Chapter Text
“Would you like anything to drink, Ms. Oh?” A sweet voice gently asked.
Beomseok had almost, regrettably, dozed off. She opened her eyes and languidly tilted her head, turning to face the private flight attendant.
Her smile came cordial as ever; pure customer service and nothing sentimental—unmarred by emotion. Beomseok doubted she knew of the events that transpired just a few days ago, only here because her politician father ordered her to be.
Just a few days.
Just a few days ago, a deep crater in Beomseok’s memory, her entire life completely fell apart. Everything came crumbling down all at once, spiraling out of her control as the days before their school exam arrived. D-0, as it wrote itself on the board.
Zero days before the exam. Zero days before Beomseok ruined her own life. Beomseok never made it to the exam. Neither did Ahn Suho, and Sieun never took it.
A lot of other things were taken instead. Her ears began to ring as she reflected—the sound of the ambulance, her father’s lackey pulling her away from the scene, and the last time she saw Sieun before she moved schools—countries.
Blood stained both of their school uniforms. The blood only came from Oh Beomseok. They dirtied Sieun’s once white knuckles, pure hands. So pure, they had only held a pen before, denting the sides of them.
Until Beomseok entered her life. The hands of Yeon Sieun quickly muddied from endless fights, many for the purpose of protecting her friends. The last time Beomseok saw them used, they were used on her in the name of protecting Ahn Suho. She still remembers the way Sieun’s fist knocked into her face, the bruise only flowering as the days passed by.
But even when it departs, the last traces of Yeon Sieun disappearing with it, Beomseok thought she’d never forget. Ahn Suho, Yeon Sieun, Yeongi. All of it would run after her wherever she went for the rest of her life.
Tears began to prickle her eyes. She darted her focus to the outside of the window, trying to drown the painful memories. Even then, she didn’t believe they could ever be as agonizing to her. The others would have it much worse than her. They had to stay on the soil where everything occurred.
Everything had come from her own doing. Sieun had to live with the burden on her shoulders, she thought, staying in South Korea despite it all. She would endure the brunt of it all, and Beomseok would have no idea how she’d manage.
For the past few days, Beomseok had wondered what Sieun’s life would be like now. Would she be with her family, the one Beomseok never got to meet? Would she move on, forget about both her and Suho?
And Ahn Suho, too. Would she ever wake up? Would her condition take her first?
Would, would, would. She would never know.
“I’m okay, thank you,” Beomseok replied, voice a little hoarse from the severe dehydration. Her appetite diminished in the last few days, wrung from the inside out. She couldn’t bring herself to eat when Ahn Suho was always the one to take care of that. Without anyone to help her, she found herself at a loss in many departments.
Small bites of breakfast sustained her for this long. She had been skinny before, but now her bones protruded brazenly out of her skin, and her cheekbones hollowed themselves completely. Her focus flew by, as well.
Painstakingly, the only thing she could think of was Yeon Sieun, Ahn Suho, and Yeongi.
The flight attendant nodded, carrying the food trolley back to the back of the private plane and leaving Beomseok alone in the spacious jet.
Currently, she sat on her dad’s private jet on her way to the Philippines.
Beomseok found a few things ironic. First, while Beomseok’s father adopted her for the sake of bettering his political standing, she nearly did the opposite. Nearly, because her father managed to clean up the mess behind her, just as he always did. There was nothing he couldn’t fix except for the disgrace of his own daughter.
The past few days, she never really got to sit in her guilt. It threatened to draw blood like knives, finding her in the corners of the jet and following her to the Philippines. She felt it stab her throat whenever she swallowed and breathed normally.
Humanely.
Beomseok could still function like a human, but she didn’t feel like it. She felt far from it, detached from her own mind and incapable of acknowledging what happened around her. Not even the self-inflicted burns of her cigarettes could match the fire ravaging her heart. Everything burned within, and no means of halting gave way.
Another ironic thing. She ruined Yeon Sieun and Ahn Suho’s entire lives, though she would never know how they ended up. They might grow up together in the future, or they might depart forever. For some reason, just the thought of the two of them—so clearly destined for each other before she messed them up—never meeting again soured her guts.
But she would never know. While they lived in the discomfort of her actions, ones she couldn’t live through and didn’t stick around to see consequences of, she sat in the comfort of her private jet. The setting on the side warmed her figure, and she sank deeper into it.
South Korea was cold. Snow fell over every inch of once green grass. Blossoming flowers withered underneath the harsh weather, threatening to never bloom again when summer rolled around for another round. Businesses began to replace clothing with warmer coats and pants.
None of that would ever be experienced by Beomseok. Instead of buying winter clothing with her friends, preparing for the gentle gusts of snow and chilly winds, they would endure it on their own. Yeon Sieun would walk through the snow, Oh Beomseok would hear it through the news, and Ahn Suho would have no idea of it.
The seasonal winter wouldn’t be as brutal as the one brewing inside of them. It already came to fruition, menacing to shut down their bodies in any second. Beomseok didn’t know about Yeon Sieun or Ahn Suho, but she knew that happened to be the case for her. Nothing inside of her quite seemed to work anymore.
Think of it brightly, Oh Beomseok, she thought selfishly, closing her eyes and letting the wetness from her eyes ruin her curled lashes; curled immaculately for the going away image from her father as she moved to “pursue her studies.”
No school in the Philippines accepted her.
Start anew. Her lashes grew heavy on her eyelids, bare salt burning her eyes. You’re not Oh Beomseok of South Korea anymore.
Isolation followed Beomseok wherever she went. In her time with her used-to-be-friends, watching them interact gleefully and not paying her any mind, the isolation followed her then, too.
In every fight she got into with Yeon Sieun and Ahn Suho, where they fought tooth and nail for each other and leaving her once in the carnival with a bunch of thugs, she had been isolated then, too.
Now, it followed her to the Philippines.
Beomseok got off the plane and waited for her suitcase. One suitcase.
The air from the propellers blew against her face and ruined her styled air. Stray ends departed from her tied ponytail, hanging loosely down her back in a jumbled mess from the mess of the journey there.
None of that necessarily mattered any longer. No media centers followed her here. She had no image to maintain anymore, though she never felt she had one to defend in the first place.
One of the private jet attendants rolled her suitcase to her. The black tint of it scuffed at the edges, packed carelessly under the assumption of futile cargo. Whatever fit inside the suitcase, her father didn’t care about anymore.
All of her belongings. Beomseok didn’t have much with her; she never felt connected to her house, anyway.
“Thank you,” she issued manually, giving her last, practiced smile. She let her whitened teeth appear, unsure of when she would ever give such a smile again. Not in the practiced way, but genuine.
The worker didn’t reply. He gave a curt nod before boarding the plane. A few seconds passed, the plane moved, and it took off. The pilot didn’t bother taking the proper take-off runway, exiting using the quickest route possible.
