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The first time Jiwoo forgot her name, Haewon didn’t panic.
She noticed it, of course—how Jiwoo’s gaze drifted past her instead of settling, how her lips parted like she was about to say something familiar and then… didn’t. But Haewon told herself it was just another symptom. Just another thing they could work around.
“Hey,” Haewon said gently, keeping her voice steady even though her fingers curled tightly into her sleeves. “You okay?”
Jiwoo blinked slowly.
There was a pause—a long one, stretching just a little too far.
“…you,” Jiwoo said.
It wasn’t wrong. But it wasn’t right, either.
Haewon forced a small smile. “Yeah. Me.”
She didn’t say her name again. Didn’t push it. If she acted like it didn’t matter, maybe it wouldn’t.
But it did.
It mattered in the quiet spaces between words, in the way Jiwoo no longer reached for her without thinking, in the careful distance Haewon had started keeping without even realizing it.
Because things were changing.
And Haewon didn’t know how to stop it.
---
The world didn’t end all at once.
It unraveled.
First, it was just rumors—strange illnesses, people collapsing in the streets, hospitals filling up faster than they could empty. Haewon remembered scrolling through her phone late at night, watching videos that didn’t feel real.
People moving wrong.
People not moving at all… until they did.
Then it got closer.
A neighbor.
A teacher.
Someone in the hallway at school who suddenly dropped their books and didn’t get back up the way they should have.
The word zombie came later, whispered at first, then spoken openly when there wasn’t anything left to deny.
But even then, it didn’t feel accurate.
Zombies were supposed to be mindless, violent, completely gone.
Jiwoo wasn’t gone.
Not completely.
And that made it worse.
---
They had been together when it happened.
Not together—not in the way Haewon had secretly wanted—but together enough. Best friends. Constant. The kind of closeness people assumed would eventually turn into something more.
Haewon had never corrected them.
Jiwoo had always laughed it off.
“Imagine,” Jiwoo had said once, grinning as she nudged Haewon’s shoulder. “We’d be unbearable.”
“We already are,” Haewon shot back, hiding the way her heart sped up.
Jiwoo just laughed louder.
That was before.
Before the fever.
Before the confusion.
Before the moment Jiwoo grabbed her wrist too tightly, eyes wide and unfocused, and said, “Something’s wrong.”
Haewon remembered everything about that moment.
The heat of Jiwoo’s skin.
The way her grip didn’t loosen, even when Haewon tried to pull away.
The fear—real, sharp fear—that cut through everything else.
“Jiwoo, you’re hurting me—”
Jiwoo let go immediately, stumbling back like she’d just realized what she’d done.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said, voice shaking.
“I know,” Haewon said quickly, even though her wrist throbbed. “It’s okay. You’re just sick.”
She believed that then.
She really did.
---
Now, sitting across from Jiwoo in the dim light of an abandoned classroom, Haewon wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.
“I brought you something,” she said, sliding a small bag across the floor.
Jiwoo watched it move, her gaze following it with slow, deliberate focus.
Food helped.
Not the kind they used to eat together—no snacks stolen between classes, no shared lunches—but something else. Something Haewon didn’t like to think about too much.
She tried to keep it distant. Separate.
Not her.
“Go on,” Haewon said softly.
Jiwoo didn’t move at first.
Then, carefully, she reached forward.
Every muscle in Haewon’s body tensed.
She hated that.
Hated that instinct, that fear, that automatic readiness to pull away, to run.
But she didn’t act on it.
She stayed.
Because this was Jiwoo.
Because this was still Jiwoo.
Right?
---
There was a song Jiwoo used to play all the time.
It was silly. Light. The kind of thing that got stuck in your head whether you wanted it to or not.
“If I were a zombie, I’d never eat your brain,” Jiwoo sang once, dramatically pointing at Haewon like she was making a grand declaration.
Haewon snorted. “Wow. How reassuring.”
“I’m serious!” Jiwoo insisted, laughing. “You’d be safe with me.”
“Why?”
