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The dust motes in Wonhee’s apartment had their own established orbits. For eight months, she had watched them. They drifted through the thin, pale slivers of afternoon light that managed to slice through the heavy, perpetually drawn curtains of her living room, tracking slow, predictable paths across the worn fabric of her gray sofa.
Wonhee liked the dust motes. They didn’t ask her how she was doing. They didn’t offer unsolicited advice about “getting back out there” or “finding closure.” They didn’t remind her of the sharp, blinding pain of an October evening when her entire life had been dismantled by a three-paragraph text message from a person she had loved for three years.
Eight months. Two hundred and forty-three days since her ex-boyfriend had decided that Wonhee’s quietness was no longer “mysterious” but “suffocating,” packing his bags while Wonhee was at work, leaving nothing behind but an empty closet and a profound, echoing silence that had somehow settled into Wonhee’s very bones.
Since then, Wonhee had perfected the art of disappearing while remaining entirely stationary. Her apartment was her fortress, a subterranean bunker of oversized sweatpants, cold takeout, and the comforting hum of a television she rarely actually watched. It was safe. It was entirely numb.
And then, Minju arrived.
The attack on Wonhee’s fortress began not with a whisper, but with a rhythmic, violent pounding on the front door that shook the cheap wood within its frame.
“Lee Wonhee! Open the door! I know you’re in there, I can hear the phantom glow of your depression-screen through the cracks! Open up or I’m calling the landlord and telling him there’s a gas leak!”
Wonhee buried her face deeper into the plush crevice of her couch cushions, pulling a heavy knitted blanket over her head. “Go away, Minju,” she groaned, her voice raspy from hours of disuse. “I’m dead. I died three hours ago. Respect the deceased.”
“The deceased doesn’t pay their Netflix subscription, Wonhee! Open the door!”
A few seconds later, the metallic click of a key turning ruined Wonhee’s remaining defenses. She had forgotten, in her lethargic haze, that she had given Minju a spare key three semesters ago during a winter storm. The door flew open, hitting the stopper with a loud thwack, and a hurricane of vibrant, overwhelming energy flooded the apartment.
Minju stood in the entryway, looking like a tropical bird that had accidentally flown into a coal mine. She was dressed in a bright yellow trench coat, her hair pinned up in a messy, high bun, holding a massive iced coffee in one hand and a garment bag in the other.
“Oh, sweet merciful heavens,” Minju gasped, dropping her bag and immediately marching over to the windows. “It is a literal tomb in here. Do you breathe oxygen, or do you just photosynthesize despair?”
With a brutal, merciless yank, Minju pulled the curtains open. The afternoon sun rushed into the room, blinding Wonhee, who let out a genuine, pained hiss and curled into a tight, defensive ball.
“Turn it off! It burns!”
“It’s called the sun, Wonhee. It’s a ball of fire, of course it’ll burn. It also provides vitamin D and keeps you from turning into a translucent cave cricket,” Minju said, entirely unmoved by the dramatic display. She walked over to the couch, grabbed the edge of the knitted blanket, and ripped it away with the flourish of a magician performing a magnificent tablecloth trick. “Up. Now. We have an emergency.”
Wonhee blinked through the glare, squinting up at her best friend. Her eyes felt heavy, her heart sinking at the prospect of human interaction. “If the emergency doesn’t involve the immediate collapse of the societal structure requiring us all to stay inside forever, I don’t care.”
“It’s worse,” Minju said solemnly, dropping onto the edge of the coffee table and leaning in close. “It involves my love life. Or rather, the temporary suspension thereof. And your civic duty as my best friend.”
Wonhee sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Minju, please. I haven’t left this apartment in four days. I haven’t worn pants with a zipper since Tuesday. Whatever drama is happening in the theater department, I am fundamentally unqualified to handle it.”
“You don’t understand,” Minju pleaded, her expression shifting from drill sergeant to desperate supplicant. She grabbed Wonhee’s hands, her eyes wide. “You know Chanelle? From the advanced stage management class? She set me up on a blind date. A completely blind, highly curated, supposedly life-changing date with a friend of hers. It’s tonight. At seven. At that insanely cute Italian place down on 4th Street.”
“Great. Go. Wear the yellow coat. Have fun. Bring me back some garlic bread,” Wonhee said, trying to pull her hands back to retreat into her sofa cushions.
“I can’t!” Minju wailed, letting out a frustrated, theatrical sob. She whipped out her phone and shoved it inches from Wonhee’s nose. “Look at this! Professor Aiki just called an emergency technical rehearsal for the summer showcase. The lighting grid completely shorted out, and since I’m the assistant stage manager, if I am not in the theater in thirty minutes to help rewire the entire back row, she will personally ensure I spend my senior year sweeping the prop room. I can’t miss it. I will literally fail my practicum.”
