affection that comes from Sojung without so much as a thought. For Hyunjung, it had taken a long time to stop flinching; her own brand of affection never involved all that much …touch.
“Eomma asked about you and your dongsaengs,” Hyunjung says after a moment. “He wants to know if you all are eating properly.”
“Tell him we eat what you feed us.”
“Sojung.”
“Okay, okay.” Sojung sighs theatrically, then softens. “We’re fine. Eomma’s still taking extra shifts these days, but I can handle things.”
Hyunjung glances at her, at the way Sojung stares straight ahead, hands swinging, mouth tilted into that careless smile she uses when she doesn’t want to worry anyone.
“You don’t have to handle everything.”
“Someone has to.”
Hyunjung sends her a side-glance, an eyebrow raised above the frame of her spectacles.
“You’re like fourteen.”
“I’m also the oldest daughter -- it comes with the territory.” She says it like a joke, but Hyunjung hears the weight beneath it. “Plus, I get to use my adult voice on the younger ones.”
They reach the footbridge that leads back toward the main road. They’ve walked this path since they were small enough to hold their mothers’ hands, since their families started going to the same neighbourhood gatherings, and the same awkward holiday dinners.
“Hey,” Hyunjung says quietly. When Sojung looks at her, she reaches out and flicks the corner of Sojung’s forehead with two fingers—gentle, familiar, and annoying in a way that is often goading enough for Sojung to take the bait. “If you need help, you ask.”
Sojung winces, then laughs. “Unnie, you sound like my auntie.”
“Well, your auntie’s right.”
Sojung scoffs and there it is again, the twist that turns sincerity back into banter before it can sting too much.
“So are you going to help me do my biology homework or not?”
Hyunjung huffs, but the corner of her mouth lifts.
“I’ll come over after dinner,” she says. “But you’re doing the chemistry homework yourself this time.”
“Yes, Hyunjung-unnie.”
They step onto the bridge side by side, and the late afternoon sun throws their shadows ahead of them, long and overlapping, indistinguishable for a moment where they cross.
That’s the thing about Sojung that Hyunjung learns over the years:
Sojung carries herself like she doesn’t mind, like none of this any had ever really phased her; she takes things into stride as though shouldering the burdens of others came naturally to her as breathing.
Hyunjung had looked at her then—quiet and attentive—and, in the years that followed their metamorphosis into adulthood, through all the awkward moments and gentle ribbing, Hyunjung had stood by silently, ready to catch Sojung if she ever fell.
It didn’t matter though, because as always, throughout it all, Sojung had remained steadfast.
Sometimes, this is what makes Hyunjung feel all the worse.
Sojung’s mornings at the office were predictable, very adult-like -- or at least they used to be.
It looked a little something like:
Coffee at eight, complete with a team briefing at nine, and then inevitably running damage control for either Dayoung or Juyeon (or sometimes, both) when one would “accidentally” forget to send the email with the right attachments. Cue Dawon coming up to her desk before her mid-morning break to ask about Colour Schemes! and Text Alignment! for their slide decks. Yeoreum hunched over her computer in the back corner muttering something about chasing deadlines under her breath like it was an Olympic sport.
If she’s honest to management (which she will never be on account of being too protective of her team), the team is one chaotic disaster away from being barely functional -- regardless, Sojung and her team thrive on the precarious balance between disaster and efficiency.
They’ve taken Sojung scolding half-instructions, questionable behaviours and weird habits and somehow turned it into apt encouragement, and thus, everything somehow keeps pulsing along, Deadlines met and Outcomes achieved; a miracle, in and of itself.
Sojung’s good at managing people and putting out the fires that arise when you put a bunch of barely functioning people together in a team and pretend it’s an occupation, complete with tax responsibilities and all that. She is good at patching the leaks, keeps the vibe alive, making sure everyone’s breathing through Monday Morning’s inevitable unraveling. She’s so used to carrying the mood that she doesn’t have to think about it anymore.
Her siblings used to need her like this — texts at midnight, panicked calls for advice, crying sessions over university applications.
They don’t, anymore. They have their own lives, bigger and louder and far away -- in a way, it’s a good thing, really.
