Work Text:
Yuha's pen hovered over the entry log.
"I like to smell my own farts."
She looked up. The boy across the counter grinned, pleased with himself.
"Okay," she said.
"That's it? Okay?"
Yuha tapped the pen against the logbook. "Did you want me to write it down?"
"Yeah. That's the whole point of this thing, right?" He leaned his elbows on the counter. "You're supposed to keep secrets."
Yuha had drawn the short straw for this shift. She wrote the date in the margin. Then, in small letters: Second-year male. Prefers the scent of his own flatulence.
"Wait, are you writing that down? Like, actually?"
"You told me a secret. I'm keeping it."
The boy's grin faltered. "But you're not supposed to— I mean, it's anonymous, right?"
"Anonymous to everyone except me." She underlined the entry. "That's the deal."
He stared at where he figured she'd be behind the booth. She stared back.
"Can you— can you cross it out?"
"It's already logged."
"But—"
"Next."
He stepped away, glancing back once as he disappeared into the crowd.
Yuha exhaled. Her hand was cramping. Three more entries and she could rotate out, hand the booth over to whoever had the next shift, and pretend this conversation never happened.
A girl slid into the booth forty seconds later.
"Whenever you're ready," Yuha said.
"I like to eat glue."
Yuha's pen stayed where it was. She looked down at the entry log and traced the edge of the page with her thumbnail. Don't react. That was the rule. No judgment, no commentary, no follow-up questions. Just log it and move on.
But glue. Fucking glue. Not even the interesting kind of secrets. Not something that made you sit back and wonder about what the hell was the other person thinking.
She wrote the date. Her hand paused over the next line.
The girl shifted on the stool. "Is that okay? Is that weird?"
It's extremely weird.
"It's a secret," she said instead. "That's all it has to be."
The girl slid off the stool and was gone before Yuha had finished writing the entry.
First-year female. Consumes adhesive.
Yuha set the pen down and flexed her hand. Two more. She could manage two more — she just had to stop wondering whether it was the stick kind or the plain white kind, because it didn't matter, and even if it did, it wasn't her job to care.
A girl slid into the booth.
"You don't snitch this stuff, do you?"
Yuha recognized the voice. A-Na. Third-year. The kind of student who moved through like she was timing how long it took everyone else to notice her.
"All secrets are confidential," Yuha said. "Unless they're cause for concern, in which case the guidance counselor has to be notified."
"Like if you're depressed or something?"
"Yeah. Or something."
A-Na's fingers tapped the counter once.
"So if I told you I hooked up with someone, you wouldn't tell anyone."
Hooked up with someone.
"I wouldn't tell anyone."
"But you'd write it down." A-Na's chin lifted. "In that book."
"The book stays with the booth."
"And who reads the book?"
"Me." Yuha held her gaze. "Right now, just me."
A-Na's mouth curved. "Okay. Here's one." She leaned forward, dropping her voice. "I didn't actually hook up with Seo-jun at Jimin's party. I just let everyone think I did."
Third-year female. A-Na.
Then, in smaller letters: Lied about hookup with Seo-jun to maintain social standing.
She underlined it.
A-Na had built an entire classroom dynamic around herself without trying — the way desks shifted to face her, how conversations even paused when she walked through the door. And this was what she brought to the confessional? A lie about a boy. Maintain social standing. As if she needed to try.
"That's it?"
"Unless you want to share something else."
A-Na's fingers drummed against the counter. "This almost feels like church."
Yuha didn't look up. "I wouldn't know."
"You don't go?"
"I do." She just didn't know what church felt like. Or if church could be felt that way.
A-Na exhaled through her nose. "You know what I can't stand?" She didn't wait. "Those kids who sit in the library during lunch. Reading." She said it like the word itself was distasteful. "Like they're better than everyone else because they're not—" she waved her hand, "—participating."
Yuha kept her eyes on the page.
"Bookworms. And the ones who do the extra credit problems without being asked. Raise their hand before the teacher finishes the question." A-Na leaned back, arms crossing.