Wonhee blinked at the frantic text message on the screen. “Okay. That sucks. So... text the date and cancel. People cancel dates all the time. I was canceled on permanently, it’s very trendy.”
“No! You don’t get it,” Minju groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Chanelle has been trying to set this up for a month. The girl I’m supposed to meet apparently hates blind dates too, and she was already terrified of being stood up. If I cancel two hours before, it makes me look like a flaky, heartless theater gremlin. And worse, it makes Chanelle look bad. I can’t cancel. But I can’t go.”
A terrible, creeping realization began to form in the back of Wonhee’s mind. She looked at Minju. Minju looked back at her, her eyes slowly curving into a terrifyingly sweet, manipulative blink.
“No,” Wonhee said immediately.
“Wonhee—”
“Absolutely not. No. Never. Not in a million years. Not if the alternative was the literal apocalypse.”
“Won, please! You just have to go in my place! Just sit there, eat the free pasta, tell her that Minju had a sudden, unavoidable crisis of the electrical variety, and be your charming, quiet self! You don’t even have to try to romance her! Just be a warm body so this poor girl doesn’t sit alone in a restaurant looking like a loser!”
“Well, I look like a loser myself!” Wonhee shouted, gesturing wildly to her stained sweatpants. “Look at me! I am the patron saint of losers! I am currently residing in a structural nest made of my own self-pity! You want me to go on a date? A romantic, face-to-face encounter with a stranger? I will break out in hives. I will cry into the breadsticks.”
“You won’t cry,” Minju said, shifting into high-gear persuasion. She grabbed the garment bag from the floor and unzipped it with a sharp, decisive zip. “Because you are going to wear this gorgeous pastel pink knit sweater that makes your eyes look like ancient forest pools, and a pair of actual, structured denim jeans. Wonhee, look at me.”
Minju’s voice softened, losing its theatrical edge, replacing it with a quiet, fierce tenderness that Wonhee always found hardest to fight. Minju reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind Wonhee’s ear.
“It’s been eight months, honey,” Minju said softly. “You’re hurting. I know you’re so, so hurt. But you’re rotting in here. You’re letting his ghost keep you hostage in your own living room. I don’t care if you don’t find the love of your life tonight. I don’t even care if you hate every second of it. I just need you to put on shoes, leave this room, and remember that the world didn’t stop spinning when he walked out.”
Wonhee stared at the pink sweater hanging from Minju’s hand. Her throat felt tight, a familiar, heavy lump forming behind her collarbone. The thought of leaving the apartment felt like stepping out into a blizzard without a coat. It felt dangerous. It felt like an invitation to get hurt all over again.
“What if she’s awful?” Wonhee whispered, her voice cracking.
“Then you can leave after the appetizers and we can spend the rest of the night making fun of her,” Minju said, a small, encouraging smile breaking across her face. “But what if she’s just... nice? What if it’s just a nice dinner with a nice human being?”
Wonhee looked at the open window, the gold sunlight pouring across the floorboards. The dust motes were still there, but they seemed less like a protective shield now and more like bars. She let out a long, defeated, trembling breath.
“I hate you,” Wonhee murmured.
Minju let out a loud, triumphant shriek, throwing her arms around Wonhee’s neck. “I know! I love you too! Now get in the shower, you smell like the disgusting popcorn they sell at the cinema.”
On the other side of the campus district, in a bedroom that was significantly tidier but currently filled with an equal amount of existential dread, Iroha was staring at her reflection in the mirror with an expression of profound betrayal.
She was wearing a crisp, pale blue button-down long-sleeved shirt, tucked neatly into dark trousers. Her hair, usually a slightly chaotic halo of soft curls, had been combed with meticulous, anxious precision. She looked nice. She looked like a dependable, polite young woman who had her life entirely put together.
Inside, she was a screaming, flailing mess.
“I swear this is a violation of the law,” Iroha muttered to the empty room.
The door to her bedroom flew open, and Moka walked in, holding a clipboard and a stopwatch, looking like a high-powered corporate executive rather than a senior theater major.
“Time check, Iroha,” Moka announced, clicking her pen with a sharp, rhythmic precision. “You have exactly forty-five minutes to get to the restaurant. The reservation is under my name, but since I am a generous goddess, I told the hostess that my incredibly charming, slightly socially inept friend would be arriving in my stead.”