Beomseok watched it soar through the sky. It reached farther and farther each second, eventually turning into a small dot as Beomseok refused to blink.
Her last connection to her real life. The reality she never made a single good choice in and required abandoning, so said her father. In a single blink, she would lose track of the jet. Wherever she went afterwards, all decisions and consequences would be on her.
A heavy metal stung her throat, forcing her to wince and close her eyes. She coughed, leaning down and grabbing her throat to beg the scratching to go away.
Tears prickled her eyes again from the ache. And when she looked up afterwards, desperately stabilizing herself on the handle of her suitcase, the dot in the sky no longer tainted the sky. Beomseok stood there for a few seconds. A mixture of emotions overwhelmed her at once: grief, isolation, unconsolability. Most of all, excruciating anamnesis.
Never again would she see Yeon Sieun, Ahn Suho, Yeongi. That fact, she had to live with.
Picking herself up, she clutched the handle of her suitcase with numbness and moved forward.
It took a few days for her to get settled into the new area. The Philippines might not have been much different from South Korea, but Beomseok never found out. Her dad had arranged for her to live in a remote town, only a few houses and shops clustered together. Serene and low-energy, it matched Beomseok’s needs.
Not many people lived in the town. 200 inhabitants, far underneath the limit of the town, regarded her as a foreign stranger—which she was. They all knew each other well and probably didn’t bode well toward new strangers in their close space.
A small house awaited Beomseok the moment she got out of the taxi. She swiped her card through the reader, not bothering to check the cost of the ride. The one thing she left with and could provide her with everything she needed as long as she lived—her debit card.
Her father promised to provide for her under the agreement she would never make a sound. Never come back up to the surface again. And Beomseok knew, for some time, she would need something to support herself; so, she obliged, not wanting to cause much of a ruckus anymore.
Against the average winter of the Philippines, Beomseok found it much less cold than South Korea. She quickly got accustomed to their winter months, drinking hot cocoa or taking a warm shower whenever she felt herself freezing too close to the brink.
Other times, because of the sedate weather, she took a walk through the town. Though the people never regarded her as one of their own in those beginning few weeks, she managed to make some conversations.
Some asked where she came from. Others wanted to know how she settled so comfortably so quickly. A lot of the time, after receiving answers made up on the spot, they would go on their own way, leaving her behind.
The isolation followed her to the Philippines. With the language barrier, she only—barely so—learned how to give curt replies.
She found in these few days that nothing much had changed in her routine. Just like South Korea, the solitude of her life drowned her better-thinking. Every action came off lackadaisical while she scoured for anything to do with her life. Her house stayed spotless with how many times she cleaned it, probably having the cleanest one in the neighborhood by a longshot.
Every meal her housekeepers used to make for her, she learned to make herself. Though not tasting nearly the same, overtime, she refined her cooking skills and got the meals to taste as close as possible. They altered to her tastebuds, perhaps the closest she felt to comfort in all her years of living.
Settling in properly took her two months. In that time, her neighbors got used to seeing the new face around. They greeted her whenever she went on morning walks, when she went to the store, when they saw her tending to the flowers outside of her home.
The only thing that seemed to follow Beomseok from South Korea was how people kept their distance. Close enough to say hi, but nothing more.
Most days, Beomseok could live with this. Saying hi or carrying out any sort of conversation reminded her of her painful memories, one she’d rather forget and suppress. The smallest reminder made her want to lock herself up in her room.
However, some days passed where Beomseok wished someone would talk to her. While she sat in her living room, watching scheduled dramas play on a variety of channels, she craved someone who would talk with her about them.
Maybe they would be close. Maybe they would listen to her side of the story, rather than force her to stay quiet because others had it worse than her.
By all means, Beomseok might have had the best ending out of her friend group. She escaped the tensions of their group alive and unscathed, save for the permanent markings inflicted by her father.
That didn’t mean Beomseok was happy. Selfishly, Beomseok spent a lot of her evenings wondering if her melancholy could be accepted, though everything stemmed from her actions.
Do I have the right to be unhappy? Beomseok thought every night.
Never did she cry. Is that okay?
Only a few months later did she find solace in someone new.
She walked down the pathway to the grocer, as per usual. She had run out of ingredients and, from sleeping for the majority of the afternoon, didn’t have the time to replenish her stock earlier. By the time she left her house, the sun had set quite a bit.
Per usual, she gave a curt nod toward those who gave her their regard. Some of them smiled, and she managed to muster one back. One good thing her father did was give her the ability to flawlessly smile on command, though feeling never followed it.
The grocery store stood next to a newly built restaurant. It had just opened a few days ago, so Beomseok hadn't had the opportunity to go.
On that evening, the opportunity presented itself to her in a different way.
Just as she almost entered the grocery store, someone came running out of the restaurant and slammed into her shoulder, knocking her a few steps backward and into someone behind her.
Beomseok quickly straightened, giving a quick apology to the person she ran into. An embarrassing fit coveting her, she turned around to face the person that had knocked into her.
It was an older lady. A few empty bags were in her hands as she brought them up to rub the side of her shoulder. Sweat beaded down her forehead from working inside. With the remnants of winter long gone, perspiration from humidity fell easily.
With a sheepish smile, she offered Beomseok an apology. Beomseok noticed the oil stains on her restaurant apron. Apart from that, what surprised her was the language that came out of the older lady’s mouth.
Korean. “Sorry about that, Beomseok. We’re a little busy today.”
The name calling surprised her, too. She doesn’t recall formerly meeting the lady; she would’ve remembered, otherwise. Her features, strong and determined, reminded her of something distant. The glint in her eyes never wore down from aging, displaying her undying resilience. The look of someone who’s been through generations of withstanding. Such a feeling of familiarity, Beomseok thinks, she would’ve remembered.
Tried to rely on.
Instead of questioning it, she only nodded her head for acceptance of the apology.
Then, she glanced behind the lady and into the restaurant. Every table bustled with people, with others in line waiting to be given an open spot. Some walked in with reservations, and servers quickly flitted about to serve the customers.
Seeing how packed it was inside, Beomseok felt a little remorseful for the older lady. She returned her gaze to her and affirmed, “You guys are super busy?”
“Ah, yes,” the lady nodded. She pointed back inside with a gloved finger, tainted in the color of the sauces they provided. “We had a famous food reviewer come in, HumintotheRestaurant, and he left us with a good review. There are a lot of people from his channel coming to eat our food.”
Though never hearing of the food reviewer, Beomseok assumed how skilled he was in his field. People swarmed inside, eagerly eating their food or waiting in the same manner. From the looks on the outside, not many workers worked inside. The ones who were there had multiple plates in their hands, struggling to juggle all of the meals in their grasp.
Besides getting groceries, Beomseok had nothing else to do for the remainder of the night. She would go home, make something to eat, and then put something on the TV. Her nightly routine usually consisted of this—making sure her thoughts didn’t disrupt her sleep.