"It's performative. They think no one sees it, but everyone does. Swarming around the teachers like flies."
Yuha wrote nothing down.
"You're not writing it."
Yuha tapped the pen against the page and let it scratch across the paper in short bursts.
A-Na kept talking. "And the way they ask for feedback. Like they actually care what the teacher thinks." Scratch. Scratch. "It's all for show. Everyone knows it."
Yuha nodded without looking up. Her pen moved in loose curves that meant nothing.
"And then they act surprised when they get the top grade. Oh, I didn't even study that hard." A-Na pitched her voice high. "Please. We all saw you in the library every day last week."
Yuha's pen paused. She squinted at the page. "Wait—every day?"
"What?"
"Last week. You said every day."
A-Na blinked. "I said they were in the library every day."
"Right. Got it." Yuha resumed the fake transcription.
"Anyway." A-Na's fingers started tapping again. "It's the fake humility that gets to me. If you're going to be obsessed with grades, just own it. Don't pretend you're not trying when everyone can see—" She stopped. "You're not actually writing any of this down."
"I'm getting it."
"You're not."
Yuha kept her eyes down. The pen kept moving. "I don't have to write it word for word. I summarize."
A-Na throwed something that sounded like a pfft. "Summarize."
"The gist."
"What would the gist even be?"
Yuha stopped writing. That you care more than you want anyone to know.
"That library kids are annoying."
A-Na exhaled. Her shoulders dropped. "They are, though." She sat there a moment longer, fingers still now. "Yeah. Okay." She stood. "That's all I wanted to say."
"Good to know."
A-Na's hand landed flat on the counter. "You're not supposed to give opinions."
Yuha's pen stopped mid-scratch.
"That's in the rules." A-Na pointed at the sign. "No commentary. No follow-up questions. No judgment." She recited it like she'd studied the text. "It says right there."
Most people didn't even look at it. They sat down, spilled whatever they needed to spill, and left before the silence could settle.
"You read the rules."
"I was waiting in line." A-Na shrugged like it was obvious. "There was nothing else to look at."
Yuha set the pen down.
"Sorry," she said. "I'll stick to the script."
A-Na's eyes narrowed. Then she stepped back from the counter.
"See that you do."
She turned and walked toward the crowd.
—
Jiwoo was waiting outside the gymnasium with her arms crossed, watching the last of the fair's crowd drift towards the parking lot.
"How'd it go?"
Same question she always asked. Same flat delivery.
"Fine." Yuha adjusted her bag strap. "The usual."
Jiwoo's head tilted.
"It's just—" Yuha stopped. "What's the point?"
"The point?"
"Someone tells you they eat glue. Someone lies about hooking up with a guy. I write it down, and then what?" She gestured at the booth, now shuttered. "It sits in a notebook until the end of the year. Nobody reads it."
Jiwoo's expression didn't shift. "It's a school tradition."
"So is the talent show."
"The talent show is optional. This is different." Jiwoo's weight stayed planted. "Students need somewhere to say things they can't say anywhere else. That has value even if you don't see a result."
"But they could talk to a friend. A counselor."
"They could." Jiwoo's voice stayed level. "They don't. You've seen the line."
Yuha had. Every year, students waiting with their secrets like offerings.
"The booth works because it's anonymous," Jiwoo continued. "No names. No follow-up. They say it out loud and walk away. That's the point."
"You don't have to understand it," Jiwoo added. "You just have to show up."
Yuha shifted her weight. "What if I did something else instead? Like — I don't know. The spring festival committee, or —"
"Or." Jiwoo waited until Yuha looked at her. "You could quit altogether."
No inflection. No softened edge. Yuha could feel some reflexive that's not what I meant forming — but it stalled before it reached her mouth.
Because Jiwoo wasn't wrong. The booth assignment was volunteer-based, same as every other position Jiwoo managed, and Yuha had signed the form herself last September.
"I didn't say I wanted to quit."
"You said you don't see the point."
