#mandarin kim | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dwaekbin · 1 month ago

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what we don't say

In that moment, there was no future. No promise, no guarantee. Only each other. And the desperate, fragile hope that surrendering to these feelings might mean something more.

pair: idol!lee know x painter!oc genre: slow burn, (light) smut words: 20k

notes: not sure how I ended up here, but after years of being a casual fan I recently really got into skz and eventually wrote this. for the first time in years I feel the need to share something, so here we are ⋆˙⟡ will this be the only thing I write or is my writer's block finally gone? who knows •ᴗ• but I hope you will like it as much I liked writing it ♥︎

January 2022

Nami loves winter. The icy air burning her lungs with every breath. The city muted. The darkness that wraps around her when she leaves the house in the morning and returns at night. The warmth of her apartment welcoming her back. The first snowfall and the half-melted snowmen spotted along the street the next day. Everything seems to move slowly, as if everyone is trying to walk more carefully to avoid slipping on the icy sidewalks.

That day, the studio was quiet, the last class having ended just a short while ago. The windowpanes were fogged up with condensation, and the smell of oil paints still lingered in the air. Most of her students were already on their way home, bundled up in thick coats and long wool scarves. Mrs. Kim, one of the oldest in the group, had given her a bag of mandarins. "Make sure you eat them! They’ll keep you from getting sick." Nami had tried to refuse, but every attempt had been futile. She looked at the bag, now sitting on a piece of furniture by the door, and smiled.

She went back to cleaning the brushes left in the long ceramic sink and sighed. It was the part she hated the most, cleaning up. Only after turning off the tap did she hear the sound of a chair scraping against the floor.

It was Hyunjin. He’d been coming to the studio for a while now, ever since Yoobin, one of the founders, had met him at a friend’s gallery opening. He seemed genuinely interested in painting. And as a painter, he wasn’t bad; better than a lot of other celebrities Nami had seen take up art and claim to be true artists after only a few months. She liked him, Hyunjin. He was kind, a little dreamy, with a strange kind of sincerity she hadn’t quite figured out yet. Sometimes when he spoke, he’d trail off mid-sentence and laugh at his own thoughts.

Nami wiped her hands on an old rag before heading toward the back room. It was one of the smaller studios, with a few easels and a couple of shelves lined along the walls. Hyunjin sat cross-legged on a stool in what looked like an uncomfortable position. In front of him, a large blank canvas. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he was spinning a brush between his fingers. He stared at the canvas for a moment longer, then started. A single brushstroke that would soon become a flower.

Nami watched him for a few seconds without saying anything. Then her gaze shifted slightly. Sitting at one of the tables in the middle of the room was an unfamiliar figure, seemingly fast asleep, arms folded around his head to shield himself from the daylight.

Hyunjin noticed her and smiled.

“Oh, hey Nami! You done with your class already?”

Nami nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes went back to the sleeping figure. His light hair fell across his forehead, a black knit beanie left carelessly on the table beside him. His face was half hidden, cheek pressed into the crook of his elbow. She vaguely recognized him. An idol, like Hyunjin. Probably a member of Stray Kids. She couldn’t recall his name at the moment.

Hyunjin followed her gaze and stifled a laugh.

“He said he was bored and decided to tag along. But I think watching me paint turned out to be more boring than he expected.”

Nami let out a quiet laugh, unsure of how to respond.

“Is he really asleep?”

“He does this all the time. Sleeps anywhere. Like a stray cat.”

Nami stayed by the door, suddenly feeling awkward, unsure whether to stay or leave. She looked down at her hands, fingertips still red from scrubbing brushes.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked softly.

Hyunjin turned back to her.

“Tea, if there’s any.”

In the small kitchen near the entrance, Nami filled the kettle and prepared two large ceramic mugs, gifts from her students over the years. The shelves were half empty; no one had bothered to go grocery shopping before the holidays, but she managed to find a few forgotten tea bags in an old tin box. While she waited for the water to boil, she picked up a glass and stared at it for a moment longer than necessary before filling it with water.

When she returned to the studio, Hyunjin was still focused on his painting, humming a tune under his breath. Nami handed him one of the mugs without saying a word, then placed the glass of water next to the other boy. She saw him stir slightly. His eyes opened slowly, just enough to register her presence.

He studied her face for a moment, with a kind of lazy, almost impertinent slowness. Intent. Curious.

Then, lazily, he smiled.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low and raspy from sleep. He looked at her for a second longer, then closed his eyes again.

Nami blinked, puzzled.

“Is he always like this?” she asked Hyunjin.

He laughed.

“Oh, Minho? Don’t mind him. He’s a little weird, but mostly harmless.”

Nami sat down on the couch across from them, pulling her knees up to her chest. The tea was still too hot to drink, so she held the mug between her hands, waiting for it to cool. They didn’t talk much after that. Hyunjin kept painting. Nami looked out the window, hoping to see the snow start falling like the forecast had promised. And Minho kept sleeping.

It was still winter, and the wonder of watching snow fall from the sky had begun to wear off, giving way to a strange sense of oppression. Nami had grown used to wrapping her scarf around her neck until it covered her nose before stepping out of the subway on her way to the studio.

She hadn’t expected to see Hyunjin again so soon. The last time they’d met, he told her he wouldn’t be able to finish his painting before New Year’s because of too many commitments. But when she opened the door, stomping her feet to shake off the snow from her shoes, she saw his coat hanging by the entrance and heard a faint sound coming from the back studio.

Nami wasn’t in a hurry. She didn’t have any lessons scheduled that day. The studio was quiet. She poured herself a cup of tea, letting the warmth seep into her frozen hands. The pale winter sunlight streamed through the frosted windows in long, muted beams, catching the specks of dust suspended in the air.

But the first person she saw when she stepped into the studio wasn’t Hyunjin.

It was Minho.

He was sitting at one of the wooden tables, an elbow propped up against the surface, his head tilted slightly to the side as he sketched in a large sketchbook he’d clearly found on one of the shelves. His dark eyebrows were furrowed in concentration. He wore a black hoodie, slightly oversized, the sleeves haphazardly rolled up. One hand gripped a pencil; the other supported his head. He looked like a bored kid pretending to keep busy while waiting for his parents to finish work.

Hyunjin, seated in front of his painting, noticed her hesitation.

“He says he likes it here,” he murmured with an amused smile, before Nami could say anything.

Minho didn’t look up from his drawing. He didn’t seem to have noticed her arrival.

Nami slowly blinked, disoriented. She hadn’t expected to see him again. It had only been two weeks since she found him napping at the same table. Not that she’d thought about it. Not really.

She moved further into the room, heading toward a shelf that held all the brushes. The shelf was right next to where Minho sat. As she passed by him, she couldn’t help but glance down at his sketchbook.

His drawings were… unusual.

Childlike, almost deliberately so. They looked like caricatures. One had tiny legs and oversized arms. Another had a triangular head, bulging eyes, and animal ears. They were a little disturbing.

Minho noticed her presence and slowly turned his head toward her. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her, maybe for a bit too long.

Nami straightened her back once she realized how close she was standing.

“Do you like them?” he asked, his tone mischievous. As if daring her. Or maybe just testing her.

Nami tried to smile, but when she opened her mouth to answer, all that came out was a stifled laugh. “They’re… I don’t know. It’s hard to say.”