Iroha turned around, glaring at her best friend with all the ferocity of a disgruntled kitten. “Moka. Please. Have mercy. I’ll pay for your groceries for a month. I’ll clean the communal microwave in the dorm lounge. I’ll even help you sort the vintage lace collars in the costume shop. Just don’t make me do this.”
Moka stopped, lowering the clipboard, her expression hardening into the unyielding gaze of a debt collector. “Iroha. A bet is a bet. Last week, during the Mario Kart tournament, you distinctly stated, and I quote, ‘If I get hit by a blue shell on the final lap of Rainbow Road, I will let you control my destiny for a single evening.’ You got hit. You came in eighth place. Destiny has arrived, and its name is a blind date with Chanelle’s friend.”
“But you were supposed to go!” Iroha protested, her hands flying out in awkward, nervous gestures. “It was your blind date! Chanelle set it up for you!”
“And I would love to go,” Moka said, entirely unbothered by her own hypocrisy. “Truly, I would. But as you know, the summer showcase auditions started an hour ago. The director needs me to run the sign-in sheet and manage the callback lobby because apparently, half the freshman class doesn’t know how to read a call board. I am bound by professional obligation, Iroha. You are bound by the sacred laws of Nintendo.”
Iroha dropped her head onto her desk with a soft, pathetic thud. “I don’t know how to talk to new people, Moka. You know this. I am a literal archivist. I like old books, quiet libraries, and plants that don’t talk back to me. Putting me on a blind date is like dropping a domestic hamster into the Serengeti.”
“Oh, stop being dramatic,” Moka laughed, walking over and giving Iroha an affectionate, rough pat on the shoulder. “You’re adorable. You’re polite to a fault, you look like a vintage romance novel illustration when you curl up with a book, and you have that… weird, old-school chivalry thing going on. The girl is going to love you. Or, at the very least, she’ll find your awkwardness endearing.”
“I bought flowers,” Iroha mumbled into her desk.
Moka paused. “You did what?”
Iroha lifted her head, her cheeks flushing a bright, furious pink. She pointed a trembling finger toward her bed, where a gorgeous, neatly wrapped bouquet of long-stemmed red roses was resting.
Moka stared at the bouquet, then back at Iroha, her jaw slowly dropping. “Iroha... it’s a blind date at a casual Italian restaurant, not a Victorian era proposal. Why did you buy red roses?”
“I didn’t know what else to do!” Iroha defended herself, her voice rising an octave in her panic. “I went to the florist, and I panicked! The lady asked me what her favorite flowers were, and I said I didn’t know her name, let alone her botanical preferences! Then she looked at me with pity and handed me these! I couldn’t say no! It would have been rude!”
Moka covered her mouth, trying and failing to suppress a loud snort of laughter. “Oh my god. You may actually be a time traveler from the 1850. Please, keep the roses. It’s too funny to pass up. If she runs away, at least you can say you tried.”
“I hate you so much,” Iroha groaned, picking up the bouquet like it was a live explosive device. The stems were cool, the scent of the petals thick and sweet in the small room.
“Love you too, sweetie! Don’t forget to text her when you get there! Use your manners!” Moka called out, already running down the hallway toward the theater, her clipboard clicking against her hip.
Iroha stood alone in her room, holding the roses, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She looked at her phone. 6:15 PM.
“Just a dinner,” Iroha whispered to herself, straightening her collar with a trembling hand. “Just a dinner with a girl who probably also doesn’t want to be there. We will eat pasta, we will exchange polite pleasantries, and then we will go home and never see each other again. It’s fine. I can survive ninety minutes of human interaction.”
She took a deep breath, adjusted her grip on the roses, and stepped out into the evening air, feeling entirely, utterly doomed.
The journey to the restaurant was, for Wonhee, an exercise in active psychological warfare.
Sitting on the subway, surrounded by the ambient noise of commuters, the screech of iron wheels, and the flickering fluorescent lights, she felt raw. The pink sweater Minju had chosen felt heavy, a woolly piece of armor that didn’t quite keep out the chill of her own thoughts.
Her mind, well-trained in the art of self-sabotage over the last eight months, was already constructing the entire narrative arc of the evening.
She won’t show up, Wonhee thought, staring at her worn sneakers. I’ll sit there for twenty minutes, drinking tap water, while the waiters look at me with that horrific, soft-edged pity. Then I’ll leave, and I’ll have to call Minju and admit that I am fundamentally unlovable.
Or, the dark voice in her head continued, she will show up. And she’ll be perfectly nice. And we’ll talk, and maybe we’ll even laugh. And then we’ll exchange numbers, and we’ll go on a second date. And a third. And three years from now, when I have completely let my guard down, when I have built an entire life around her smile, she’ll send me a text message on a rainy Tuesday saying she doesn’t think we’re compatible anymore, and I’ll be right back on that gray sofa, watching the dust motes.