Helping out inside would be another way for her to distract herself. Wounds still fresh, the rush of a restaurant might help things lift from her mind.
“Do you want help, Ma’am?” she asked softly. She brought a hand up to her face to push her glasses up her nose. She took another glance instead, avoiding eye-contact out of embarrassment.
Never did she have actual conversations with the people in her town. Seeing the number of people inside of the restaurant happened to be the most people she had seen in a day in a very long time. The fears of fostering connections scared her, for the threat of a greater isolation loomed close to it. She knew it too well.
Somewhere along this path, Beomseok grew tired. The actors on screen stopped at that. Actors. Faked personalities that danced on her TV every night, waiting to show her a glimpse of their faked reality.
She brought her attention back to the lady, so striking in similarity to someone Beomseok knew, she forgot where she had seen the features. The familiarity comforted her at the same time it disturbed her.
The lady smiled in appreciation of her gesture. She immediately outreached her hands holding the empty bags, waiting to be filled. “We need to go shopping, okay, Beomseok-ah?”
+++++
“Beomseok-ah, give this to table three!” Hiraya calls from behind the counter.
When Beomseok turns around, apron tied tightly around her waist, she gives Hiraya a cordial smile. “Okay, Ma’am!” she calls back.
Making her way to the main ordering counter, Beomseok nods at the customers, who regard her kinder than they did a few years ago. Many of them naturally fell into her bubble after being in the same space for so long, and she has more fluid conversations with them.
After getting to know each other, Beomseok finds that the townspeople had only needed time. They don’t bode well to newcomers because of the miniscule size of their space. Anyone new can potentially ruin their carefully crafted network, familial in manner.
Familiarizing herself with Tagalog helped her, too. She began to work at the restaurant almost four years ago. She turns twenty-one soon, and the townspeople plan to celebrate the day with her. They all hang around often. Whenever Beomseok doesn’t work, she often babysits for her neighbors or goes out with coworkers.
Though a lot of her coworkers aren’t her age, Beomseok feels grateful. She prefers it that way.
Everything stays at a reasonable distance.
More than that, Beomseok grew comfortable, too. Socializing comes easier to her now that she knows the people she lives around and can speak their language more fluently. They all regard her politely, so she does the same.
Grabbing a few plates from the ordering counter, crossing off the item from the receipt, she goes to table three to deliver the items. There, four teenagers sit in their uniforms.
“Good morning, Ms. Oh,” a teenage girl chirps, excitedly grabbing her chopsticks and watching Beomseok put the bowl of noodles on her table.
The restaurant still thrives strongly. After the food review a few years ago, the chaos never died down. Beomseok got hired on the spot from being able to serve the customers on one of their busiest days. “Good morning, Jasmine. How was school?”
“It was horrible! I bombed my exam today,” Jasmine groans, tearing apart her chopsticks and using them to mix the noodles in front of her. “Our teacher didn’t teach us anything!”
“How can that be when Nathan got a perfect score, dumbass?” the boy across from her, Ethan, retorts. He grabs his chopsticks, too, stabbing them in her direction. “You don’t study.”
“Get lost!” she hisses.
Beomseok laughs at their banter, as do the other two friends sitting next to them. She grew used to seeing the group around. They started coming here last year, their first year of high school. They’re almost through their second semester.
And with the second semester come the incessant complaints of growing up. “Enjoy your food, guys,” Beomseok smiles, grabbing the tray and leaving the group to discuss their exam scores.
She walks back to the ordering counter. Hiraya waits for her there, leaning over the counter with a tired expression on her face.
Just like the first day they met, she gives her the same, thoughtful smile. She tilts her head with a sigh. “It’s a busy morning. Sorry for making you come in so early.”
“Don’t worry. I had nothing else to do today.” Beomseok sets the tray down on the empty counter space, then turns around to recline on it. “I’m being paid to be here—don’t think I’m here for any other reason.”
“Shouldn’t expect anything different from you. You get the most tips because you’re young and pretty; using those looks to your advantage,” Hiraya teases with a tune, whistling and darting her gaze when Beomseok turns around.
Beomseok gives her a glare. Her glasses naturally slip down from the change in expression. “You’re also young and pretty, Ma’am.”
“That’s why you call me ‘Ma’am’ and not ‘Hiraya,’ right?” The bell for the restaurant door rings behind her as she finishes her remark. “56 sounds very young to me, you’re right.”
Then, she turns her attention to the door and jogs over, ready to seat the new person. However, she stops short in her tracks.
She doesn’t make it all the way over before the other person, a woman, speaks. “I hope I’m not bothering you, but could you tell me what part of—”
Beomseok turns around, curious to see who wanders into their restaurant in the early hours of Wednesday. The air conditioning breezes past her face, cooling her down in the heat of a withering summer.
And when she locks eyes with the person at the door, holding a suitcase and already having seen her, her heart plummets to the floor.
There, stands Kang Wooyoung.
For a few moments, Beomseok has no idea what to do. Coming to the Philippines, a place a reasonable distance from South Korea, she never expected to meet someone from her brooding past.
Though three years healed the fresh wounds, they left scabs and peaking, fleshy scars. At the sight of Kang Wooyoung, they begin to peel and draw blood.
Even the hits from her father remain deeply rooted into her skin, a reminder of failures that she doesn’t ever wish to recount again.
Seeing Wooyoung now, who had been forced into the middle of the incident, everything she desperately forced underwater, tried to drown and hide from everyone’s eyes, came up gasping for air.
Just as she, once upon a time, moved to Byuksan to start a better life, she felt this one crumbling right before her eyes.
+++++
Kang Wooyoung wakes up in a daze, the mattress of her bed pressing softly against her back, supporting her despite the restless sleep she had.
Oh Beomseok, she thinks, blinking at the ceiling. The first thought in her head pops up in the form of Oh Beomseok. The fan hovers above her, providing her with a cool circuit of air. Oh Beomseok is in the Philippines.
The last Wooyoung had seen of her was in the boxing right. She had knocked Ahn Suho out, then left the ring at the end of the fight.
She didn’t predict Beomseok’s outburst, which transpired as soon as she left the boxing center. In no life would she ever wish upon Suho to lose as she did.
When she learned of it, Sieun’s reasons for permanently fracturing her ankle, she could hardly believe it. Oh Beomseok had done all that damage and fled the scene a few days after.
Wooyoung vividly remembers it. Watching her wave goodbye on screen with an innocent smile, relaying that she was going to the Philippines to pursue her studies, rage and frustration boiled up her body. And after that, restless. It came from the knowledge of knowing she could do nothing about it.
Never did she see Beomseok after that. Never did she receive an apology for the ridicule and punishment afterwards, rendering her unable to pursue boxing for the entirety of her life.