Now, the people who need her most are adults sitting in office chairs.
She doesn’t hate it. If anything it gives her a sense of security; the return of a familiar dynamic she’s never really outgrown.
Her mid-morning break arrives dutifully at 11am, and as always, is punctuated by her ever so predictable, pragmatic friend -- Hyunjung’s -- text saying something along the lines of Eat something that isn’t just caffeine!
Sojung shakes her head. Hyunjung, her oldest friend, embodied an entirely different brand of disaster — a careful controlled reckoning, hidden beneath a reserved facade of stillness.
That is to say, she’s emotionally constipated.
(But, at least, she’s as reliable as the sunrise.)
Sojung texts back a photo of her coffee and a piece of toast.
Beat you to it today. Actual carbs to go with my coffee. A balanced diet that you’d be proud of unnie.
A minute later, Hyunjung replies with a thumbs up emoji. Coming from anyone else, it would be passive-aggressive.
It’s Hyunjung so Sojung knows better: this is just Hyunjung being predictable, comforting and Hyunjung-like.
They get a new marketing hire the next quarter.
She’s pretty in a way that turns heads and something about it makes a statement, like she’s in the wrong industry. The ID badge around her neck reads Kim Jiyeon and everything about her is fresh, like a breeze from a window they didn’t even know could open.
It catches Sojung a bit off-guard. Something about corporate workers supposedly having already been sucked dry by working life at this age.
Jiyeon’s voice is bright, her nails are always painted with a clear coat of glitter and she’s always donning an oversized trendy blazer that screams Gen Z, leaving it hanging open to reveal the crisp white shirt underneath. It’s safe to say Jiyeon’s a contagious injection of energy—one that Sojung, at her ripe age of thirty, both envies and frets over in her role as manager, knowing it could easily derail the team’s productivity.
Thankfully, by week two, Jiyeon is part of the furniture. She walks like the office belongs to her: heels clicking, ponytail swinging, eyes bright even under fluorescent lighting; fluttering from desk to desk, weaving into everyone’s day with ease. She’s not the youngest on their floor, but somehow has the audacity to act like she is.
If Sojung's honest, she knew by day three when Jiyeon had already learned everyone’s coffee order and somehow charmed the IT guy into fixing Sojung’s ancient laptop that had sounded like it was taking off every time she loaded up one too many tabs — that the new recruit was here to stay.
It doesn’t escape Sojung’s notice that Jiyeon keeps orbiting around her.
Maybe it’s because Sojung answers every question, laughs at her terrible jokes, or because she treats Jiyeon less like a newbie and more like someone with opinions worth hearing.
And maybe, because to Sojung, it feels good to have one more pair of eyes to keep this place from burning to the ground.
A few months later, Jiyeon joins Sojung for a late finish. The office is thin with silence, everything more muted when bathed in the last flickering lights of the floor. The rest of their motley crew have gone home, Sojung having waved them away promptly once the clock ticked to 5:30PM. They deserved their evening off.
“Sojung, you’re a workaholic,” Jiyeon says, wandering over to her desk. “You worked late again last night, didn’t you?”
Sojung hesitates. The instinct is to shrug, to claim she’s fine, to make a joke about marriage to her spreadsheet. But Jiyeon is looking at her with open concern, lips pursed, a little wrinkle between her brows.
Jiyeon nudges her with her elbow, a casual, physical gesture like they’ve known each other much longer than a few months and Sojung isn’t just her superior. It’s another thing Sojung’s noticed about Jiyeon -- affection comes to her with ease. Her mind supplies her with the only other comparison point: Hyunjung’s blank, expressionless face. Sojung almost laughs at the absurdity of the comparison, like the split of night and day.
“A little,” Sojung admits. “Your bosses’ boss, that is to say—my team lead—dumped his part on me. Again.”
“Did you say anything?”
“I smiled and said ‘Of course, I’ll handle it’ because Capitalism has me in a chokehold.”
Jiyeon’s mouth curves, but her eyes don’t quite follow. “You know, you can say no to people. It’s not illegal.”
“Wow, I’m learning so much from our team’s shamelessly self proclaimed maknae.”