The thought sent a sharp, physical pang of anxiety through her chest. It was easier to fail immediately. It was safer to assume the worst because the fall wasn’t as steep. By the time the train pulled into her station, Wonhee was actively considering turning around, getting on the northbound track, and fleeing back to her bunker.
But she didn’t. She thought of Minju’s fierce yet soft eyes. She thought of the eight months of empty space behind her. With a heavy, resolute sigh, she stepped off the train and walked up the stairs into the cool June evening.
Meanwhile, Iroha had been standing outside Il Padrino Caffe & Ristorante for twenty-three minutes.
The restaurant was small, tucked away beneath a canopy of ivy and fairy lights, looking exactly like the kind of place people went to fall in love. Iroha, however, looked like a sentry guard on high alert. She was pacing a precise three-step path back and forth on the sidewalk, clutching the red roses tightly against her chest like a breastplate.
Her hands were freezing, despite the mild evening air. Every time the restaurant door opened, releasing the rich, warm scent of garlic and rosemary, she stiffened, her eyes darting to the patron with terrified intensity.
“This is ridiculous,” Iroha muttered, stopping her pacing. Her watch read 6:52 PM. The date wasn’t even late, but Iroha’s internal clock had already condemned her to an eternity of waiting on this specific patch of concrete.
She pulled out her phone, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She needed to establish contact. She needed to prove she existed, if only to anchor herself to the reality of the situation.
Hi! It’s Iroha. Moka had sudden plans, so I’m filling in for tonight. I’m outside the restaurant whenever you get here. No rush at all! Take your time.
She hit send and immediately shoved the phone back into her pocket, her cheeks burning. ‘No rush at all!’ she mocked herself internally. Why did I add an exclamation point? I sound like an overenthusiastic golden retriever.
Two blocks away, Wonhee’s phone buzzed in her hand. She stopped under a streetlamp, looking at the message.
Iroha. The name was soft. And the message... it was surprisingly gentle. No demands, no arrogant assumptions. Just a quiet notification of presence.
Wonhee took a deep, shaky breath. Her heart was still beating too fast, a fluttery, uncomfortable sensation in her throat, but she forced her feet to keep moving. She turned the corner, the warm, golden glow of Il Padrino coming into view.
And there, standing beneath the green awning, she saw her.
Iroha was hard to miss, mostly because she was currently engaged in a silent, intense battle with a stray leaf that had fallen onto her bouquet of roses. She was well-postured, with only a slight, endearing slouch to her shoulders, her pale blue shirt neat and tidy. She looked completely out of place on the bustling city street—too soft, too careful, like a piece of porcelain placed on a crowded shelf.
Wonhee stopped a few yards away, her breath catching in her throat. Oh, she thought, a sudden, unexpected wave of warmth hitting her. She’s cute.
As if sensing the gaze, Iroha looked up. Her eyes, wide and remarkably expressive, met Wonhee’s. For a terrible, frozen second, neither of them moved. Iroha’s jaw parted slightly, her grip on the roses tightening so much that the brown paper wrapping crinkled loudly in the quiet space between them.
Iroha cleared her throat, stepped forward, and immediately tripped slightly over the edge of a raised paving stone.
“Oh! Goodness—hello,” Iroha stammered, her face instantly flushing the color of the roses she was holding. She recovered her balance quickly, straightening her posture, though her shoulders remained stiff with nerves. “Are you... Minju, Chanelle’s friend?”
“Wonhee,” Wonhee said, her voice softer than she intended. She found herself staring at the massive bouquet of deep red flowers. “Minju also had something to do. I was sent here. You must be Iroha. I got your text.”
“I am. Yes. That’s me,” Iroha said, offering a small, incredibly awkward nod. She extended her arms forward, thrusting the bouquet toward Wonhee like a knight offering a tribute to a monarch. “These are for you. I mean, they’re roses. Red ones. Because I... well, I didn’t know what your favorite flowers were, so I panicked at the shop. I’m sorry if it’s a bit... much.”
Wonhee blinked at the flowers. The sheer, unadulterated sincerity radiating from Iroha was staggering. There was no pretense here, no smooth, practiced charm. Just a girl who had panicked and bought too many roses because she wanted to be polite.
A small, genuine smile—the first one in months—tugged at the corner of Wonhee’s mouth. She reached out, taking the heavy bundle into her arms. “They’re beautiful, Iroha. Thank you. No one has... actually, no one has ever bought me flowers before.”
Iroha’s eyes softened, a look of immense relief washing over her features. “Oh. Well. Good. I mean, excellent. I’m glad.”