And now Beomseok lives here. In the Philippines. Working at a restaurant during the peak hours of university.
At a glance, Wooyoung unraveled Beomseok. She no longer lives the lavish life she once did, staying in an apartment all by herself. She no longer dresses expensive-casual jackets and watches from designer brands.
Her politician father hardly speaks of her. Wooyoung thought it strange at first, but now she sees why.
Beomseok got kicked out. The revelation comes so unwarranted, slightly freeing to her contrite mind, that she laughs in the early mornings the day after. The sound reverberates dryly out of her throat.
Her laughter rings in her tiny apartment. It relieves her of the burden for why she also moved here. Much like Beomseok, a restart might set her straight. But, she supposes Beomseok never had a choice in the matter.
The only choices you’ve made, Oh Beomseok, have been unprincipled and shameful.
Urging herself to get out of bed, she rolls her strained ankle. A tinge of familiar pain shoots up her leg, but she’s learned to mind it. She sits up straight, now staring at the wall in front of her. The paint chips on various spots of the wall.
She moves here for a multitude of reasons, though they all boil down to one fact. Wooyoung no longer carries the skill she once possessed. Fighting people on a whim, knowing how strong she was, how much she could hurt others and make a fortune out of it.
None of that existed for her. After her ankle got shattered, her dreams of going professional withered on the spot. The dreams of her past, starting from childhood and following her until that evening, fell like sand through her fingers. All the grains were too small, and she couldn’t hold onto a single one.
She had tried to pick herself up after the fact. She worked a few jobs, but couldn’t handle the strain on her ankle. For a few months, a center took her in—but even that put strain on her tattered ankle.
In the end, the only thing she could do was sit at home. It was how she picked up a new hobby, learning Taglog—although, the pleasantries of her past never dissipated. She watched the matches of her idols, ones she used to mimic and stack up wins from.
Practicing every hour of every day. Spending her nights with people betting on her. Asserting her authority. All of it came to an end after the commission of a wealthy politician’s daughter. Oh Beomseok drove her dreams into the ground.
You should’ve expected it, she tells herself, just as she does every morning, almost like an affirmation. The frigid wind of every morning—holding through during the summer—comes as a sick reminder of her past and what she had done. It chills her with no regard to her attempted recovery. You did that to Ahn Suho.
Finding Beomseok again deviates far from pleasant. It brought those memories back to the surface of her mind, though they were the ones she wanted to leave most in South Korea.
At the airport, nobody came to say goodbye. None of her college friends, the ones who had stayed despite her fall from stardom, knew she dropped out or left for good. Learning Tagalog became her safe-guard after everything unfolded, something she needed to rely on.
The dusty white color of the wall begins to turn a neutral grey the longer Wooyoung stares at it. Her thoughts spiral further, remembering the torturous past few years of her life. Nobody at school talked to her, and she decidedly didn’t attend college.
Any programs that scouted her dropped her after seeing the state of her ankle—far from reparable.
Oh Beomseok is here, too. Did she willingly come?
As much as Wooyoung hates to admit it, Beomseok is the only person she knows in this new place. For the past three years, everyone’s life had moved on while she created a new one in the Philippines. Ahn Suho had woken up, unable to work for the time being, and it seems Beomseok took her place.
Wooyoung sits in a daze on her bed. The uncanny buzz of the overhead fan grows loud in her ear, a sound she can’t ignore, coercing her to spiral deeper into her regrets and experiences.
Eventually, something snaps. Her focus clears, and the buzzing sound in her ear fades dismally. Blinking a few times, a new idea comes to her, fresh and dangerous.
“Where does Beomseok work again?” she asks herself, tilting her head and looking out the window. The morning breeze rustles the leaves on the branches outside, shaking in anxiety at the idea sparking in her mind.
The sun streams into her room while the scene from yesterday unfolds in her mind once more. Seeing Beomseok, laughing and serving customers—a smile that, at a glance, looks like it would never age with time—made Wooyoung’s head scramble with a variety of thoughts. Unlike before, where her TV performances had been forced with a brash wave of the hand, this one let her true character bleed through.
All the customers seemed more than content with Beomseok’s presence, waving her to their tables and striking up futilely beautiful conversations. Beomseok would always hold the tray to her chest, clutching the edges of the black surface softly and nails shining a gorgeous nude against them. Through the windows of the restaurant, polished and shining from the hard work of the workers, Wooyoung could see the crystals naturally prancing around Beomseok.
In her years in South Korea, everyone knew of her beauty—nobody really knew her below that. Not Suho, not Sieun, not Yeongi.
Not Wooyoung.
A bird flies by as she stares out of the window. It sits on a tree, sings a short melody, and then flies back into the sky. Along with the tune, the bird brings Wooyoung out of her house.
Into the sky. “Should I go pay her a visit?”
…
Wooyoung finds herself standing outside of the same restaurant from yesterday. The glass shimmers the same clear, giving her enough of a view inside to observe the life of the restaurant.
A scene similar to the one from yesterday plays out inside. The workers in the kitchen come in and out of doors, entering with empty trays and emerging back out with ones full of steaming food. Two nice ladies, one of the ones who provided direction to Wooyoung yesterday, tend to the front door and provide seating.
In front of the ordering counter stands Beomseok. She chats lightly to one of the chefs, flourishing her fingers and perhaps making a joke. The chef laughs, and Wooyoung narrows her eyes as he grazes the top of Beomseok’s shoulder with a clean hand.
Ever so lightly, Beomseok’s shoulder quivers underneath the touch. She reciprocates the energy with an elegant tease of her eye and shrugging one of her shoulders. Then, she grabs the tray on top of the counter.
Her hips swivel gently at the same time she throws a jesty glance to the chef behind her. The glasses bridged upon her nose slip gracefully, and she makes her way through the tables of crowded customers.
Watching the scene and sucking in a deep breath, Wooyoung grasps the handle and lets herself in.
One of the ladies immediately comes to her side. The pen and notebook in her hand calmly lower when she recognizes her from yesterday. A smile rises on the corner of her aged lips. “Aren’t you the young woman from yesterday?” she asks with an inquisitive look. “What brings you back here?”
“Ah, I just moved here, so I haven’t bought groceries,” Wooyoung replies with a polite smile. Her eyes naturally wander around the room, trying to scout out Oh Beomseok—who has disappeared. “I’m a little hungry. I haven’t eaten since my flight.”
“What?!” the woman bursts. The outburst brings Wooyoung’s attention back to her and away from wherever Beomseok might potentially be.
The woman slides her notepad and pen underneath her arm and pats Wooyoung’s arm, once full of bruises from hours of demanding practice. The unusual feeling of nothing startles Wooyoung.
She gives Wooyoung a maternal look and tilts her head. In her eyes, Wooyoung can see the older woman trying to figure her out. “Table for one?”