“You think they’re ugly?”

His tone wasn’t offended. If anything, it was amused. He was toying with her, waiting for a reaction.

“No,” she said slowly. “Just… different.”

He tilted his head, still smiling. “Didn’t know there were standards in art.”

Nami watched him, unsure if he was actually offended or just trying to provoke her. “There aren’t. More or less. But art does say a lot about the person who makes it.”

“And what does mine say about me?”

She looked back down at the page full of doodles. One of the figures had six fingers. Another had the body of a deformed kangaroo. She pointed to it, laughing. “That you’re weird. What is this? A kangaroo on steroids?”

“That’s Bang Chan!”

Nami blinked again, stunned. “You’re telling me these are portraits?” she asked, breaking into an incredulous laugh.

“Of course,” he said. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Nami laughed again. She couldn’t help it. The drawings were absolutely ridiculous.

“Did you draw a self-portrait too?”

“No,” Minho replied. “I’m not that self-centred.”

Nami ran her fingers along the bristles of one of the brushes she was holding. Then, before she could stop herself, she asked, “If you had to draw me, what would I look like?”

Minho looked up, this time meeting her eyes directly. The mischievous glint he’d had until then disappeared for a second. He studied her as if looking through a telescope, lingering on every detail of her face. Nami turned her head slightly, suddenly uncomfortable. As the silence dragged on, she regretted asking such a stupid question. But before she could tell him to forget it, he answered.

“Like a cat,” he said finally. “With a huge mouth.”

Nami parted her lips, startled. She tried to find something to say, maybe to complain, but he cut her off, still watching her.

“I like cats,” he murmured. “I like them a lot.”

It was such a strange thing to say and to be told. His tone was soft, sincere. It made what he’d just said sound like the sweetest compliment.

Nami didn’t reply right away. She stood there, brushes still in hand, watching him return to his sketchbook, the pencil scratching lightly at the page.

He really is strange, she thought.

Not in a bad way. Just… different.

February 2022

The rain fell in a fine, steady drizzle, almost silent, but persistent enough to dampen the ends of her scarf. Nami hunched her shoulders slightly and walked faster as she turned the corner toward the atelier. The street was mostly empty. Only a middle-aged man stood there, busy lifting the shutter of his hardware store. The city still felt half-asleep, disturbed only by the occasional passing car and the soft hiss of tires gliding over the wet pavement. Her fingers were numb from the cold despite remembering to wear gloves.

She wasn’t expecting to see anyone. It was too early for most of the students and even her colleagues. But as she reached the entrance, she stopped short.

Someone was already there.

He was standing calmly under the awning, leaning casually against the wall, eyes glued to his phone screen. A black beanie pulled low over his forehead, a white mask covering the lower half of his face. But the jacket gave him away: an old winter puffer that reached past his knees, with a poorly mended tear on the left shoulder.

“Minho-ssi?”

He turned sharply; eyes just visible over the mask. They narrowed just enough for her to know he was smiling.

“I’m bored,” he said, his voice muffled. “All my friends are busy.”

A short silence followed, filled only by the sound of rain falling softly around them.

“Is Hyunjin here too?” she asked, flicking some droplets off her coat sleeve with a quick motion.

He tilted his head, studying her face. “Do you want him to be?”

The question caught Nami off guard. She wasn’t sure how to respond. It wasn’t about Hyunjin. She wasn’t interested. Not like that, at least. She’d just assumed Minho was there to keep him company, like the other times. It seemed like the most logical explanation, considering he’d never shown much interest in painting, unlike his friend.

“No,” she replied at last, typing in the code to unlock the door. “It’s fine. Come in.”

Inside, the air was dry and carried a faint metallic scent. Minho followed her to the small kitchen. He moved quietly, almost cautiously, like he knew he wasn’t really supposed to be there.

Nami filled the kettle and gestured toward the cups stacked on one of the shelves. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and sat in one of the chairs near the entryway, his gaze drifting to the window.

Several minutes passed in silence, broken only by the sound of the water coming to a boil. Nami handed him a cup of tea. Minho took it with both hands, as if it were something fragile.

“Can I stay here today?” he asked, eyes fixed on the street outside.

She looked at him, uncertain. She didn’t mind, not really, but the question still lingered oddly in her mind. She glanced at the clock near the entrance. Her senior students’ class was about to start.

“Sure,” she said eventually, walking back into the kitchen to pour tea into her own cup. Then a thought struck her. She turned back toward him.

“If you’re bored… I might have something for you to do.”

Minho turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly before he brought the cup to his lips. The tea must have still been too hot; he flinched a little, like he’d burnt his mouth, and shot her a look like it was somehow her fault.

“Should I be worried?”

“It’s an offer you can’t refuse. You just have to sit. That’s all.”

“Sitting? Sounds like a trap.”

But fifteen minutes later, that’s exactly what he was doing. Sitting on a wooden stool, arms folded awkwardly, facing a semicircle of elderly students who were watching him with amused interest. One of them, Mrs. Yoo, had already started sketching, her pencil gliding over the paper with impressive speed.

“He looks uncomfortable,” she whispered to the person beside her, who chuckled in agreement.

Minho sighed, stretched out his legs, and slumped his shoulders in an exaggerated display of misery.

“This is not what I signed up for.”

Nami stifled a laugh, trying not to draw attention.

“Don’t move.”

He muttered something under his breath, but stayed put. His expression turned into an exaggerated pout, which made Mrs. Yoo giggle to herself.

From the side of the room, Nami tried to focus on her students. But her eyes kept drifting back to Minho. There was something oddly captivating about the way he sat there; half amused, half resigned, yet somehow graceful even in his stillness. The attention didn’t seem to bother him; he just looked vaguely perplexed. As if he wasn’t used to being observed like that. Or maybe he was just curious about the whole bizarre situation.

Nami found herself watching him longer than she meant to. She realized she was smiling. Shaking her head, she resumed walking around the room, focusing on the students’ sketches slowly taking shape.

Minho was a mystery. He kept showing up without warning, completely unpredictable. He didn’t try to impress anyone, didn’t seek attention. And yet, that made him even harder to ignore.

Nami still didn’t understand what he was doing there.

But she didn’t really want to tell him to leave, either.

The rain hadn’t stopped falling until late afternoon.

It kept hitting the windows of the atelier, a steady rhythm that echoed through the old building.

Minho was still there. He hadn’t said much after the lesson with the senior students. He had simply stayed, expecting nothing, claiming no one’s attention. From time to time, he wandered around the studio, poking through shelves and forgotten objects left behind by students, or rested his chin on his hand as he stared out the window. Eventually, he settled on the couch, hugging one of the cushions.

At first, Nami had been curious about what he would do, but at some point, she stopped paying attention. He was just there, that was all. Around noon, she left the atelier to cross the street and buy lunch from the corner shop. Without giving it much thought, she picked up an extra gimbap. She handed it to him wrapped in foil.

He didn’t thank her. He simply unwrapped it and began eating as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if it were owed to him.