Those were different things. They were. But the gap between them felt thin right now, and Jiwoo's stare had a way of making those thin gaps disappear.
"I'll do the shifts."
Jiwoo nodded. "Good."
"But what if someone's just wasting time?" Yuha asked. "Like—today, someone came just to complain about library kids. That's not a secret. That's not anything."
Jiwoo's expression didn't change. "We can't discriminate. You know that."
"I'm not saying we should. I'm saying—" Yuha's hand moved, then dropped. "There's a difference between needing to talk and wanting an audience."
"The booth doesn't make that distinction."
"But shouldn't there be—"
"No." Jiwoo cut her off. "The second we start deciding whose secrets count, we stop being a confessional."
Yuha looked back at the booth. No names. No follow-up. No judgment.
"Besides," Jiwoo added, "you don't know what someone needs to say. Even if it sounds small to you."
"Someone came just to read the rules."
Jiwoo's head tilted. "And?"
"And nothing. She just—left."
"That's allowed."
Yuha's thumb ran along the strap of her bag back and forth. "It felt like a test."
"Most things do with some people." Jiwoo uncrossed her arms. "Doesn't mean you have to pass."
"I'll see you Thursday," Jiwoo said, and turned towards the parking lot.
—-
Yuha's pen moved across the page. Physics formulas, then a derivative she didn't need to solve. The numbers kept their shape better than words did.
The front door opened and closed. Keys hit the bowl on the entry table.
"Still at it?"
Yuha didn't look up. "Mm."
"You've been in that chair since I left this morning."
Yuha's pen stopped.
"I took a break."
"Good. You should." Her mother appeared in the doorway, blazer unbuttoned, one hand loosening her scarf. "How was the club fair?"
"Fine."
"Did you sign up for anything new?"
Had she?
"No."
Her mother drifted closer and peeked at the textbook like she was checking if it was real.
"You should eat something."
"I will."
"When?"
Yuha's pen tapped twice against the margin. "Soon."
"How's Jiwoo?"
"Fine."
"Still running everything?"
"Someone has to."
A small sound. Not quite a laugh. "She's good at it."
Yuha wrote another number. It wasn't part of the problem.
"You know, I ran into Mrs. Park today. She said Min-ji is thinking about law school now."
"That's nice."
"She seemed very focused. Very clear about what she wants."
There it is.
"I'm happy for her."
Her mother's hand landed on the back of the chair, squeezed once, and lifted.
"I'm just asking about your day, Yuha. That's all."
"I know."
Her mother turned toward the door, then stopped.
"Are you eating properly?"
"Yes."
"Are you sleeping?"
"Yes."
"Are you—"
"Mom." Yuha's voice came out harder than she meant. "I'm fine."
Her mother nodded once and left the doorway.
Yuha looked down at her notes. The derivative was wrong. She'd carried a negative sign too far, and now the whole thing was ruined.
She scratched out the line and started again. Carried the negative, moved the exponent, wrote the final answer in the margin. Correct. But the formula below it blurred, and her thoughts slipped sideways. Back when she and Jiwoo sat on the floor of Jiwoo's bedroom with campaign posters spread between them.
“You're doing it wrong."
Yuha looked at her crooked cut. "It's fine."
"It's uneven."
"Nobody's going to measure."
Jiwoo took the scissors from her hand and trimmed the edge herself. "I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying."
"You always do." Jiwoo's voice had an edge that surprised her. "Then why do you keep asking?"
Yuha stopped. She didn't have an answer. Or maybe she had too many—because asking was easier than deciding, and Jiwoo always had a plan, and it was easier to follow than to wonder if she was going the wrong direction.
"Sorry," Yuha said finally.
Jiwoo picked up the scissors and went back to work. The moment passed. They finished the posters and Yuha went home. And nothing was wrong, not exactly, at least.
You just have to show up.
Middle school. Third year.
Jiwoo sat cross-legged with a notebook open, pen moving in straight lines down the page. Lists. Always lists.
"If I win, I'll restructure the whole budget." She didn't look up. "The festival committee wastes half their money on decorations nobody remembers."