“Shall we?” Wonhee asked, gesturing toward the door.
“Right! Yes, of course,” Iroha said, suddenly springing into action.
With an old-school, almost choreographic fluidness, Iroha stepped around Wonhee to reach the heavy glass door of the restaurant. She pulled it open, holding it with one hand while placing her other hand behind her back, tilting her head slightly. “After you.”
Wonhee chuckled softly, stepping through the doorway into the warm, bustling interior of Il Padrino. The scent of melted cheese, garlic, and red wine wrapped around them like a blanket. The hostess greeted them, checking the reservation under Moka’s name, and led them through the crowded dining room to a quiet, secluded booth in the back, away from the main rush.
Before Wonhee could even reach for her seat, Iroha was already there. Silently, with a focused, serious concentration that was incredibly endearing, Iroha pulled the wooden chair out for Wonhee, waiting until Wonhee was comfortably seated before sliding it back in with practiced gentleness.
Iroha then walked around the table and sat down across from her, her movements careful, as if she were afraid of breaking the atmosphere.
For a moment, a thick, heavy silence settled over the table. Both of them looked down at their menus, then up at each other, then back down at the menus. It was a classic, textbook display of mutual social anxiety.
“So,” Wonhee said, breaking the ice because the silence was beginning to vibrate. “I think we should address the elephant in the room.”
Iroha looked up from her menu, her eyes wide. “The... the flowers?”
“No, though they are very prominent,” Wonhee smiled, setting her menu down. “Our friends. I have a feeling we both got aggressively coerced into being here tonight.”
Iroha let out a soft, breathy laugh, her shoulders finally dropping an inch. “Oh. Is it that obvious? Moka told me I looked like a dependable young woman, but I suspect I actually look like a hostage.”
“Minju literally stormed into my apartment, ripped my blankets off, and told me I was photosynthesizing despair,” Wonhee admitted, leaning her chin on her hand. “She had an emergency technical rehearsal for the theater showcase.”
Iroha’s jaw dropped. “Wait. The theater showcase? Moka is the one who forced me here because she had to manage the callbacks for the same showcase. She lost a bet to me—or rather, I lost a bet to her over a Mario Kart race, and this was her collecting the debt.”
Wonhee stared at her, a low, rumbling chuckle building in her chest. “Are you serious? They abandoned both of us for the exact same showcase crisis?”
“It appears so,” Iroha said, a brilliant, genuine smile breaking across her face. The awkward stiffness seemed to melt away, replaced by a shared sense of amusement at their friends’ predicament. “We are the collateral damage of the theater department’s lack of organizational skills.”
“Honestly, it’s a relief,” Wonhee said, feeling a tight knot in her chest begin to loosen. “I was terrified you’d be some hyper-confident, smooth-talking person who would expect me to be interesting. I haven’t been interesting since September.”
“I can assure you,” Iroha said solemnly, leaning forward across the white tablecloth, “I am fundamentally incapable of being smooth. I spent the last twenty minutes outside trying to remember how the English language works so I wouldn’t accidentally greet you in Latin.”
The waiter arrived, interrupting their shared laughter to take their orders. They decided on a bottle of red wine and a large platter of garlic bread to share, followed by two separate pasta dishes.
As the waiter walked away, Iroha looked at the roses resting on the empty seat beside Wonhee. “So... during my floral panic, I realized I really don’t know anything about you, Wonhee. Besides the fact that you have a very passionate theater friend. What do you actually do when you aren’t being dragged out of your apartment?”
Wonhee felt a brief, familiar shadow flicker across her mind—the urge to withdraw, to give a short, safe answer that didn’t reveal anything. But looking at Iroha’s attentive, open expression, she pushed through it.
“I’m an English literature major,” Wonhee said. “Which basically means I spend a lot of time reading books by dead people and writing long essays about why they were miserable. It’s very on-brand for me lately.”
“Dead miserable people are the best kind of literature,” Iroha agreed immediately, her eyes shining. “I’m a history major, with a focus on archival preservation. So, I basically do the same thing, except my people have been dead for much longer and their handwriting is significantly worse.”
“An archivist?” Wonhee asked, genuinely intrigued. “So you like old things?”
“I love them,” Iroha said, her voice taking on a warm, passionate cadence that made Wonhee’s pulse quicken. “There’s something incredibly beautiful about holding a letter that someone wrote two hundred years ago. You can see the stains from their ink, the smudges from their fingers... it’s like a physical bridge through time. It reminds you that people have always been the same. They’ve always been messy, and lonely, and looking for someone to talk to.”