The pale afternoon light filtered in through the grey sky, making everything inside the studio appear duller. Nami sat in the classroom where she usually taught, facing an easel set in one corner. She had pulled out a canvas she’d been working on for days; a birthday gift for her older brother. It was an idealized scene: two children, a boy and a girl, standing in a field of flowers in every colour, their chubby faces turned toward one another. She had based it on an old photograph she’d found at her grandparents’ house, but most of the details came from her imagination.

She was stuck on the boy’s face. She couldn’t manage to capture it in a way that satisfied her. His expression always looked too harsh, too lifeless, too defined. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t grasp what. She furrowed her brow and tried again, attempting to add shadows under the eyes and soften the curve of the cheek.

Behind her, Minho’s voice broke the silence. “Who is it?”

Nami turned slightly. “Who?”

He nodded toward the canvas from where he lay, stretched out on his side on the couch. “The boy.”

“My brother.”

There was a pause. Then he said, “You must not like him very much.”

Nami turned fully to face him, her back now to the painting. “Why?”

Minho’s voice was nonchalant. “He’s ugly. Or is that really what he looks like?”

Nami looked back at her painting. She pressed her lips together until they turned white. “No… he looks like me. More or less.”

“Then he can’t be that ugly.”

Nami rolled her eyes, ignoring the joke. Her gaze returned to the boy’s face, still unsatisfied with what she saw. It didn’t look like her brother. Or maybe it did. Maybe, deep down, that was how she saw him. And she didn’t want that to be true.

She took more paint with her brush, more out of habit than because she knew what to do. Her mind began to drift.

She loved her brother. She really did. But there had always been something between them that never fully healed. As a child, he had often been sick: too sick to play, too tired to throw tantrums. Their parents had watched over him like shadows, always attentive, always anxious. And in the midst of it all, Nami had learned to shrink. To wait her turn.

When she was six, she remembered very clearly thinking that if she had been the one who was sick, maybe they would’ve paid more attention to her. That twisted, unpleasant thought had never fully left her.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair.

“Would you be upset if someone gave you this painting as a gift?”

“Is it for your brother?”

Nami hesitated for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then yes. I’d be offended.”

Nami let out a laugh, surprised by his bluntness. “It’s just that… we never did anything like that together. Not when we were little. He couldn’t play, not really. Not like other kids. We mostly spent time together in waiting rooms. I think this is what I always wanted to have with him.”

Minho said nothing. She looked over at him. His eyes were closed again, one arm behind his head.

Nami pressed her lips together again, suddenly embarrassed. Maybe she’d said too much. Maybe she was just talking to herself. Maybe she just needed someone to listen, and he happened to be there.

“Never mind,” she whispered to herself. “I’ll paint it again.”

Minho lifted his head slightly, glancing at the painting. Then he laid back down.

“You’d better. Because that one really sucks.”

She threw a paint-stained rag at him. He caught it without even looking and dropped it beside him with a smile.

Outside, the rain kept falling. The afternoon was turning into dusk. Inside, the atelier was quiet. Minho didn’t say another word.

And for a while, silence kept them company.

When Nami started tidying up the brushes, the room was immersed in complete silence.

The last class of the day had ended ten minutes earlier, and the students had left, closing the door behind them. She moved slowly, careful not to drop anything.

Minho was still sitting at the back of the room, in one of the chairs near the door, legs apart and fingers busy scrolling through his phone. He gave the impression he could sit like that forever, unconcerned about the passing of time. Nami glanced at him briefly, observing the relaxed curve of his shoulders, the way his eyes lit up when something caught his attention.

Then, as she was heading toward the adjacent room, his voice broke the silence.

“Do you want to go get a drink?”

His tone was casual, low, like he had just asked the most ordinary question. And really, there was nothing wrong with what he’d said. Nami stopped, turning slightly toward him.

“Just the two of us?”

He looked up from his phone to meet her gaze. He blinked once, then again, and again, faster each time. “Why? Do you think that’s strange?”

Nami hesitated, tightening her grip slightly on the brushes still in her hands. “No… just unexpected.”

Minho slipped the phone into the back pocket of his jeans and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you mean, unexpected?”

Nami didn’t have a clear answer to that question, just a tangle of incoherent thoughts in her head: Why had he come that day? Why had he stayed so long? Did he like the atmosphere, the people at the studio, the silence? Or was it something else entirely? She couldn’t tell. He was always like that, unreadable.

“I just… I don’t know, I didn’t think you’d want to,” she finally replied, stumbling a bit. “I thought you were waiting for someone, like Hyunjin.”

Minho raised his eyebrows. “Hyunjin? Why would I be waiting for him?”

“I don’t know. It makes sense. You’re friends. He comes to the studio. And you don’t paint.”

Minho stood up, stretching his arms before stifling a yawn. “Well, I felt like coming here today. And now I feel like having a drink. That’s all.”

Outside, the air smelled of wet asphalt. It had stopped raining, but a light mist made the surrounding buildings look less defined. Minho slipped on his coat, then adjusted his cap and mask with the ease of someone who had done it thousands of times. It was only then that Nami remembered she was standing in front of a celebrity; someone famous, someone people might recognize in the street.

At the studio, Minho acted normal. Maybe normal wasn’t the right word to describe him. But it was easy to forget he was an idol. She felt her chest tighten for a moment.

The pub was quiet, hidden down a side street at the end of the block. A familiar place for Nami, somewhere she often went with colleagues. Minho looked around with the curiosity of someone entering for the first time. They found a secluded table in a corner, mostly hidden behind a row of coats sloppily hung along the wall. It felt private enough.

They ordered drinks. Nami got a beer. Minho did the same. For the first few minutes, neither of them spoke much. The low-volume music blended with the murmur of other customers. Nami took a long sip, glancing around. He slouched lower in his seat, silently watching the condensation slide down his glass.

But after a while, the silence began to unravel. They started talking, first about simple, mundane topics. The weather. How the rain had made everything feel a little gloomier in recent days. Nami told him how one of her students had accidentally taken her umbrella and forgotten to return it.

Minho laughed more freely. He had a dry, almost staccato laugh, the kind that came straight from the throat.

“A lot of weird things must happen in that place,” he said.

“You have no idea. One time I found a student trying to paint with soy sauce. The smell lingered in that room for weeks.”

They moved on to other topics. Minho told her about a weekend on Jeju Island with some high school friends, where nothing seemed to go right. After landing, they found out all their luggage had been lost, the hotel had never received their reservation, and they ended up spending the whole night on the beach. Nami told him about her first years at university and all the part-time jobs she had to take before landing the one at the studio; from cashier at a supermarket to art teacher at a preschool for wealthy families.

Nami realised she was watching him a little too much. His features were both sharp and delicate. His bluntness never came across as mean, and he paid attention to every little detail. And when she found herself looking at him for a second too long, his gaze caught her red handed.

“Are you thinking of drawing me?” he asked mockingly.

Nami blinked, then let out a short laugh. “No. I don’t like drawing beautiful things.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Why not?”

“They’re boring.”

“So you’re saying I’m boring?”

Nami rested her chin on the palm of her hand and smiled. “Your personality makes up for your boring handsomeness.”

Minho froze for half a second, then reached for the glass in front of him, as if trying to shift the attention away from his face and the blush that was beginning to creep from the tips of his ears.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

Minho smiled, an almost childlike smile, before quickly recovering and hiding behind a smirk.

They talked until their glasses were empty. Then they ordered another round and talked some more.