The answer hits a guarded and very much sensitive spot in Wooyoung’s heart. She nods and tries not to look too much into the question. “Yeah, I’m here alone.”
“You moved here on your own? You look young…” the woman says, trailing off and leading Wooyoung to one of the empty tables. She sets down the notepad and pen on the table and makes sure to straighten the plates on the mats.
“That’s just how it ended up,” Wooyoung says with a disheartened shrug. She keeps her gaze down, ignoring the gazes she receives from the true inhabitants of the town.
Did Beomseok feel like this too? she thinks. Eyes pierce into her body while the people around take keen interest in her, an outsider with distinct features and a different way of dressing. Once upon a time, Wooyoung had grown used to the gazes because of her channel.
Moving from the city to a small town shocked her more the longer she looked around. The population at the town decreases every year, one of the main reasons why Wooyoung chose to move here. She hadn’t expected Beomseok to be here, too, and she hadn’t expected everyone to pay her close attention.
One of the tables close by seats four high schoolers. The two girls lean over the table and whisper to each other, sneaking cold and probing glimpses at Wooyoung. The other two boys make their own remarks, and eventually, the entire group comes together to gossip.
Every so often, their gazes trail to Wooyoung. She swallows, not so much worried by their words, but irritated. Talking so shamelessly in front of her, like she’s nothing even worthy to look at; to hide anything from.
Clearing her throat, she brings her attention back to the waitress. Wooyoung pulls out one of the chairs and calmly sits down, folding her hands in front of her. A sparkle from outside the window captures her attention, allowing her a reason to ignore the stares stabbing into her from her side.
Was Beomseok treated like this? Wooyoung taps her worn-down sneakers against the floor.
“Well, you can come visit us anytime. We’re known for having very heart-warming staff,” the waitress hums with a smile. She slides a menu in front of Wooyoung, tapping a certain section of it.
Breakfast, it reads.
“Here is our breakfast menu, but if you don’t like anything on there, you can check out our other sections, okay?” She retracts her finger and pauses subtly. Then, with the same cherubic voice: “Mind telling me your name?”
Jet lag begins to tug at Wooyoung. Having to talk so much, introduce herself when everyone used to know who she was, felt abnormal and out of routine. Everyone in her old area knew her and would avoid asking too many questions, therefore. Wooyoung looks up at the waitress.
Strong, outlined features return her gaze. They embolden the older woman, highlighting her extroverted personality and natural inclination to welcome others upon first meeting. Stark edges of aging display on her face but don’t diminish her vigor.
A familiar weight settles on Wooyoung’s shoulders, taking her back to the past. She swallows, suddenly feeling self-conscious in her own skin. The matured woman she looks at now is a woman of determination, yet a virtue of acquiescent kindness trails right behind it.
“Wooyoung,” she answers, taking a pause from the shaken feeling. Afterwards, she decides to provide more clarity. “My name is Kang Wooyoung.”
At the introduction, the older woman startles. Something in the mix of surprise and fondness covets her eyes as they crease into a warm smile. “That name sounds foreign. Are you from Korea?”
“Yeah. I was in the Yeongdeungpo area,” Wooyoung answers softly, trying not to bring much attention to herself. On the other hand, being able to speak about herself oddly frees the leaden mass in her chest.
A joyous look overcomes the older woman. It replaces the traces of tribulation she held from before, and she picks her notebook and pen back up. “Actually, one of our servers is from the Yeongdeungpo area!” she beams, positively taken aback by the revelation.
The sinking feeling from before quickly returns, watering out the temporary relief Wooyoung felt. Deep down and in her heart, she knows the person the older lady refers to. Her mind forces her to ask, anyway. “Really? Who?”
Her lips tug up in a fake smile, even as the waitress answers her ever so gleefully. Happy that the woman, who came to the Philippines as a teenager, might have someone to relate to.
“Our server, Oh Beomseok!” The pads of her fingers thump against the open notepad paper. “She came here three years ago, but she’s the only Korean here. Before she learned Tagalog, I had to translate for her.”
Halfway through nodding along to the answer she already knows, Wooyoung pauses. She gives the waitress her full attention. “You translated?”
“Ah, yeah.” The waitress arises a little abashed in answering. “My ex-husband was Korean, so I picked it up from him.”
A little pause lingers between the two, comfortable and familiar. The waitress breaks their silence. “And how did you learn Tagalog? As far as I know, it’s not taught in Korean schools,” she notes, tone curious.
The question rings in the corners of Wooyoung’s mind. It presses her to answer, trying to draw out the little details of the past three years where she remained completely isolated. Alone from everyone, in her room, and…
“I took an online course,” Wooyoung swallows, trying to push everything else out. “I started three years ago.”
The waitress makes a hum of acknowledgement, then gives Wooyoung a genial smile. Feeling the ripe emotion claw up her throat, just from the mere sentence, Wooyoung brings her head back down and suppresses everything inside.
On brand to how she has lived for the last three years. “Well, Wooyoung-ah, my name is Hiraya. If you have any questions, you can ask me. Otherwise, I’ll let you look at the menu.”
Grateful the conversation ends, as it almost entered a hurtful territory, Wooyoung gives a subtle nod. She makes sure not to give any more reason to start a conversation, picking up the menu and scanning through the breakfast items. When Hiraya leaves, Wooyoung finally allows herself to breathe in the isolation.
Just ignore everyone, Wooyoung’s mind tells herself. She looks at the pictures on the menu rather than noticing the various glances around her. In another life, one where her ankle would be healed, she wouldn’t need to put up with their pronounced glimpses.
The heel of her dirtied shoe digs against the floor, sending energy through her foot and stringing in her leg. She lets it distract her while she skims through the menu.
Truthfully, Wooyoung hardly eats breakfast. She got used to skipping it every morning once she didn’t need to anymore—no more training means she no longer watches what she eats. Undeniably, her routine of eating breakfast every morning had disappeared.
Wooyoung only sits at this restaurant for one reason. She settles on eating the original pancakes topped with strawberry, not minding eating something for a change. If she so decides, she might order an iced coffee when the waitress comes by.
But the food doesn’t matter. She sits and waits, tapping through her phone and few, very few, messages. Her notification remains barren, save for a few messages from her closest friends.
As she types out a response to one of them, coming up with an excuse for why she dropped out of college, a recognizable voice reaches her ears.
Every drop of blood on its way to her heart stops in an instant. Wooyoung recognizes the pitch of the voice, how softly it rolls off the tongue and whose rosy lips it drips from. It serenades her into listening, like a sailor to a siren, just like it did three years ago. Against her rational thinking, Wooyoung never forgot how it sounded—how it haunted her in the depths of her endless nightmares.
Her attention naturally halts from her screen. The words and explanations she types blur in her addiction to listening.
“Are you guys enjoying your food?” Beomseok asks the table next to Wooyoung. She sounds content, perfectly normal.