Wonhee watched Iroha’s hands as she spoke—she gestured subtly, her fingers long and elegant, moving through the air as if she were describing a delicate piece of parchment. There was a profound, quiet gentleness to Iroha that felt like a direct antidote to the sharp, chaotic world Wonhee had been hiding from.
“That’s beautiful, Iroha,” Wonhee said softly.
Iroha suddenly stopped, her cheeks warming again. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking down at her water glass. “Sorry. I get a bit carried away when I talk about history. Moka says I sound like an NPR documentary.”
“Don’t apologize,” Wonhee said, her voice earnest. “I like it. It’s nice to hear someone talk about something they actually care about. Most people just talk to fill the silence.”
The food arrived, a steaming avalanche of rich marinara, freshly grated parmesan, and warm, buttery garlic bread. As they ate, the conversation flowed with an ease that caught Wonhee completely off guard. They talked about everything and nothing—the terrible architecture of the campus library, their mutual hatred of group projects, and the absurdities of their respective roommates.
Iroha was an incredible listener. Every time Wonhee spoke, Iroha leaned in, her eyes entirely focused on Wonhee’s face, nodding along, her expressions changing in tandem with Wonhee’s words. It made Wonhee feel... seen. Not like a broken project that needed fixing, but like a person whose thoughts held actual value.
“So,” Iroha said, wiping her mouth with a napkin after finishing a particularly long story about a rogue squirrel in the history department’s courtyard. “We established that I failed the floral test. If roses aren’t your favorite, what are they? If someone were to hypothetically buy you flowers again, what should they look for?”
Wonhee paused, her fork hovering over her plate. She looked down, a quiet, slightly sad expression crossing her face before she could stop it.
“Honestly,” Wonhee said, her voice dropping to a murmur, “I don’t really know. My ex... he wasn’t really a flower person. He thought they were a waste of money because they just die anyway. So I never really thought about it. I guess I don’t have a favorite.”
The mention of the ex hung in the air for a brief second. Iroha didn’t flinch, nor did she push for details. She simply nodded, her expression soft and understanding.
“Well,” Iroha said quietly, “that just means the spot is vacant. We’ll have to find out what they are eventually.”
Wonhee felt a strange, fluttery sensation in her stomach—a spark of something that felt dangerously like hope. To distract herself from the sudden intensity of the moment, she reached for a piece of garlic bread, her natural defense mechanism of dry humor kicking in.
“You know,” Wonhee said, a wry, mischievous glint entering her eyes, “if you really wanted to impress an English major, you should have brought a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils and a copy of Wuthering Heights with all the toxic parts highlighted in red.”
It was a silly, slightly nerdy joke—the kind of humor she used to share with her friends before she became a humorless walking spirit. The moment the words left her mouth, Wonhee froze, a sudden wave of panic hitting her. Oh god, she thought, that was too weird. I’m being weird. I should have stayed on the couch. She immediately tried to pull back, looking down at her plate, her shoulders tensing as she prepared to change the subject.
But before she could mutter an apology, a sound shattered the quiet atmosphere of their booth.
Iroha threw her head back.
It wasn’t a polite, restrained dinner-date chuckle. It was a loud, unbridled, entirely unselfconscious burst of pure, childlike joy. Iroha’s eyes crinkled into tiny crescents, her shoulders shaking, her head tilted back toward the ceiling as she let out a brilliant, ringing laugh that echoed slightly against the wooden walls of the booth.
Wonhee stared at her, completely captivated.
Iroha laughed with her whole body, her face completely radiant, devoid of any pretense or self-awareness. It was the most beautiful sound Wonhee had heard in eight months. It was a sound that completely dismantled the remaining walls of her safe house, letting the warm, golden light rush all the way into the darkest corners of her heart.
Iroha finally brought her head back down, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, her chest still heaving with residual giggles. “Oh my god,” Iroha gasped, her smile stretching from ear to ear. “Freshly sharpened pencils? Wuthering Heights? That is... that is terrifyingly specific and incredibly accurate. You are hilarious, Wonhee.”
Wonhee felt her cheeks burn, but this time, it wasn’t from anxiety. It was from a deep, profound sense of happiness. “I try,” she managed to say, her own smile wide and easy.
They stayed in that booth for another hour, long after the plates had been cleared and the wine bottle was empty. They talked until the restaurant began to empty out, the waiters slowly stacking chairs on the tables around them, but neither of them wanted to be the first to suggest leaving.
When they finally stepped out of Il Padrino Caffe & Ristorante, the night had grown significantly colder. The city streets were quieter now, the frantic energy of the early evening replaced by the calm, midnight hum of the district.