It wasn’t a date, not exactly. But it didn’t feel like just two friends hanging out, either.

There was something strange lingering in the air between them.

Something uncertain, but real.

A few days later, Hyunjin found some time to stop by the studio. His painting was completely dry by then, and he was afraid it might get damaged. Or, at least, that’s what he told Nami, though to her it felt more like an excuse.

When he arrived, the studio was enveloped in quiet. Nami was sitting at one of the long tables in one of the main rooms, earbuds in her ears, focused on a small canvas in front of her. Her eyebrows were furrowed, a paintbrush gripped in her right hand. The sleeves of her sweater were rolled up to mid-forearm.

Hyunjin walked over and cleared his throat to get her attention.

She looked up and jumped slightly, startled by his sudden presence, then pulled out her earbuds. “Oh, hey. You came to pick up your painting?”

“Yeah,” he replied, smiling. “Didn’t want to leave it here too long.”

He stepped closer, curious to see what she was working on. “Is it for uni?”

“It’s part of my thesis project,” she answered, leaning back in her chair. “But I’ve only just started…”

“It’s really nice,” he said sincerely. He paused, as if weighing whether or not to continue. “Minho told me he came by the other day.”

Nami looked at him, cautious. “Yeah, he stayed the whole day. Why?”

Hyunjin shrugged and let his shoulders fall casually. “I think he likes you.”

She studied him for a moment before turning her gaze back to her canvas, gently brushing away a speck of dust that had settled on it.

“Minho’s not the kind of person who likes being around people,” Hyunjin went on. “He has, like, two friends outside the group. So I think it means something if he decides to spend his day off here.”

Nami let out a breath that was somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. “Maybe he just likes this place because it’s quiet.”

Hyunjin pulled a face. “This studio’s not exactly the definition of quiet when the senior classes are in session. Especially when there’s fresh gossip.”

Nami smiled at the thought of her older students. “They can be a bit noisy,” she admitted.

“A bit?” Hyunjin echoed, rummaging for some plastic to wrap his painting in. Then he turned back to her, this time with a more serious expression. “Just… don’t ignore it, okay? Minho’s not the type to do things just for the sake of it. If he comes here, there’s a reason.”

Nami didn’t answer, she just nodded.

She watched him wrap up his painting and carefully tuck it under one arm. Nami raised a hand to wave goodbye, then slipped her earbuds back in and returned to her project. But for the first time that day, she found it hard to focus.

Nami was arranging some paintbrushes for that Wednesday morning’s class when the door swung open. She didn’t need to look up to know who had just walked in. There was a sort of lazy rhythm to the way he moved, like he was never in a rush.

“There you are again,” she said simply, glancing over her shoulder with a faint smile.

Minho pulled down his mask as he walked into the room. “Good morning to you too.”

“You’re early. Class doesn’t start for another twenty minutes,” she replied playfully.

Minho shrugged, dropping into one of the armchairs. “Rehearsal got cancelled this morning. I didn’t have anything else to do.”

Nami raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. She was starting to get used to his vague excuses, the way he appeared out of nowhere as if the wind had carried him in by mistake.

That day, he stayed longer than usual. He sat watching her give instructions to her students, as if she were being tested. From time to time, she noticed him nodding at her comments. Other times, he dozed off while she explained more complex concepts.

After the class ended and the students had already walked out the door, Nami found him sitting at one of the tables with a sketchbook resting on his knees.

“What are those supposed to be?” she asked, appearing behind him.

“Fish,” he replied, as if it were obvious.

“They look like crooked fingers…”

Minho smiled. “It’s my way of expressing creativity.”

She shook her head, holding back a laugh. “Well, it’s… fascinating.”

He looked at her, his expression completely unreadable. “You’re fascinating.”

Nami blinked. She felt her face flush and turned her gaze away. “Sometimes you say strange things.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not true.”

The following week, Minho showed up just as Nami was closing the atelier, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up and his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” she said, surprised.

“I wasn’t planning on coming, actually,” he replied, starting to walk beside her.

They ended up sitting at one of the plastic tables outside the convenience store at the end of the street. It wasn’t exactly dinner, just a gimbap roll to share and two cans of coffee. The street was so quiet it felt like they were the last people left in the entire universe.

“What do you do when you’re not here?” she asked, snapping apart her chopsticks before starting to eat.

He chewed slowly, thinking. “I sleep. I dance. I go to vocal lessons. I hang out with Jisung.”

“Interesting.”

“And I visit my cats, sometimes.”

“And you have no interest in learning how to paint?”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I don’t know, you come to the atelier a lot. Or maybe you like it because it’s a quiet place.”

“Or maybe because you’re there,” Minho interrupted.

Nami opened her mouth to say something, but closed it a moment later. His tone didn’t let her tell whether he was joking or not.

He didn’t say anything else, kept eating as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

March 2022

By early March, Minho had become a constant. Sometimes Hyunjin would arrive with him and paint in silence, but most of the time he came alone. He would stretch out on the couch, eyes glued to his phone. Sometimes, Nami wouldn’t speak to him for hours. She’d just let him be, as if his presence didn’t matter. And yet, when he wasn’t there, his absence was deeply felt.

One rainy Tuesday, he didn’t show up.

Nami kept glancing at the entrance door, trying not to hope for his arrival. Her eyes kept drifting to the clock hanging in the hall. She checked the hallway during breaks between lessons, convincing herself it was just to stretch her legs.

That evening, as she walked home with her umbrella tilted against the drafts of wind, she thought about him. They had never exchanged phone numbers. She had no way of reaching him, and she realized that his absence weighed on her.

Minho was like a stray cat: he showed up on his own time, lingered when it suited him, vanished when it didn’t.

And Nami didn’t know if she would ever get used to that.

It was a Friday night like so many others, the air still cold but with a hint of spring. The streets of Itaewon buzzed with boisterous groups of friends, couples arm in arm, foreigners mixing Korean and English, and the occasional tourists navigating the alleys with wide-eyed wonder. Nami walked a few steps behind her friends, her hands tucked into a light coat. The familiar sound of their laughter echoed through the muffled music spilling from the bars along the street. They had all had a bit too much to drink. Yoojin was recounting yet another disastrous Tinder date, while Hyemi, clinging to her arm to keep her balance, was gasping for breath between laughs. And with each increasingly absurd detail, her laughter grew louder.

"At one point he says he doesn’t eat carbs, you know, to maintain his figure. Then orders another bowl of rice!" Yoojin went on, shaking her head in disbelief.

"No way!" shrieked Hyemi, nearly bumping into a bollard she hadn’t noticed. "You’re making this up."

"I wish I were, I swear!"

Minkyu slowed his pace to walk alongside Nami, taking a long sip from his beer can and laughing. “You should’ve told him you had a sudden case of explosive diarrhoea and run for your life.”

As they rounded the corner onto the main street, a massive LED screen lit up the night sky. The familiar faces of Stray Kids appeared in high definition, announcing the release of their new album, Oddinary. Nami’s steps slowed without her realizing. Her gaze lingered on the third figure, sitting on a pile of concrete bricks: Minho, his brown hair styled to reveal part of his forehead, an intense gaze, porcelain skin, and a silver earring gleaming against black clothing.