What the hell? Wooyoung thinks, gritting her teeth and making sure to cast her gaze away. How happy she sounds, freeing and unburdened, sends an unpleasant shockwave through her being. She taps her silver-ringed fingers on the table, slow and controlled, and still listening to the conversation next to her.
“It’s amazing, Beomseok-ah! Thanks so much,” one of the high schoolers says. “This is just what I needed after failing my second exam today.”
“Do you ever pass an exam?” one of the boys remarks.
“Get lost, jackass! How many times are you going to make that joke?!”
The table next to her ensues in a commotion. Between the high schoolers fighting and Beomseok laughing along, completely aloof to her sitting at the table over, frustration continues to wring Wooyoung dry. Accidentally hitting the table too hard, the knuckle of her finger comes down on the table, and the ring clatters.
Clattering, but not enough to attract attention. Wooyoung sighs, leaning back in her seat and stretching out her legs in front of her. Pretending to be absorbed in her phone, she sneaks a glance to the table next to her.
One of the high schoolers, the same one who had failed her class, shows Beomseok something on her phone. She points to different parts of her screen, highlighting parts for Beomseok to look at.
Wooyoung listens keenly.
“I passed the pre-test and failed the post-test! How does that even work?” the student exclaims, slamming her phone down and mixing the remaining noodles in her bowl.
With a look of tenderness, Beomseok smiles at her softly. Her lush, pink lips stand out the most to Wooyoung, pouting slightly while she tries to console the girl. “I bet you’ll do great on the next exam. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t give her false hope, Ms. Oh,” the boy across from her says. He brings his chopsticks up and points them at the failing girl. “Our teacher has long since given up on teaching her.”
“He’s long since given up on teaching in general, you prick!”
They continue to banter. Beomseok continues to laugh, softly and ringing through the entire restaurant. Glances from other customers float her way, taking her in and enjoying her presence in the restaurant. Everyone looks to know and love Oh Beomseok.
What a switch, Wooyoung thinks maliciously. This time, she’s more open in her presence in the restaurant. She tilts her head up and throws her phone onto the table in front of her, letting it land with a loud clatter on top of the menu.
Attention successfully reaches her desolate table when the high schoolers next to her fall silent. Wooyoung throws one of her arms over the edge of the chair, tilting her head up to look directly at Beomseok. She bats her eyelashes once, twice, trying to bring the focus onto her.
Recognize me. Acknowledge me. The words haunt her mind, directed wholly at Oh Beomseok.
Oh Beomseok, who already looks at her. Their eyes meet in the middle of all the people in the restaurant, clashing violently as the memories of their pasts intermingle. The shared past they had, like a tree, except they branched out differently from the conclusion of it.
Part of Wooyoung’s heart sinks from making this direct eye contact with Beomseok. Seeing the direct piece of her past, one that initiated the end of her career, makes her heart turn over in complete outrage. She wants to get up, cause a scene, demand an apology because of how she only received pitiful gazes over the past three years.
Instead, she exhales deeply, attempting to release all of the negative emotions—at least, for now. She smiles at Beomseok, wickedly so, and tilts her head down towards her table. “I’d like to order, Ms. Oh,” she says.
The high schoolers whisper amongst themselves, words hushed and unheard. Every so often, they shoot Wooyoung a questioning gaze, wondering how she knows Beomseok enough to call her the same way.
But Wooyoung pays them no mind. Instead, she keeps her foxed eyes on Beomseok, intentionally playing with her mind—toying her into giving in. Through her eyes drips a dare for Beomseok to come dance with her. An open invitation to come entangle their lives once more.
If Beomseok comes up to her, she’ll take it as a divine sign to continue their connection. To continue tangling their lives together.
She watches as Beomseok swallows awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Her slender fingers tap against the clipboard, eyeing Wooyoung with the same, crazy look from before. Her eyes practically drown in the conflict of either bringing up the past or leaving it behind for good.
It shows Wooyoung everything she needs to know. Just like three years ago, when she met Beomseok in a private club room with Yeongbin, Beomseok stands as the shyest, most insane person Wooyoung knows. Her lower lip quivers lightly as she tugs at it between her teeth; her eyes swirl with frenzy.
Wooyoung never breaks their eye contact. She wants Beomseok to live in the mania of not knowing what to do, being stuck and having nowhere to go. No one to talk to throughout it all.
Exactly like before.
Tilting her head again, Wooyoung taps the table with her silver, studded ring. This time, when it hits the table, Beomseok jostles from being able to hear the weight of it. “Well?” Wooyoung hums, raising an eyebrow.
That finally seems to snap Beomseok out of her trance. Beomseok, with wavering fingers and unsure footsteps, rounds the table and comes to Wooyoung’s. The breath looks to catch in her throat while she keeps her head down, letting the curtains of her ponytail frame her face innocently.
A shield against Wooyoung’s unrelenting stare.
With another swallow, Beomseok—Ms. Oh—opens her pink mouth to speak. “Good morning, did you find everything okay with the menu?” she asks, voice cold and distant like it used to be. She never changes and keeps people around only when it advantages her.
Wooyoung knows this form of Beomseok. The one who becomes too afraid to speak, sinking into her fear and hardly opening her mouth. Trying not to laugh and scare her off, Wooyoung brings her eyes down to the menu.
“Nope, everything was fine, thank you,” she replies, holding the menu up and taking a scan of it. “Can I order now, Beomseok-ah?”
The utilization of her nickname is purposeful. It serves as a reminder of the way the two of them know each other, probably better and more in-depth than anyone else seated in the restaurant. N
Nobody knows Beomseok like Wooyoung. Nobody knows of their fucked-up, miserable past tales. Nobody possesses the ability to creep under her skin and touch her heart quite like Wooyoung can. She wants to be sure of it because trying to swindle Beomseok is so, so easy and thrilling.
Her heart quickens listening to Beomseok’s uneasy response. The front of Wooyoung’s shoe taps against the floor excitedly. “Of course, you can. What would you like to order?”
Beforehand, Wooyoung wanted to order regular pancakes with strawberry toppings just to get the ordering bit over with. However, now that she has Beomseok taking her order, she wants to drag the moment a little longer—urge more of a reaction out of her.
“I’m not sure,” she says with her best contemplative tone. She ushers the menu to Beomseok, showing her the options, too. “Everything looks good. Want to help me choose?”
She frames her question as a yes or no, giving Beomseok the opportunity to reject her advances. It lets her see, too, what her boundaries with Beomseok are after not seeing each other for so long.
Yet, instead of giving her a curt response, Beomseok leans it to get a closer look at the menu.
Wooyoung’s breath catches in her throat, clearly not expecting Beomseok to get so comfortable. And still, she does so with no regard, eyeing the menu and getting a look at the breakfast items.