They stood under the green awning where they had met a few hours prior. Wonhee was clutching the bouquet of red roses tightly against her chest, their scent mixing with the cool night air. Iroha stood beside her, her hands shoved deep into her trouser pockets, her shoulders slouched in that familiar, endearing way.
A heavy, hesitant silence settled between them. The date was over. The social obligation had been fulfilled. By all accounts, this was the moment where they should say their polite goodbyes, walk their separate ways, and report back to their respective theater-gremlin friends.
Wonhee looked down at her shoes. Her heart was aching, but not with the old, heavy pain of the breakup. It was aching because she didn’t want this night to end. The thought of going back to her quiet, dark apartment, back to the dust motes and the empty space, felt suddenly unbearable.
And well, the thought of parting with Iroha also made a slight pinch in her chest.
She pulled out her phone, checking the transit app. A small, subtle idea formed in her mind—a tiny, vulnerable gamble.
“Well,” Wonhee said softly, looking up at Iroha through her curled side bangs. “According to the schedule, I just missed the 11:30 train. I have to wait about ten minutes more for the last bus to my neighborhood.”
She paused, her breath catching in her throat. She looked at Iroha, her eyes pleading silently in the dim streetlamp light. Please, she thought, the chant repeating like a prayer in her mind. Please, I hope she comes with me. I hope she waits with me. Don’t leave yet.
Iroha didn’t hesitate for a single second.
“I’ll wait with you,” Iroha said immediately, her voice firm and entirely devoid of hesitation. She stepped closer to Wonhee, a small, protective smile on her lips. “The bus station is just around the corner, right? Let’s go.”
A wave of intense relief washed over Wonhee, so strong her knees felt weak. “Yeah. It’s just a block away.”
They walked together to the transit station—a small, concrete shelter with a single metal bench, illuminated by a harsh, buzzing fluorescent light overhead. The station was empty, surrounded by the quiet shadows of dark storefronts.
They sat down on the cold metal bench. Initially, they left a careful, polite amount of space between them—about a foot of empty air, a lingering boundary of their status as new acquaintances. Wonhee rested the roses on her lap, her fingers tracing the crinkly brown paper wrapping.
For a few minutes, they just sat in the quiet, watching the occasional car drive past, its headlights cutting through the darkness. The silence was comfortable, filled with the warmth of the dinner they had just shared.
And then, the atmosphere shifted.
A heavy, stumbling footstep echoed down the sidewalk. Wonhee stiffened, her instincts instantly on alert. From around the corner, a man appeared. He was clearly heavily intoxicated, his clothes disheveled, swaying violently from side to side as he muttered incoherently to himself. He was holding an empty glass bottle, his eyes unfocused as he scanned the empty street.
Wonhee felt a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety. Her grip on the roses tightened, her shoulders freezing as she tried to make herself as small as possible on the bench. The old, familiar feeling of vulnerability, of being unsafe in the world, rushed back.
But before the man could even look in their direction, Iroha moved.
With a sudden, decisive fluidness, Iroha slid across the metal bench. She didn’t hesitate, pressing her entire body right up against Wonhee’s side. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, Iroha effectively created a solid, human barrier between Wonhee and the oncoming threat.
The movement was so fast, so entirely protective, that Wonhee could feel the warmth of Iroha’s body radiating through her pink sweater. Iroha shifted her posture, leaning forward slightly to obscure Wonhee from view, her jaw set in a firm, unyielding line as she watched the man approach.
The drunk man stumbled up to the shelter, blinking heavily at the two girls packed tightly together on one side of the bench. Seeing the solid, defensive front Iroha was presenting, he let out a low grunt, decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and stumbled past the station, his heavy footsteps fading into the distance after a few agonizing seconds.
The danger had passed. The street was quiet again.
Iroha let out a soft breath, her shoulders dropping. She realized how close she was—their thighs were touching, her shoulder pressed firmly against Wonhee’s. “Oh,” Iroha mumbled, her cheeks turning a visible shade of pink under the fluorescent light. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to... I just wanted to make sure he didn’t bother you.”
She began to shift her weight, preparing to slide back across the bench to restore the polite distance between them.
But Wonhee couldn’t let her move.
Without thinking, driven by a sudden, fierce desire for the warmth and safety Iroha provided, Wonhee reached out. Her hand, small and slightly trembling, found the edge of Iroha’s pale blue shirt sleeve. She caught the fabric between her fingers, holding onto it with a light, tentative grip.
“Don’t,” Wonhee whispered, looking up at Iroha, her eyes wide and honest. “Stay. It’s... it’s cold.”