“I’m serious.” Jiyeon nudges her. “You always act like you can carry everything. It makes me tired just watching.”
The words land somewhere tender. For a second, Sojung feels exposed—like Jiyeon has peeled back the thin layer of humour she wraps around herself as protective armour. Unbidden, she thinks of Hyunjung again — and the way that these same sentiments were often delivered packaged in blunter words.
“Then don’t watch,” Sojung says lightly. “You’ll get wrinkles.”
Jiyeon gasps, hand flying to her face. “Excuse me, I am in my prime.”
“Sorry to break it to you but you’re older than me.”
“Team manager-nim!”
The mock outrage breaks the tension. Jiyeon swats at her arm, and Sojung laughs, letting herself lean into it. Jiyeon’s touch is easy, frequent: a hand on her shoulder when she tells a joke, a casual arm looped through hers when they walk to lunch, a cheek pressed against her sleeve during particularly boring meetings.
Eventually, when the other floors of the office building empties out too and the glow of Jiyeon’s desk lamp is the only light at their end of the floor, it’s Jiyeon who swivels her chair toward Sojung and says, “You look like you’re going to cry or murder someone. Want to talk about it?”
Sojung scoffs, but she rolls her chair closer until their knees bump. She finds herself talking—about her mum’s health, about her siblings distance, about rent, about feeling stuck. Jiyeon listens with her whole face, eyes big and soft, mouth pressed into a line.
“I’m sorry,” Jiyeon says quietly. “You’re doing so well. I know I joke a lot, but… I really think you’re amazing.”
There’s something almost reverent in her tone that makes Sojung’s chest ache.
“Stop,” Sojung says, cheeks warming. “If you keep praising me, I’ll get a big head and leave this company to become an influencer.”
“I’d follow you,” Jiyeon replies, quick, like she doesn’t have to think about it.
“Well, in that case, at least one of us might actually have a chance to succeed — and it’s not me.” Sojung says, laughing.
Some part of her files Jiyeon’s words, tucking it beside the old, familiar comfort she shares with Hyunjung. She’s beginning to see how there might be different kinds of safety, in different kinds of people; both of which are equally important and needed.
She clings to each without realizing how tightly.
That night, they leave together, which sets a precedent for many nights to come.
Jiyeon chats about her day despite fully knowing Sojung was there to witness half of it — clients, morning traffic, that existential panic of being an adult with a growing to-do list of things she doesn’t know how to do.
Sojung listens and banters, then admits, “Yep, sounds about right. Being old enough for everything but too tired for all of it — how rudely it's become the hallmark of the real experience of adulthood.”
Jiyeon laughs, bumping her shoulder as they cross the street.
Sojung bumps back, a silent thank-you for making the routine less heavy, for being the other person present to help shoulder the load.
They part at the subway stop. Jiyeon waves goodbye with both hands.
“Go home, you chaotic woman!” Sojung says, with a fond exasperation that will grow to define their friendship in the weeks and months to come.
Jiyeon shouts back, “Make me!”
It’s ridiculous, loud, and this too is quickly becoming the very definition of them.
When her phone buzzes an hour later, she expects Hyunjung’s usual Good night, please remember to eat breakfast tomorrow.
Instead, it’s Jiyeon.
Sojung changes her contact name to [Jiyeonie ♡]
[Jiyeonie ♡]: You’re fun to work with. Don’t burn out too fast — I might quit if you do. Considering that influencer career already.
Sojung grins, thumbs flying over the screen.
No pressure, huh? I’ll do my best for you, “maknae”.
Her reflection glows faintly on the blackened screen — tired, smiling, and more alive that she has felt for a long time.
For someone who’s spent her whole life managing everyone else’s chaos, Jiyeon feels like the first person in a long time who has ever stepped in close, seen it all and still stayed around to manage hers.
Sojung finds that Jiyeon, rather alarmingly and very quickly, becomes embedded into the rhythm of her day to day life, in a way that extends beyond being just coworkers, or even just acquaintances. Jiyeon’s inserted herself into Sojung’s routines, tucked in between the weekly catch ups with Hyunjung, her grocery runs and of course, the all consuming demands of work, with such ease it should be scary.