"Mm."
"And the peer tutoring program is a joke. Nobody shows up. I'd make it mandatory for anyone with a GPA under—"
"That seems harsh."
Jiwoo's pen stopped. "It's efficient."
Yuha pulled at a loose thread on her sleeve. "What if people just... don't want to be president?"
"Then they shouldn't run."
"I mean, what if you didn't want it? Like, if something else seemed more—"
"I want it."
The thread came loose. Yuha wound it around her finger until the tip turned purple. "How do you know?"
"Because I thought about it." Jiwoo looked up. "I always think about things before I decide. That's how you know."
That's how you know.
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"What do you want?"
Yuha searched for an answer that felt like hers but nothing came on board.
"I don't know yet."
Jiwoo turned back to her notebook. "You'll figure it out."
“Yeah. Guess I’ll do.”
The derivative sat finished on the page. But Yuha kept staring at the white space beside it.
When did Jiwoo become so certain?
Not just the booth or the budgets or the way she'd corrected those edges years ago. Jiwoo knew what she wanted. She always had. She thought about things, and then she decided, and then she moved on.
That's how you know.
Yuha's pen tapped the paper. When had she stopped asking what Jiwoo wanted and started just waiting? Following the path Jiwoo cleared, showing up where Jiwoo needed her, filling the space someone else might have taken.
They used to sit on that bedroom and argue about nothing—angles, placement, whether the campaign slogan should be bold or italic. Jiwoo would get that look, and Yuha would give in.
But somewhere along the way, the arguments stopped. Or Yuha stopped having them. She'd started saying "I'll do the shifts" instead of "why are we doing this?" Started treating Jiwoo's plans like weather—something to prepare for, not question.
And Jiwoo hadn't noticed. Or maybe she had, and it didn't matter. Jiwoo didn't need backup the way Yuha did. Jiwoo didn't need someone to say but what if while she figured things out.
Where did I go?
Not physically. She was still here, but the version of herself that had opinions about fonts that version felt further away every year.
Yuha looked at the derivative again. The answer was right. She'd followed every step perfectly.
—-
Jiwoo had the notebook out before Yuha sat down.
"If we move the vote to the end of the week, more people will still be on campus. Tuesday's too early—half the freshmen don't even know where the student center is yet." She wrote as she talked. "And the budget proposal needs to go to Kang sunsaengnim before Friday, which means—"
"What time's the deadline?"
"Five. But I want it in by three, in case she has notes."
Yuha set her bag on the desk hook and unscrewed her water bottle. The classroom was still mostly empty.
"I can draft the allocation breakdown tonight."
"You did it last semester too."
"I know. I'm saying I'll do it again."
"Fine. But add a column for projected carryover. Kang sunsaengnim always asks."
The door opened and A-Na walked in with Juun and Carmen behind her. A-Na dropped her bag on her desk and leaned against the window frame. Juun said something low, and
Carmen laughed.
"Jiwoo-yah." A-Na's voice carried without effort. "Reorganizing the world again?"
Jiwoo turned a page. "Planning the budget meeting."
"For the cultural festival? The one nobody goes to?" A-Na looked at Carmen. "Didn't we skip that last year?"
"You did." Jiwoo didn't look up. "Attendance was still up fourteen percent."
"Fourteen percent from what? Twelve people?"
Carmen pulled out the chair next to Yuha's and sat down sideways, arms crossed over the back. "Yuha, you look tired. Late night?"
"I'm fine."
"She's always fine," Juun said from her own seat. "That's like her whole thing."
A-Na picked up the notebook, glanced at the page, and set it back down an inch to the left.
"I'm just saying." She shrugged. "All this work for something everyone forgets by midterms. You could just... not."
Jiwoo's pen stayed capped on the desk. "Someone has to do it."
"Does anyone actually care? Like, really?" A-Na tilted her head. "You put this on your university applications, and they look at it for two seconds before moving to the next kid who was also class president."