Perhaps, she tries to maintain her image by doing her job and not allowing herself to get distracted by seeing an old acquaintance. Wooyoung might’ve assumed this to be the case had Beomseok’s lip not been vibrating in the current moment. She could feel her uneven breathing hitting the side of her ear, unregulated from the continued uncertainty of what to do.
Excitement malevolently boils inside of Wooyoung. It has no vessel to escape, only being able to bubble through her veins and take over her thinking. She desperately wants to do something more—sitting here with Beomseok isn’t enough to satiate her desire to disturb Beomseok; do something entirely fucked up to bring them back to the past. The back of her throat runs insatiably dry in wrongful need.
Trying to regulate her own breaths comes as a challenge, too. She doesn’t want to lay out too many of her own feelings. Beomseok should be the one to unravel them, finding how reprehensible Wooyoung really feels because of everything that had happened a few years ago.
Along with her excitement erupts something stronger. An unmoving desire to completely rule over Beomseok. She lets Beomseok get close to her, leaning into the empty space between them and trying to extract out more of her energy. Greedily, Wooyoung wants to suck Beomseok dry and leave her in the pit of her self-done miseries.
The chemistry of it makes her short-circuit. The tips of her fingers whiten with amusement, though Beomseok stays silent. Just knowing her eyes are working, scanning something Wooyoung holds with deliberation, makes her want to encage Beomseok in her circle.
Tell me what you’re thinking, Beomseok, her mind flutters. Am I on your mind?
Finally, breaking their tense silence, Beomseok leans back and clears her throat. “The regular pancakes taste good when you top them with strawberry,” she answers, sticking out her clipboard and clicking her pen.
The tone of her voice gives her away more than she knows. Her anxiety bleeds through the holes, enough for Wooyoung to read her immaculately. Only smiling at the realization, the effect she has on Beomseok, Wooyoung nods in content. “I’ll take that and a cold coffee, then.”
Beomseok scribbles down the order on her clipboard. The scratches scrape her ears, somehow louder than Wooyoung would’ve expected.
Is she trying to distract herself? Wooyoung thinks, giggling to herself unapologetically. She pretends not to notice when Beomseok jolts from the sound, scribbling faster and more ferociously. Wooyoung can only imagine the incomprehensible scribbles on her page.
Nearing the end of the order on the clipboard, Beomseok asks, “Anything else?”
Wooyoung deliberates over it. She could keep Beomseok here, letting her choose another thing on the menu and make a mess of her mind by getting close to her.
Or, she could let Beomseok go for now, giving her time to reflect over their meeting. Since Beomseok agreed to come and help her, Wooyoung wouldn’t let it go. This wouldn’t be the last time they see each other in the Philippines, far away from the place they met three years ago.
Skin pearly against the reflection of the sun, perfectly scoping out her features, Beomseok thumps the pen against the clipboard waiting for Wooyoung to respond. Without needing to look up, Wooyoung senses her apprehension. It rolls off of Beomseok in waves and seeps into Wooyoung's impenetrable skin.
In the end, Wooyoung decides the latter. With a firm flip of her hand, the menu closes with a tiny slap. She then tilts her head up, offering the menu to Beomseok with a grin.
“That’ll be all, thanks.”
Exhilaration drowns Wooyoung’s heart as she watches over Beomseok carefully. Eyeing her every move, watching the way her fingers move to hold all of the things in her hand and how she gives a curt bow of the head. Everything about her seems the exact same, though she differs around everyone else.
Only I get to see this version of you, Wooyoung thinks selfishly, desires patent by lamination. I’ll always make you remember, Beomseok.
Her brown, glazed-over eyes from the morning Sun watch Beomseok scurry away. She goes to the ordering counter, ripping the order paper off the notepad and extending it to the chef with a trembling hand. The pale of her fingers blend in with the sheet of paper, swiftly being taken out of her hands by the head chef.
Once the chef disappears into the kitchen, taking the order with him, Beomseok pauses. Black hair, tied neatly by a white hair tie, spills down her back in a captivating whirlpool. It makes her waist stand out through her uniform, figure slim after all of these years. Just as Wooyoung had seen her for the first time.
You’re the exact same, pitiful 17-year old, Wooyoung buzzes to herself.
When Beomseok turns around, her hands fold in front of her. She strokes the side of her arm with those slender fingers—the ones Wooyoung can’t get her eyes off of—and gives her a wary glance. The emotions frazzle in her eyes the moment their eyes lock, a firm reminder of the past they once shared.
The future Wooyoung thinks they will continue with. She lets Beomseok take her in as much as she wants, leaning back and giving her a welcome tilt of her head. Anything Beomseok wants to know, she’ll let her see.
But for now, the conversation stays with the mix of their eyes. The electricity crackles between them, threatening to make their tensions circuit the entire restaurant. The heartrate inside of Wooyoung’s chest wildly beats against it from seeing Beomseok again, already anticipating their next meet.
I’m going to fucking kill you, Beomseok, Wooyoung thinks, slanted eyes watching Beomseok finally breaks the eye contact. She holds onto the notepad and rushes into the staff room, heels clacking hurriedly underneath her. The sound of the door slamming reaches no one but Wooyoung, the only one who can sense Beomseok’s anxiety.
Her lips twist up into a sadistic smile. I’ll make you remember.
+++++
Smoke leaks from Wooyoung’s lips as she puffs it out from her drag, letting the cigarette dwindle in between her fingers. Currently, the wind of the Philippines grazes her face smoothly while she stands outside of the restaurant.
Instead of morning, nighttime comes upon the small town. Shops and cafes begin to turn in for the day, locking their doors and coworkers walking each other home. The only place open is the restaurant. As the final few street lamps turn on, guiding the townspeople for a peaceful walk home, the lights in the restaurant continue to glow.
Wooyoung grows restless, impatiently twisting on each foot and waiting for the restaurant to close for the day. A cloud of frustration covets her, leading to her taking another long drag out of her cigarette.
After Beomseok ran into the staff room, Wooyoung didn’t see her for the rest of the morning. She ate her breakfast and drank her coffee, both delivered by Hiraya, and then calmly left the restaurant.
Like she had no ulterior motive for going in the first place.
But now the sky glitches dark, showcasing the stars that can’t otherwise be seen when the sun beams in the sky. Wooyoung utilizes it as her cover, scrolling on her phone and smoke leaking from her lips. The villagers pass her by with curious glances, but otherwise make no showing of her importance.
And there, she stands. Patiently waiting for Oh Beomseok to emerge—wanting just one conversation with the figure of her past.
Actually, Wooyoung has no idea why she waits for so long. More than an hour has passed by since Wooyoung returned, and she arrived knowing employees often get off early. Her legs grow tired as the minutes go by, though they used to be sturdy before. She wills herself to keep standing, her end goal keeping her from leaving.