Jiwoo tilted her head, pretending to think about it. “Because I like you too much.”
The words had been casual. Teasing.
But they stuck.
They stuck in a way Haewon never admitted, not even to herself.
Not then.
Not until it was too late.
---
“Jiwoo,” Haewon said quietly now, watching her from across the room. “Do you remember that song?”
Jiwoo didn’t respond.
She rarely did, unless the words were simple. Immediate.
Haewon exhaled slowly. “It’s okay if you don’t.”
She leaned back against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling.
“I didn’t tell you something,” she continued, voice softer now. “Back then.”
Jiwoo shifted slightly, her attention flickering.
“I liked you,” Haewon said.
The confession felt strange in the empty space between them—too big, too late.
“I think… I always did.”
No response.
Haewon smiled faintly. “Yeah. I figured you wouldn’t say anything to that.”
---
But then—
Movement.
Jiwoo stood.
Haewon’s breath caught.
She didn’t move. Didn’t run.
Even as Jiwoo took a step closer.
Then another.
Each one slow, unsteady, but deliberate.
“Jiwoo…” Haewon murmured.
Jiwoo stopped just a few feet away.
Close enough that Haewon could see the faint traces of who she used to be—the familiar shape of her eyes, the way her expression softened for just a second.
“…won,” Jiwoo said.
Haewon’s chest tightened painfully. “Yeah. That’s me.”
Jiwoo reached out.
Time seemed to slow, every second stretching thin.
Haewon’s mind raced—this is too close, this is dangerous, you need to move—
But she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
Jiwoo’s hand hovered near her face, trembling slightly.
Not grabbing.
Not lunging.
Just… there.
“…safe,” Jiwoo whispered.
And then she pulled her hand back.
---
Haewon didn’t realize she was crying until her vision blurred.
“You remember,” she breathed. “You remember.”
Jiwoo didn’t answer.
The moment faded, slipping away like it had never happened.
But it had.
And that was enough.
For now.
---
That night, Haewon didn’t sleep.
She sat by the window, watching the dark stretch across the empty streets, replaying everything over and over again.
Safe.
Jiwoo had said it.
Not clearly. Not fully.
But she had said it.
Which meant something inside her was still holding on.
Still fighting.
And if Jiwoo was fighting—
Then Haewon couldn’t stop.
---
Days turned into something shapeless.
Time didn’t feel real anymore, just a series of moments strung together by routine.
Find food.
Avoid danger.
Come back.
Stay with Jiwoo.
Talk, even when there was no answer.
Hope, even when it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.
“Do you remember this place?” Haewon asked one afternoon, glancing around the classroom.
Jiwoo followed her gaze, eyes lingering on the desks, the windows, the faded board at the front.
Nothing.
Or maybe something—but too faint to reach.
“We used to sit over there,” Haewon continued, pointing. “You always took the seat by the window, even when the sun was too bright.”
Jiwoo shifted slightly.
Haewon smiled. “And you’d complain about it every single time.”
A pause.
Then, slowly, Jiwoo moved toward the desk.
Haewon’s breath caught.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
---
That evening, Jiwoo did something she hadn’t done in days.
She sat beside Haewon.
Not across from her.
Not at a distance.
Beside her.
Haewon stayed very still, afraid that any sudden movement would break the moment.
“…won,” Jiwoo murmured.
“Yeah?” Haewon said softly.
Jiwoo leaned her head against Haewon’s shoulder.
Haewon froze.
Every instinct screamed at her to pull away.
But she didn’t.
She let Jiwoo stay there, her weight light but real, her presence warm in a way that felt almost normal.
Almost.
“You’re really not going to eat me, huh?” Haewon whispered, her voice trembling.
Jiwoo didn’t answer.
But she didn’t move away.
---
For the first time since everything changed, Haewon let herself believe something dangerous.
That maybe—
Just maybe—
Jiwoo was still choosing her.
Even now.
Even like this.
And if that was true…
Then Haewon would stay.
No matter what it cost.