“Oh?” Hyemi stopped the moment she noticed Nami had fallen behind. She raised an eyebrow. “Seen someone you know?” she slurred.

Yoojin followed her gaze and smirked. “Well, would you look at that!”

Nami snapped out of it, feeling her cheeks burn. “I was just looking…”

“Sure, sure,” Minkyu chimed in. “You were just admiring the design, huh?”

“Please don’t start…” Nami pleaded, but her friends were already circling her like sharks.

Yoojin gave her a playful shoulder bump. “Come on, admit it. You like him!”

Nami wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck, wishing she could disappear into it. They were teasing her, but without malice. It wasn’t the first time. A few weeks back, Nami had made the mistake of mentioning him a bit too often, and her friends had immediately picked up on it, starting to suspect her feelings for that strange guy who had started frequenting her workplace in recent months. They were right; she did like him. But it felt like if she admitted it out loud, something would change.

“Yeah, maybe,” she murmured. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Which, in the language of us mere mortals, means you totally like him,” said Hyemi, looping her arm through hers. “You should see your face when you talk about him!”

“And he’s so handsome,” added Yoojin. “It’s almost annoying, how good-looking he is. How are you supposed to resist a face like that?”

“Yeah, but he’s still kinda weird,” Minkyu cut in. He’d met Minho once and had been surprised by his bluntness and odd behaviour. “A little… I don’t know how to explain it…”

“He’s not that weird,” Nami defended him quickly, almost too quickly. Too defensively. She realized it the moment the words left her mouth.

“Ooh, look at her!” Yoojin teased with a singsong tone. “Already rushing to his defence. You’re totally smitten!”

“You’re hopeless, Nami,” added Hyemi in agreement.

“But be careful,” Minkyu interrupted again. “He’s still a celebrity. He doesn’t live in our world.”

Nami nodded slowly. Her friends’ laughter faded for a moment. Her gaze drifted back to the LED screen. Minho looked like someone else up there, almost otherworldly. Not the same boy who complained about his tea being too bitter or doodled ridiculous animals in his sketchbook.

“You’re right,” she replied quietly. “Sometimes I forget. That he’s famous, I mean.”

The group started walking again. Her friends resumed chatting around her, a new story, more laughter. But Nami stayed a few steps behind, her mind somewhere else.

She looked at the giant screen one last time before turning her head away.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” she said, mostly to herself. “He probably doesn’t even like me…”

It was just past ten in the evening when Nami heard the familiar sound of the atelier’s front door opening. She didn’t look up right away, too focused on finishing her work, but the clinking of cans knocking against each other caught her attention.

Minho appeared in the doorway, dressed entirely in black, slightly hunched from the cold, a beanie on his head and his mask pulled down to his chin. He lifted a plastic bag in front of him in greeting.

“I brought some beer.”

Nami blinked, surprised. “Minho-ssi, it’s been a while since you came by.”

Minho didn’t answer immediately. He sat down at one of the tables and pulled out two beer cans, opening one for himself. He looked tired, his eyes puffier than usual, hair messy. He took a long sip, and finally said: “All these rehearsals are killing me.”

Nami gave a short laugh and went back to her painting. He stayed quiet for a few seconds. Only the sound of her pencil moving against the canvas and the occasional clink of his can on the table filled the space. Then:

“Why are you always so polite with me?”

Nami looked up again, tilting her head. “What do you mean?”

“You always call me Minho-ssi. You always speak so formally.”

“Well,” she began cautiously, “you’re older than me.”

“Really?”

She nodded, brushing her bangs aside. “I’m the same age as Hyunjin.”

Minho let out a brief, tired laugh. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

She paused, then set her pencil down beside her. “So can I speak more informally? Can I call you oppa?”

He didn’t look at her, but Nami saw the tips of his ears turn red. “Yeah, if you want. It’s not like we’re strangers.”

Nami stood and walked over to him, picking up the second beer. “So what are we, then? Drinking buddies?”

Minho looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Maybe.”

Nami smiled but avoided meeting his eyes. She opened the can slowly, hoping it wouldn’t spill. “Is that why you came tonight? To drink?”

He shrugged. “Not exactly. I won’t be able to come for a while, so…”

Nami looked at him again, understanding what he meant without him needing to finish the sentence: he didn’t want her to think he had disappeared because he didn’t want to see her anymore. He’d just be too busy.

“Is promotion season really that hectic?”

Minho nodded, leaning back in his chair. “My next day off is in a month.”

“That’s insane.”

“It is. But I enjoy it, most of the time. Makes me appreciate the little free time I do have.”

She nodded, taking a sip from her can. “What do you like to do? Besides coming here, I mean.”

He gave a faint smile. “I cook. Hang out with friends. Or I usually go camping.”

Nami’s eyes lit up. “Really? I go pretty often too.”

Minho looked surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah, I always go with my friends. We go hiking and usually stay out for a night or two,” she explained with a smile, more at ease. “We have more in common than I thought.”

He rolled the can between his hands. “We should go together sometime.”

Nami narrowed her eyes, puzzled. “The two of us?”

He shrugged again. “Why not? We both enjoy it.”

Nami stayed silent for a moment, trying to suppress a smile. “Yeah. We could go one weekend…”

“I’ve got Music Core on the weekends. You know, as an MC.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were a presenter too.”

It was Minho’s turn to squint at her, feigning hurt. “Do you know anything about me at all?”

She laughed. “No, not really.”

“Anyway, I was serious,” he continued more calmly. “Let’s go camping. Sometime. Maybe next month.”

She raised her can and tapped it lightly against his. “Deal.”

May 2022

It was a Thursday afternoon, warm enough to leave the atelier windows open to let in some air. Nami was in her usual spot, elbows raised and fingers stained with graphite. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail, and she wore a paint-splattered apron over a white blouse that had already looked wrinkled before she’d even put it on. She was trying to figure out how to finish her painting, the last one in the series she had created for her thesis project. She hadn’t slept well the night before, tossing and turning with thoughts she didn’t want to have, and now it was hard to concentrate.

The sound of the front door opening brought her back to reality. She glanced briefly toward the hallway. Then a voice caught her attention.

“Hi.”

She looked up.

Minho was standing in the doorway, like so many times before, lit by the sunlight that made his figure look almost angelic. He wore a light windbreaker over a grey hoodie, loose-fitting pants, and well-worn hiking shoes.

“You’re here,” she whispered, caught off guard by how happy she was to see him again.

He walked over casually, letting the door close behind him on its own. “I brought you some coffee.”

Nami stood up slowly and took the paper cup he handed her, careful not to let their fingers touch. “Thanks. That’s really kind of you.”

He shrugged as if it was no big deal. “I was thinking of going camping,” he said, glancing at the canvases left behind by the students. “Wanted to know if you’d like to come.”

Nami frowned. “Now?”

He nodded. “I can’t stay overnight, but I found a spot nearby. I didn’t plan on staying out late, I have to wake up early tomorrow. But we could grab something for dinner, maybe have a barbecue.”

Nami stared at him, unsure how to respond. Her first instinct was to say no. Not because she didn’t want to go, quite the opposite. She had been waiting for this moment for over a month. She had even dreamed of it. But now that it was here, she found herself hesitating.