Do I even know what I’m going to say? Wooyoung thinks, letting the cigarette die out before flinging it into a nearby trashcan. Why am I even here?
Just as she reflects, the door of the restaurant opens. Her gaze flicks up instantly, no movement emerging from the inside of it for almost an hour.
Out comes Oh Beomseok. Her apron still ties neatly around her waist, illuminating her enchanting figure underneath the illumination of the streetlamps. Her hair spills in the same, neat ponytail, and the clacking of her heels reach Wooyoung across the sidewalk. She carries a trash bag—an ease, despite her heels—and walks to the side of the restaurant. Then, she rounds the corner and walks behind it.
Wooyoung moves instantly. She pockets her phone and speed walks across the road to the other side of the street. She makes sure to check for passerbys, as well as life inside the restaurant, before following Beomseok into the back alleyway.
Crickets chirp, lights from the street fading out when she walks deeper into the secluded area. She lightens her steps, reducing the crunch of her shoes against the gravel of the alleyway. Her heart beat quickens, unidentifiably, and her fingers curl inside the pockets of her jacket.
Turning one more corner, she finds Oh Beomseok.
Beomseok hauls the trash bag into the main trash bin, throwing it and dusting her hands from the invisible germs of it. She turns around after, sighing to herself and stretching her arms above her, supposedly fatigued from the long day of work. The slim of her wrists uncover when the sleeves slip down her arm, the cool pale becoming the only light in the darkness.
She almost entices Wooyoung.
Only when Beomseok takes a few steps does her gaze flick up. As soon as she makes eye contact with Kang Wooyoung, who stands at the end of the area, her footsteps cease. Her hands fall to her side, eyes widening in shock, clearly not expecting Wooyoung to make another appearance.
Intrigued, Wooyoung watches Beomseok’s composure fall through entirely. Her make-up act from inside the restaurant, where she greets customers and serves them with a lenient smile, falters. In her eyes flicker the memories of their past, the burden which Wooyoung knows she carries to the present moment.
And maybe, Wooyoung takes advantage of that.
Keeping her hands in her pockets, she strolls over to Beomseok. “Not even going to say hello?” Wooyoung giggles, cutting through the silence in the alleyway like ice.
“What are you doing here?” Beomseok snipes, watching her with incredulous eyes. She no longer puts a mask up, letting her anxiety show. With it comes her guard.
Just as before, Wooyoung finds Beomseok in the lowest pits of apprehension and shame. Even with the three passing years, Beomseok stays the same, unconfident little teenager from before. Her hands curl into fists at her side, never going to be thrown. She bites her lip in outrage, though she only knows how to bark.
Never does she bite. She was too much of a coward for that. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question? You disappeared on all of us,” Wooyoung says.
Her next words come off harsh. The act of Beomseok finally recognizing her entirely makes her frustrations curl over the top of her concealed lid. Finally, finally, do the memories of three years ago erupt.
“You wreaked havoc all over Yeongdeungpo, and you left us there to deal with the repercussions. Don’t you have any shame, Beomseok?” Wooyoung hisses, coming to stand in front of her. She leans into Beomseok’s face, admiring the way Beomseok shifts uncomfortably.
A sign of her consistent ignominy. “You don’t have the right to ask why I’m here when you’re here, too. I don’t care how your father treats you; that shit doesn’t fly with me.”
Beomseok’s hand flies up to her chest, pushing her backward. Wooyoung stumbles, a spring of pain in her ankle making her wince, though unaffected by Beomseok’s fury. “Who are you to talk about my life? Does it matter why I left? Did you only come to poke fun at me?” she demonishes, voice increasing in volume.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Oh Beomseok,” Wooyoung scoffs. “You’re not that important to me. To anyone.”
Wooyoung does it on purpose, knowing exactly how to get under Beomseok’s fragile skin. She knows more about Beomseok than Beomseok might think. The past three years have flown by, with only the actions of that one night in the boxing ring replaying in her mind. Though the details of it fade with time, one thing clings to her mind.
A Fragile ego. Beomseok’s ego threatens to shatter whenever confronted.
So when Beomseok grabs onto the collar of her jacket, stringing her close and slamming her against the wall, she isn’t surprised. Instead, she smiles as Beomseok berates her.
“If I’m not important to you, then leave me alone!” she yells, eyes watering from vexation. Wooyoung watches with her appeasing heart—the sight of Beomseok shambling does her right in every place. “I don’t give a fuck what you’re here for. I don’t care where you go, who you talk to, what you do. Don’t talk about me, and don’t talk to me either.”
Beomseok lets go of Wooyoung’s collar with a push, slamming her back into the wall of the restaurant again. “You don’t have the right to shatter the place I built all on my own.”
On my own. The words echo inside of Wooyoung’s mind.
“On your own?” Wooyoung baffles, captured by the specificity.
“Are you kidding me?” Beomseok backs away from her, already tilting to leave the alleyway. “Just leave me alone, Wooyoung. Don’t talk to me, and I won’t talk to you either. I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. We have no business in knowing each other.”
Watching Beomseok leaves causes Wooyoung’s heart to stutter. On an impulse, she lunges forward and grabs onto Beomseok’s wrist, still frail and bony after all of the years that have passed.
Her mind still puzzles from the knowledge. “What are you talking about?”
“Who the hell are you to pry?” Beomseok snaps. “I told you not to talk to me.”
“I could go inside that restaurant right now and get you fired.” Wooyoung releases Beomseok’s wrist and grabs onto her shoulder instead. Her fingers dig into the skin, covered by the messy status of her work clothes.
Beomseok doesn’t falter. This has been a constant—Beomseok may be fragile, but she thrives from the cracks embedded in her skin. Once her built-in mask falls, her true self stays the same.
“Then go get me fired, asshole! I don’t care.”
With that, Beomseok shrugs Wooyoung’s hold off of her. She doesn’t give her the chance to retort—even breathe—as she stumbles back and hurries down the alleyway, shaking off the touch of Wooyoung and trying to morph back into Ms. Oh.
She leaves Wooyoung standing there, stunned. She can only watch Beomseok’s fleeting presence. The uncertainty of her disposition follows her to the entrance of the alleyway, wavering as she rounds the corner and disappears from Wooyoung’s sight.
A few jumbled thoughts take over Wooyoung’s mind. Imperceptibly, she can’t rustle through them. It becomes impossible to unscramble her mind after her interaction with Beomseok, a few new feelings emerging in her heart.
They weigh her down. Regret. Mourning. Confusion. They all cloud her heart, chest, mind—reducing the functioning of every sense she holds in her body. They slip out of the bounds in which she can manage them.
Only one coherent thought comes to fruition. It launches to the forefront of her mind, perhaps forming as the linking thought of the mess inside her mind. Her fingers curl at her side as she stares into the nothingness of the empty alleyway, somehow more dismal than when the two of them fought.
Why didn’t you change, Oh Beomseok?