Instead, it isn’t and it feels kind of nice for once.
Tonight, Jiyeon’s on the couch again, half-buried in Sojung’s throw blanket, scrolling through her phone like she’s always lived there — on Sojung’s couch. Her fluffy socks don’t match. The coffee table’s a mess of takeout containers and folded laundry.
Sojung folds another shirt, watches her with softened eyes. “Have I ever told you that you give off extreme younger sibling energy?”
Without looking up, Jiyeon grins. “Please. It’s all I’ve ever known.”
“You're shameless about it too — why am I not surprised?” Sojung says, deadpan.
That gets her a laugh, small and unguarded. The kind that fills the apartment in ways Sojung doesn’t comment on. She used to think quiet meant comfort; turns out, she’s not built like Hyunjung and underneath it all, she can admit that she sometimes just gets lonely.
Now, however, the quiet has been intermittently overlaid with Jiyeon humming under her breath. Sometimes it’s the same tune as that night months ago, when she’d shown up unannounced, drenched in rain and holding too much takeout. You didn’t sound fine over text, Jiyeon had said, marching straight to the kitchen. No hesitation and no invitation, either. Most of the time it's whatever new song the idol group Jiyeon follows has released.
Since that night, Jiyeon’s become a fixture: bringing dumplings, boba tea and warm chaos in equal measure. Reorganising Sojung’s condiments and rummaging through pantries she has no business touching. Leaving random pieces of clothing behind -- a single sock, a scarf she wore to the office one day because it was “fashionable”, a pair of loafers that are probably worth more than Sojung’s entire month’s salary. It’s all very Jiyeon: pretending to be sorry about it but actually being her brand of caring by leaving little pieces of herself around to remind Sojung that she's never truly alone.
They’d fought once too—something dumb about a corrupted file and an entitled asshole of a client which Jiyeon had refused to cater to. Jiyeon had shown up after work that night, holding ice cream like a peace treaty. Sojung still laughs when she thinks about it. The way Jiyeon had looked—tired, sheepish, guilty and trying too hard not to look like she desperately needed Sojung’s forgiveness or worry that she had irrevocably damaged their friendship.
The pile of laundry gradually shrinks.
Jiyeon yawns.
Her phone slides onto the couch cushion and she curls up, instinctive—knees tucked, eyes drooping, blanket pulled higher. She does it the same way every time, like a creature claiming warmth, or perhaps, just like a cat. Loud, messy, dramatic—but still here, claiming the warmest, comfiest spot in Sojung’s life.
“You can crash here if you want,” Sojung says.
Jiyeon hums without opening her eyes. “You don’t mind?”
“Please.” Sojung clears the last shirt from the pile. “You practically live here anyway.”
There’s a sleepy smile. “Guess that makes me family.”
Sojung pauses, hands stilling on the folded laundry. The word sits between them. Familiar, easy and with every day growing more and more accurate. And looking at Jiyeon—half-buried beneath a blanket, breathing slowly—Sojung feels something ache tenderly.
“Yeah,” Sojung says quietly. “Something like that.”
The lamp hums. Outside, rain slides down the window in liquid tails. In the stillness, Sojung notices it—the faint smell of laundry detergent, old takeout, and jasmine from Jiyeon’s shampoo. The honest clutter of two lives overlapping.
It’s ridiculous. It should be grounds for complaint about Boundaries! and what not.
(It’s home.)
Kim Hyunjung enters Jiyeon’s life through stories, like a slow, gradual colouring of an outline that’s already sketched — waiting, made half-formed and familiar by Sojung’s anecdotes, references and nostalgic sentiments before Jiyeon’s even seen the canvas.
“You’re like some kind of magnet for chaos,” Jiyeon says one night from her spot on the couch (yes, she has a designated spot now), watching as Sojung washes dishes after a shared twelve-hour day at the office.
Sojung grins, turning to rack the last of the dishes onto the drying rack. “Well, you keep turning up, so maybe you’re right.”