“I have class later,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

Minho tilted his head slightly, a faint amused smile curling at the corners of his lips, like he always did when he didn’t believe her. “Really?”

Nami hesitated again. “No. I mean, not really. It’s just…”

“If it’s because you don’t have the right clothes,” he interrupted gently, nodding toward her blouse, “I have a spare sweater in the car. You can borrow it.”

Nami nodded, but didn’t respond.

“Is everything okay?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I got used to not seeing you anymore…”

Minho stepped closer and leaned over the table, resting one hand on it. He smiled. “I figured. But we said we’d go, didn’t we?”

Nami nodded again. She remembered the conversation they had the last time they saw each other. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

His expression shifted, a mix of regret and amusement. “Do I seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t keep promises?”

“No,” she admitted, before smiling. “I know you were busy.”

Minho pulled a chair over, turned it around and sat with his arms resting on the back. “But?”

“But it’s still weird,” she continued, embarrassed. “Seeing your face everywhere. On TV, on social media. It’s like you disappeared to another planet.”

Minho lowered his gaze to his shoes. “Maybe. But I still prefer this world.”

Nami didn’t know what to say to that, so she stayed quiet.

Then he added, gently, as if speaking to a child: “Come. Take a half-day break for me.”

She studied his face, trying to read between the lines of that usual enigmatic expression of his.

“Alright,” she finally gave in. “But I need to clean up first. Give me five minutes.”

Minho smiled. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Nami watched him walk out of the room, her heart refusing to calm its pounding in her chest. She looked at the coffee she still held in her hands, and smiled.

They arrived at the campsite a little after five in the evening. The sun was still warm, but a chill was already creeping into the air. The sky above them was almost cloudless, and the leaves on the surrounding trees trembled slightly. Even though they were only a few kilometres from the city, it felt like they had stepped into a parallel world.

Nami got out of the car and raised her arms above her head to stretch. Minho didn’t say much. He opened the car’s trunk and began pulling out the equipment and supplies they had picked up along the way. They hadn’t talked much during the drive. He had asked if she wanted to choose the music, but she declined, so a generic playlist of Japanese songs had filled the silence between them. Nami watched him as he took out a cooler and a small foldable grill.

“So,” she said after a moment, trying to break the ice and dispel the awkwardness lingering in the air. “How did the promotions go?”

Minho looked up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead with a tilt of his head. “It was intense,” he said, then paused. “I’ve never been so busy, honestly. But I’m still happy. It means things are going well.”

Nami walked over to him and helped set up the small table. “I saw some videos of the concert,” she said, keeping her tone deliberately casual. “There were so many people.”

Minho blinked a few times, staring at her. “You watched the concert?”

She shrugged. “Some clips popped up in my feed. I didn’t exactly go looking for them. But yeah.”

Minho’s expression relaxed, as if he found it amusing. “If I had invited you,” he asked in a whisper, “would you have come?”

Nami hesitated. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, bending down to set up the grill. “I always thought you didn’t like our music. But now I’m not so sure.”

She thought for a moment. “Maybe. I probably would’ve come. I’m not a fan, to be honest. Your music is a bit too aggressive for my taste. But from the videos, it looked like you put on a great show.”

Minho nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said after a beat. “For not inviting you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied. “There’s always next time.”

They focused on preparing dinner: organizing the meat into small containers, skewering vegetables, setting up the grill, and starting the fire. Nami opened a can of beer and handed another to Minho. He shook his head.

“I have to drive.”

“Right,” she said. “Responsible person.”

As the fire got going, the smell of meat began to rise into the evening air. They sat near the grill, just far enough to avoid the smoke.

“Oh,” said Minho suddenly, sneaking a glance in her direction. “Did your brother like the painting? The one you gave him for his birthday.”

Nami smiled faintly. “I think so. He hung it in the living room. Or maybe he did it just because I painted it. I never managed to fix his face. He didn’t seem offended, though. Or maybe he just didn’t show it.”

“He must really love you,” Minho said, laughing, “to accept such a terrifying portrait.”

Nami took another sip. “He definitely loves me more than I love him.”

Minho turned slightly to look at her. His expression was calm, his eyes glowing in the firelight. When she turned to meet his gaze, he didn’t look away. There was a tenderness there Nami had never seen before.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” he said.

Nami blinked. It was the first time he had said something like that to her. His tone, so gentle, caught her off guard.

“No,” she eventually replied. “I’m not. I was a nightmare as a kid. A real troublemaker. I was always angry. Constant tantrums no one knew how to deal with. My parents were already stressed because of my brother, and I definitely didn’t make things easier. Quite the opposite.”

“You were just a kid.”

“Still.”

Minho shook his head. “I really can’t picture it. You being angry. It’s a strange image.”

Nami laughed. “Why?”

“You’re always so calm. Almost too much.”

“I learned to channel the anger,” she explained. “Mostly into my drawings. My grandmother was the first to notice. One day she bought me one of those colouring books, and for the first time I sat still the whole time; no screaming, no crying. She made me draw every day, for hours and hours. She even convinced my parents to send me to art school. They weren’t thrilled, they thought it was a waste of time, but they were so desperate they eventually gave in.”

Minho nodded. “And what were your drawings like back then?”

“Weird,” she said, laughing. “Faceless people, purple-skinned figures, animals with human features. My parents were convinced I needed a psychologist.”

“Then they haven’t changed much. Your drawings are still weird,” he said teasingly.

“Thanks.”

“No, I don’t mean it in a bad way. Being weird is a compliment.”

“You’re right,” Nami murmured. “I like weird things.”

She turned her gaze toward the sky, her face flushed. The sun was slowly setting, and she was grateful for it.

Minho flipped the meat on the grill. “Me too.”

The ride back was quiet, and yet not silent. They kept talking, but without the energy that had always defined their conversations. Nami had rested her head against the window, watching the road ahead to avoid fixing her gaze on Minho. They drifted from one trivial topic to another: the taste of the sauce Minho had used, the burnt skewer they’d forgotten on the fire, the smell of smoke still clinging to their clothes. Minho drove with one hand on the wheel, occasionally adjusting the radio volume with the other. He didn’t tease her like he usually did. He didn’t interrupt or provoke her. Instead, he looked at her with curiosity, smiling now and then. Not his usual smug grin, but a different one. Warmer. Almost affectionate.

Nami kept talking, watching the streetlamps pass by her side, her own reflection briefly appearing in the glass before vanishing again. Something had changed between them. She couldn't have said how or when it had happened, but she could feel that it had.

A warmth was spreading through her chest, one that had nothing to do with the fire or the beer. It was different. A warmth she was sure she had never felt before, as if her body were trying to send her a signal, as if it had already understood something her mind had not yet grasped, or didn’t want to. It felt like all her senses had awakened. Everything seemed amplified. Even the silence had shape, had weight. And she longed to hold on to that new sensation, even if it scared her a little.

They pulled up in front of her building just after nine. The street was quiet, the air colder, though not as crisp as it had been in the countryside. Nami slowly unbuckled her seatbelt, not quite ready to get out. Her hand rested on the door handle.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “For the dinner. And the ride. And… for everything else.”

Minho nodded. “It was fun. I’m glad you came.”

Nami opened the door and stepped out. She lingered for a moment, unsure of what to do. She could have just said goodbye and walked away. But something held her back.