Iroha froze. She looked down at Wonhee’s hand clutching her sleeve, then up at Wonhee’s face. The blush on Iroha’s cheeks deepened, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she settled back into the space, relaxing her body against Wonhee’s side, her warmth wrapping around Wonhee like a shield against the night air.
“Okay,” Iroha said softly, her voice a gentle murmur in the quiet station. “I’ll stay right here.”
They sat like that for a long moment, completely intertwined. Wonhee felt a profound sense of peace settle over her—a feeling she hadn’t experienced in eight months. The apartment, the dust motes, the heavy blankets... they all felt like a lifetime away.
Iroha looked down, her eyes falling on Wonhee’s hands, which were still holding the bouquet of red roses with a fierce, protective intensity.
“I’m really sorry about the roses, Wonhee,” Iroha said quietly, a sheepish, self-deprecating smile touching her lips. “I know you told me during dinner that you don’t have a favorite flower, and I feel like an idiot for bringing something so... cliché and dramatic to a first meeting.”
Iroha reached out, her finger gently brushing against one of the soft red petals. “But... I promise you, next time, I’ll find out what your favorites actually are. Even if I have to buy every single type of flower in the city until we find the one that makes you smile like you did at my terrible, horrible jokes.”
Wonhee’s heart skipped a beat. The words ‘next time’ hung in the air, sweet and full of a future she hadn’t dared to imagine until tonight.
A low, amused chuckle bubbled up in Wonhee’s throat. She tilted her head, looking up at Iroha with a playful, teasing glint in her eyes.
“Iroha,” Wonhee murmured, her voice dripping with a gentle, affectionate sarcasm.
“Are you... asking me out on a date?”
Iroha stiffened slightly, her breath catching. She looked at Wonhee, her wide, expressive eyes suddenly filled with a brave, beautiful intensity. She didn’t pull back. She didn’t make a joke.
“What if I am?” Iroha answered, her voice soft but entirely steady.
Wonhee felt a bright, brilliant warmth bloom in her chest, completely erasing the last remnants of the cold October that had haunted her for so long. She let go of Iroha’s sleeve, shifting her hand down to gently touch the back of Iroha’s knuckles.
“Good,” Wonhee said, a wide, radiant smile breaking across her face. “Because I also want to go on a date with you. Willingly this time.”
Iroha’s face lit up, a bright, childlike smile matching Wonhee’s own. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Wonhee whispered.
At that exact moment, the heavy hiss of air brakes shattered the quiet of the street. The large, brightly lit city bus pulled up to the curb, its doors folding open with a mechanical clatter. The driver looked out at them, waiting.
The moment of departure had arrived.
Wonhee stood up from the bench, suddenly feeling the lack of Iroha’s warmth against her side. She held the roses tightly in one arm, turning to face Iroha, who had stood up with her.
“I guess this is my ride,” Wonhee said, her voice filled with a reluctant softness.
“I guess it is,” Iroha said, her eyes fixed on Wonhee’s face, as if she were trying to memorize every detail. “Text me when you get home? So I know you made it safely?”
“I will,” Wonhee promised. She took a step backward toward the bus doors, then paused. On a sudden, brave impulse, she leaned forward, pressing a quick, soft kiss against Iroha’s warm cheek. “Goodnight, Iroha.”
Iroha blinked, her hand flying up to touch her cheek, her face completely flushed and beautiful. She stood there, smiling like a fool. “Hm... goodnight, Wonhee.”
Wonhee stepped onto the bus, the doors closing behind her with a definitive click. She walked down the empty aisle, choosing a window seat on the side facing the station. As the bus began to pull away from the curb, its engine roaring, Wonhee pressed her face slightly against the cool glass window, looking back.
Iroha was still standing there.
She hadn’t moved an inch from the spot where they had said goodbye. She was standing beneath the harsh fluorescent light of the concrete shelter, her hands shoved into her pockets, her slouch gone, her head tilted up as she watched the bus move down the street.
The bus turned a corner, then accelerated down the main avenue. Wonhee kept her eyes glued to the window, watching Iroha’s figure grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Even as the bus moved blocks away, through the glare of traffic lights and city signs, Wonhee could still see her—a steady, quiet silhouette against the darkness, standing guard, watching until the bus was entirely out of sight.
Wonhee leaned back into the cushioned seat, pulling the bouquet of red roses close to her chest. She buried her face in the cool, fragrant petals, letting out a soft, happy sigh.
The apartment would still be there when she got back. The dust motes would still be orbiting in the quiet room. But tomorrow, Wonhee thought as she watched the city lights flicker past, tomorrow she was going to open all the windows, throw away the old blankets, clean the room, and go look for her favorite flowers.
She has a feeling it’s red roses.