The door opened. Two more students walked in. Jiwoo waited until they passed.
"It's not about applications."
"Then what's it about?" A-Na smiled, easy and sharp. "From here it looks like you're trying to win a game nobody else is playing."
Juun snorted. Carmen watched with her chin on her arms, gaze moving between them.
Jiwoo opened her notebook again. "The festival budget affects twenty-three clubs. If I don't submit the proposal, they lose their programming allocation." She turned to a fresh page. "That's what it's about."
"Nerd talk." A-Na waved a hand. "My brain shuts off after the first sentence."
"It's not complicated—"
"It is, though." A-Na leaned against the window frame again. "You should have some fun. Get laid for once."
Carmen covered her mouth. Juun whistled low.
Jiwoo's expression didn't change. "That's not relevant."
"It's completely relevant." A-Na tilted her head.
"You've never even been with a guy who didn't need to finish his physics homework first." A-Na said it like she was observing the weather. "You're what, seventeen? And you're acting like the festival budget is your whole personality."
Carmen's shoulders shook. Juun looked at the ceiling.
Jiwoo's pen didn't move.
"I'm just saying. Casual sex exists. Fun exists. You should try one of them before you graduate."
"We have class in ten minutes."
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either." Jiwoo finally looked up, face flat, the same expression she wore when correcting a math error. "It's a statement of fact. We have class. The proposal is due
Friday. I don't have time for whatever this is."
"See, that's the problem." A-Na gestured at her. "You don't have time. You never have time. You're going to wake up one day and realize you spent high school optimizing a festival nobody remembers."
"Then I'll have optimized something." Jiwoo's voice stayed level. "What will you have done?"
Carmen stopped laughing.
A-Na's smile didn't waver. "Oh, wow. Okay." She pushed off from the window frame. "Didn't know we were doing real talk."
She crossed her arms. "What's even real to you? Besides schedules and budget columns."
Jiwoo's pen tapped the desk once. "The work. The outcome. Twenty-three clubs getting their funding because someone filed the paperwork correctly. That's real."
"Okay." A-Na nodded slowly. "And in five years?"
"The clubs still exist. The process still works. Someone else does the paperwork."
"Right. The process." A-Na laughed. “Having everlasting memories with people who actually know me—that seems real. Unlike whatever that is." She gestured at the notebook.
"You're going to remember budget allocations? You're going to sit around at reunions talking about how you optimized a cultural festival?"
"If it means the clubs got to perform, yes."
"That's sad."
"Boo-hoo." Jiwoo's voice stayed flat. "Not everyone gets to treat high school like a photo op."
A-Na tilted her head. "And not everyone gets to treat it like a checklist. Some of us are actually living it."
"By doing what? Karaoke? Movies?" Jiwoo finally looked up. "You'll remember the songs. I'll remember that the dance club had money for costumes because I caught an error in the disbursement form."
A-Na stared at her. "You think that's the same thing?"
"I think it lasts longer."
The door slid open and Kang sunsaengnim walked in with a stack of papers. A-Na turned and walked toward the back of the room without another word. Jiwoo uncapped her pen.
Yuha reached for her notebook but her hand found her empty desk.
She looked up. Juun was already three rows back, Yuha's pencil case swinging from her fingers. Carmen had the notebook—the one with the derivative worked out on the page.
"Give it back." She hissed through her teeth.
Juun sat down and examined the pencil case. "Which one's your favorite? This one?" She held up the mechanical pencil Yuha had used since second year.
"Juun-ah."
"I'm just looking." Carmen flipped through the notebook. "Wow, you actually do all the practice problems."
Heat crept up Yuha's neck. The derivative was in there. The one she'd checked twice.
"Please."
Carmen glanced at Juun. Then she dropped the notebook on Yuha's desk from a foot up. It landed crooked, half off the edge. Juun tossed the mechanical pencil—it bounced once and rolled under the chair in front of Yuha.
"Oops," Juun said.
They turned to the front.
Yuha crouched to retrieve the pencil, found it under the chair leg, and sat back down.