“Goodnight,” he said, his voice slightly muffled.

Nami nodded and took a step toward her building. Then she turned back toward the car.

“Minho,” she called.

He had just shifted into reverse. He looked up, confused. “Yeah?”

She stepped a little closer. Her chest was tightening more and more, her mouth dry as if she hadn’t had water in days. It was as if her body had completely taken over.

“I…” she began, and then, without finishing the sentence, she leaned through the open window and kissed him.

It was brief. Full of hesitation. Her lips brushed his for just a second, long enough to feel the warmth of his skin. She pulled back almost immediately, blinking several times, stunned by her own boldness.

But what shocked her even more was his expression.

He looked stunned. Almost disturbed. Disgusted, even. His mouth opened slightly, as if he was about to say something, but no words came out. His eyebrows furrowed. There was no confusion in his gaze. Only embarrassment.

Nami’s hands started to tremble.

“I…” she tried, but the words caught in her throat. “I didn’t mean to… I thought that…”

She couldn’t finish. She could barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping back quickly. “I’m so sorry.”

Minho didn’t say a word. He just watched her with an unreadable expression.

She turned and hurried away. She just wanted to disappear. The door was too heavy. Her fingers were still trembling. She punched the code into the entrance keypad twice before the door finally opened.

She didn’t look back. Not even when she heard Minho’s car pulling away.

June 2022

June arrived quietly, with longer days and heavier silences. Minho hadn’t come back to the atelier, and Nami knew exactly why: he was on tour, performing overseas. She had seen some videos online; cheering crowds, strobe lights, Minho dancing with the expression of someone who knows they are exactly where they’re meant to be. The space between them had become something Nami could now measure.

Hyunjin had stopped by once, unannounced, just before leaving for Japan. He stayed less than twenty minutes. They didn’t talk about Minho. She hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t made any jokes, as if they had silently agreed not to.

More than once, Nami had thought about asking for Minho’s number. Her hand had hovered over her phone, her mind racing through all the possible outcomes. But in the end, she chose to remain silent. Not being able to contact him was a form of indulgence toward herself. What if she messaged him and he didn’t respond? What if the silence was deliberate, intentional? It was better not to know. At that moment, she felt uncertainty was sweeter than the certainty of rejection.

She tried not to think about it too much. She tried to focus on her work, on the thesis project she would soon have to turn in, on keeping both her hands and her mind constantly busy. But the thoughts crept in anyway. They always did.

When her brother’s health took another turn for the worse and he was hospitalized for tests, everything else faded into background noise. She went to see him at the hospital one gloomy afternoon, bringing a bag of fresh fruit and some takeaway coffee, which he said he didn’t need but accepted anyway. The corridors smelled of disinfectant. His room was small, with a view of the parking lot. He shared it with a man in his fifties, who was currently at the cafeteria with some visiting relatives.

Taejoon looked worse than usual. Pale, thin, yet still smiling. His hair was a mess, his voice hoarse.

“You look like you haven’t slept much,” he said, watching her sit at the foot of the bed. As if she were the one who was ill.

“I haven’t,” she replied, beginning to slowly peel an orange. “It’s been hard lately.”

He nodded, watching her fingers move deftly. “Something’s wrong.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement.

Nami didn’t answer right away. She placed a slice of orange on the tray beside the bed and wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Can I ask you something? Even if it’s weird?”

“Of course.”

She hesitated. “If you kiss someone and they look at you like… they’re disgusted, it obviously means they don’t like you, right?”

Nami saw him blink, puzzled. “What?”

“I mean, if you like someone and they kiss you, you kiss them back. Right?”

Taejoon laughed, but stopped as soon as he saw the pitiful expression on her face. “Well, yeah. Most likely. That seems pretty normal.”

Nami let out a groan and buried her face in her hands, but said nothing.

Since his sister didn’t seem ready to go on, Taejoon continued: “Did you kiss someone?”

“Yeah. And he looked at me like I’d spat in his face.”

“Some people find that hot. Spitting, I mean.”

Nami didn’t laugh. She kept staring at the floor.

“And who the hell is this guy? Should I go find him and teach him a lesson?”

She let out a tired laugh and shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s not even in Seoul. He left on tour. He’s a singer. I don’t even have his phone number.”

Taejoon adjusted himself, trying to sit straighter against the hospital’s uncomfortable pillow. “Wait, a singer? Seriously?”

“Yeah, an idol. He showed up at the atelier one day and kept coming back unannounced for months, talking to me, staying late. I thought there was something between us… but apparently, I just imagined it.”

Taejoon was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You didn’t imagine it. You’re not crazy.”

Nami lowered her head even more. “I kissed him. Outside my apartment. He didn’t say anything, he just looked at me with this weird expression. And then he left. It was really humiliating.”

“Oh my God,” her brother murmured. “He seriously didn’t say anything? Just walked away?”

Nami nodded. “I keep thinking about how stupid I was. About how I persuaded myself he liked me. I thought he looked at me differently. But maybe that’s just how he looks at everyone. Maybe it was just me wanting him to feel the same, projecting my feelings, and that’s why I saw things that weren’t real.”

Taejoon opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden coughing fit stopped him. Nami stood up at once, placing a hand on his shoulder. Then she reached for the emergency button.

“You okay?” she asked.

He raised a hand, waving it quickly in front of him to show he was fine. “I’m okay. It happens sometimes.”

“You don’t look okay. The nurse is coming.”

Nami sat back down in the chair beside the bed.

“Sorry,” she said. “You’re already not feeling well, and here I am burdening you with my stupid drama. As if any of it mattered…”

He reached out and gently took her hand.

“It matters to you. So it matters to me.”

Nami didn’t answer. She simply nodded and looked away, squeezing his hand a little tighter. A thought flashed through her mind, one she instantly regretted: if she were the one who was sick, she wouldn’t be this kind. She’d make sure all the attention was on her. She’d be selfish and bitter. But her brother kept smiling at her, listening to her. He was truly too kind. And that only made her feel worse.

The nurse arrived moments later, checked that everything was alright, and gave him a glass of water, like it was the universal cure for all his problems. He accepted it without complaint, briefly closing his eyes after swallowing.

Nami stayed a little longer, mostly in silence. She peeled another orange, this time more slowly, watching Taejoon fall asleep. The steady rhythm of his breathing calmed her, though he still looked far too weak.

She still felt a strange ache in her chest, but in that room, it seemed irrelevant. Her thoughts about Minho now seemed ridiculous. But they weren’t completely gone.

She looked one last time at her brother’s sleeping face and got up, gently placing a hand on his cheek. She decided not to wake him and quietly left.

June 2023

The café was full of people, every table taken, and a constant flow of customers kept coming in and out to order takeaway coffee, dragging in the warm air of that early summer day. Some customers sat hunched over, eyes fixed on their laptops, while others chatted with friends. The air conditioning was too strong, forcing Nami to wrap a scarf around her neck.

She was sitting at a table in the corner with Yoojin, Hyemi, and Minkyu, all of them already halfway through their iced Americanos. They had met up spontaneously in the late afternoon, none of them ready to go home. The table was sticky, and the music a bit too loud, but none of it really mattered. For a few hours, it was as if they had gone back in time to a few years earlier, when they were all still in university, sneaking out of the studio to hide out in the nearest café and spend hours chatting instead of working on their respective projects.