Jiyeon sticks her tongue out at Sojung’s back but she’s smiling, chin propped up on the armrest. She watches as Sojung pads over to the fridge, her feet clad in socks soundlessly whispering against the floor tile. The fridge door is pulled open and when she leans in, her face is bathed by the fluorescence of white artificial light which spills out through the gap.
For a second she looks a bit more tired, or maybe older, but the visage disappears like it could be a trick of the light, replaced by an expression that is almost grounded, and peaceful.
“This is tragic,” Sojung says, her eyes scanning the shelves within and no doubt, finding it exactly as she had left it this morning. She’s due for a grocery run, this even Jiyeon knows, considering the poor excuse of leftovers Sojung’s been bringing to work for lunch in the last few days. “Hyunjung unnie says my fridge needs more than convenience food.”
And there it is.
It’s hard to not notice these things — how often Hyunjung’s name drifts into conversation, almost accidentally. It’s just that Sojung kind of talks about Hyunjung the way people talk about routine, quiet and worn in; with the effortlessness reserved for things that are just ingrained, like breathing.
Hyunjung exists ever-present in fragments: a passing comment at the coffee machine, a half-laugh over lunch, a grumbled under her breath, all tucked in neatly into the practical tidbits of Sojung’s life.
(Jiyeon’s seen how Sojung’s phone lights up at 11am to remind her to eat.)
I forgot my water bottle again; Hyunjung’s going to yell at me in emoji form.
Hyunjung’s already judging me for this bad decision.
The stories fold into familiarity, enough that she can almost picture Hyunjung’s expressions, her tone, the kind of laugh and the kind of scowl that makes a person unforgettable. She knows the tracing of the outline but not the person—and that gap starts to feel strangely personal.
“She sounds like a mom friend with a rigid stick for a spine.” Jiyeon comments casually.
Sojung sighs, finally concluding her assessment of the contents of her fridge.
“You could say that. But, she’s still my stick and I’d like to think I’m her rock.”
The way she says “my” pulls at something in Jiyeon’s chest, strangely.
“You know you talk about her a lot,” Jiyeon says, trying for casual. “Like, a lot, a lot.”
Sojung stops, turns to look at her then, face pulled between questioning and amused. “You’re almost sounding jealous there, Jiyeon.”
“And here I thought you were complaining that I monopolised all your time and that you had no time for anything or anyone else.”
“Pfft, unnie doesn’t count, she’s always been and will always be part of the scenery. You could say she's almost doggedly insistent on playing that ever present tree in the background.”
Jiyeon forces a grin. “That’s cute.”
Sojung laughs, not catching the sting. “Don’t worry Jiyeon-ie, you’re too loud to be anything but the main character.”
Jiyeon smiles at that—because it’s easier than saying what she really feels.
She doesn’t quite know where she fits in the equation of Sojung’s life.
Sometimes, the mention of Hyunjung feels inconsequential — texts, shared childhood stories. Other times, Jiyeon notices Sojung’s tone shift — softer, weighted with something sentimental she can’t define.
“She’s too much logic and extremely emotionally constipated,” Sojung says, half-in in fondness and half out of exasperation, settling onto the couch by Jiyeon’s side. Sojung leans into her too, a warm, solid weight Jiyeon almost expects by now. “But, Hyunjung unnie’s honest to a fault.”
It’s silly, she knows, to envy someone she's never met, but she still does. She’s envious of this unseen person, a constant, quiet ache in Sojung’s world and an easy, assured friendship that predates Jiyeon’s own.
It scares her too, because Jiyeon has against all odds found comfort here with Sojung. It’s a rare kind of belonging that doesn’t ask her to shrink or play nice; with Sojung, she can just be herself, wholly and unapologetically.
Still, she worries there’s only so much space in Sojung’s world to hold people close—that care, for Jiyeon, like all good things, is measured and limited, doled out carefully lest it run out.
That night, Jiyeon scrolls through their old work photos—candid, blurry shots where Sojung’s laughing, head thrown back, happiness unfiltered; Jiyeon beside her, bright and caught mid-laughter.
She wonders if Hyunjung has ever looked at Sojung and Jiyeon’s work photos and felt the same inklings of uncertainty and unease.
The first time Jiyeon sees a picture of Hyunjung is entirely by accident.
They’re in a cafe for lunch. Sojung’s scrolling through her phone, looking for something in her camera roll, when a photo flashes on the screen— a woman with glasses, eyes as intensely dark as her straight hair, a strong nose, and a faint hint of a smile playing on pink lips.
Jiyeon catches only a glimpse of her before the screen is moving again, but it’s enough.
“She’s pretty,” Jiyeon blurts out before she can stop herself.
Her fingers still where they’d been playing with the handle of her cup.
Sojung looks up, caught off guard. She looks at Jiyeon weirdly for a moment.
“Who?”
“The person you just scrolled past.”
“Oh— Hyunjung?” Sojung’s tone stays easy, familiar in a way that makes Jiyeon’s chest do something annoying. “She’s alright. Grew out of her ugly duckling phase mostly intact. Don’t tell her that though, she might disappear into a hole never to be seen again.”
Jiyeon snorts, but she’s still thinking about the photo. About the person. About Hyunjung unnie.
“Wait, you’re not even going to insult me like you usually do about my taste or something?”
Sojung shrugs, tone light. “Why would I? Hyunjung’s objectively attractive. She just acts like it’s an affront or mix-up when you voice it, like every mirror is a liar or something.”
Jiyeon frowns at how casual Sojung sounds, as if through the years of familiarity, Hyunjung’s looks have been worn down to just another bland fact, like Sojung’s long become immune to the effect it could have on others and is on the odd occasion, surprised by it.
“She would probably pass out from stage fright hearing us talk about it.”
Jiyeon laughs, but it comes out a little stiff.
“Wow. You’re really doing her no favours.”
Sojung snorts. “The only thing unnie needs less than praise, is more attention on how she looks. She’d rather explain spreadsheets.”
Sojung’s tone is warm, fond, and bored all at once—like Hyunjung is a constant fact of her life that doesn’t need defending or explaining or complimenting.
There’s a hollow feeling that’s subtly sitting in Jiyeon’s rib cage, not sharp enough to have a name, but persistent enough that it lingers. In her mind, the photo of Hyunjung who apparently looks like that and is somehow awkward about it to the point of mortification, still lingers.
“You know,” Jiyeon says, bringing her coffee to her lips and taking a sip before setting it down again. “I think I worry about you more than you worry about yourself.”
The topic change is unsubtle but Sojung laughs anyways. “Trust me, that’s not all that hard. I barely worry.”
“I mean it,” Jiyeon insists. “You work too much. You’re awfully bad at looking after yourself. You hide everything behind jokes. It’s—”
Sojung half-groans. “Jiyeon, you’re starting to sound like Hyunjung unnie.”
Jiyeon rolls her eyes.
“I know,” Sojung continues softly, nudging Jiyeon with a gentle elbow. “You worrying about me is like the fire in the kitchen wondering if the smoke detector will protest. We’re codependent.”
Jiyeon’s laughter stumbles out, half-relieved and half-nervous. “Great, now we’re an unhealthy metaphor.”
“Hey, stop being dramatic,” Sojung says, nudging her shoulder. “I like having you around, brat. You actually manage my moods.”
The words calm Jiyeon for reasons she doesn’t want to explore. That’s the part she doesn’t want to think about: the way Sojung offers her space so easily, while the thought of losing it to someone quieter, more naturally suited to being in Sojung’s orbit, to taking care of Sojung’s needs makes her chest tighten.
As Jiyeon watches Sojung spill yet another coffee, and the ensuing shenanigans of attempting to mop up the mess with about 20 napkins, Jiyeon realises something:
She loves Sojung.
Not in a way she can label as romantic, and maybe not purely as friendship either. It’s something in between—a kind of rootedness, like family, the way you feel about someone you don’t just like but need to be okay. Someone to be treasured, and protected, even when doing so makes your own feelings messy and complicated and a bit selfish.
Jiyeon used to think adulthood meant independence. Now it sometimes feels a lot like isolation and a reflexive need to hold onto whoever stays, despite being terrified that wanting too much would scare them away.
And love, in all its forms, Jiyeon thinks, does not have neat, clean cut boundaries.
--