Hyemi was scrolling her finger across her phone screen, sighing dramatically. “It’s unbelievable,” she groaned. “My entire feed is full of couples vacationing in Europe. Okay, we get it. You’re in love and rich. No need to plaster your happiness all over social media.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re single and jealous,” Minkyu replied, sipping through his straw and raising an eyebrow.

“You’re single too!”

“By choice,” he answered calmly. “Unlike you, I don’t fall for the first guy I meet on the street.”

Yoojin chuckled and quickly hid her smile behind her glass, taking a long sip. Nami smiled faintly, resting her chin on her palm. She wasn’t really listening. The night before, she’d stayed up late working on a new painting commissioned by a client. That morning, she’d received an email from a small brand interested in collaborating with her. But the exhaustion she’d been carrying around lately hadn’t even allowed her to feel happy about the small achievement.

Then, suddenly, she felt Hyemi tapping her arm. “Oh my god, look!”

On the café’s television, fixed high above the counter, another music video had started. Nami followed Hyemi’s pointing finger, looked up at the screen, and there he was.

Minho.

His hair was darker than she remembered, but still with a purplish tint. His gaze sharp, his expression serious. The chatter in the café covered the music, but she could still imagine it. She knew their style by now. Minho moved with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

“Oh,” Yoojin said in surprise. “Isn’t that…”

“That’s him,” Hyemi cut in, almost gleeful.

Nami didn’t reply. As soon as Minho disappeared from the screen, she looked away.

“Anyway,” Hyemi continued undeterred, lowering her voice. “I’ve been thinking about it. About what happened with Minho, I mean. And I’ve come to a conclusion: he’s gay.”

Minkyu let out a shocked laugh. “You say that every time a cute guy doesn’t give you attention.”

“No, I’m serious this time,” she insisted, leaning in even closer. “After… well, after what happened, we talked about it, remember? And right after, my phone started filling up with posts and news about him. Articles. Videos. You name it. You know our phones listen to us. And trust me. That guy is anything but straight.”

“Are you sure?” Yoojin asked. Her tone wasn’t judgmental, just curious. “I wouldn’t be surprised, but I thought he really liked Nami.”

“I told you he was a weird guy,” said Minkyu.

“Guys, please stop,” Nami murmured, eyes fixed on the table. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But don’t you think it would be better?” Hyemi asked, unbothered. “If he was gay, I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it would mean the problem wasn’t you. He didn’t reject you because it was you, he just… doesn’t like women in general. Wouldn’t that be a relief?”

“You shouldn’t go around guessing people’s sexuality,” Minkyu interjected. “It’s not okay.”

“Oh, cut it out with that woke crap. I’m just saying it’s a possibility.”

The others fell silent. On the television screen, the video was replaced by an ad before moving on to the next one.

Nami didn’t look up. She stirred her now-watery coffee slowly, making the remaining ice clink against the sides of the glass. She felt a strange sensation in her chest. Not the same one she’d felt the year before. But it still made her uneasy.

Could what Hyemi said be true?

It would explain a lot. Especially the look on his face after she kissed him.

Over the months, she had convinced herself that Minho had come to the studio just to see her. But what if he had only wanted to find a place to escape to, a quiet space where no one cared who he was? A place where he could go unnoticed. Maybe Nami had misunderstood everything. Had mistaken the attention he gave her for attraction. His wanting to be around her for desire. And then she kissed him. And maybe he hadn’t gotten angry, but had simply been disappointed.

Nami bit her lip and pressed her thumb to the rim of her glass. A sudden wave of guilt crashed over her.

“Anyway,” Hyemi said, stretching her arms above her head. “Let’s go somewhere else. It’s too noisy in here, my ears are ringing.”

They gathered their bags. As they stood, Yoojin gently touched Nami’s shoulder. “Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?”

Nami nodded but didn’t smile. “Yeah, I’m just tired. Don’t worry.”

Outside, the air felt heavier than it had a few hours earlier, even though the temperature had dropped a bit. Her skin was sticky under her cotton T-shirt, and the sun hit her right in the eyes.

She didn’t know if Minho was gay. And she didn’t care. It was one of the many questions she would never have an answer to. Like why he’d shown up at the atelier. Or why he kept coming back.

But a voice inside her kept asking the same question.

Had he thought about her at all, in the past year?

Nami would never know. But she hoped he had. Even just once. That would be enough.

February 2024

The gallery was small but well lit, tucked between a flower shop and a boutique. Outside, the air was still cold, but inside, the space was warm. The only background sounds were the guests' conversations and the occasional clink of glasses. People were scattered in small groups, intently studying the paintings on the walls while nodding thoughtfully.

Nami stood near one of the walls, holding a glass of wine, finishing up a conversation with a freelance journalist from an art blog. She was wearing a dark blue dress her brother had gifted her, which swayed with her every movement. She regretted not finding the time to stop by the hairdresser, as her bangs kept falling into her eyes. Despite trying to appear calm, her heart was racing, part excitement from seeing so many people, part anxiety over their judgment. Everything seemed to be going well; the guests appeared interested in her work, though she hadn’t yet had a chance to talk with them personally. Only her former professor had come by before the event started to congratulate her and share his thoughts on her paintings. Nami had nearly burst into tears.

When the interview ended, Nami gave a polite bow and thanked the journalist. As she watched her head toward the food table, she inhaled and exhaled deeply, as if she'd been holding her breath until that very moment. She walked slowly through the room, smiling each time she passed a new group of guests. Her parents had already left, but some friends were still there: Yoojin stood by the drink table, engaged in conversation with a photographer they knew, while Hyemi was posing in front of one of the larger paintings, directing Minkyu on the best angles for photos.

She was halfway to the buffet when Nami noticed Hyunjin.

He was leaning against the wall, his usual relaxed demeanour making it seem like he was never out of place, idly swirling a glass of wine in his hands. He nodded politely as someone tried to explain their interpretation to him, but his eyes lit up the moment they met Nami’s.

“Nami,” he said with a broad smile, pushing off the wall with one shoulder to approach her. “This is incredible! Your paintings are wonderful.”

She smiled, happy at his words. “Thank you. I didn’t know you were in Seoul.”

“Just for a bit,” he replied. “I’m leaving for Milan in a few days. But I was free tonight, saw your post on Instagram, and thought I’d stop by.”

Nami nodded, glad to see him again. But her gaze soon shifted past him. She recognized him immediately.

Minho.

He was just a few steps away, studying a series of paintings depicting the atelier. His back was straight, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. His frame looked broader than she remembered. His hair was darker, neatly cut at the sides. He seemed stronger, like he’d been training relentlessly, and yet there was something dimmed about him. When she finally saw his eyes, they lacked their old mischief. He looked more mature, more grown-up, but also much more tired.

She approached him hesitantly and stopped a few steps away.

Minho didn’t turn. His eyes remained fixed on the paintings.

“I didn’t know you got a cat,” he said suddenly, his voice low and calm.

“We didn’t,” she replied after a brief pause.

He smiled, almost to himself. “Shame. Cats are nice.”

Nami looked at the canvas in front of him: a sunlit corner of the studio, a ginger tabby prowling near a stack of books and open paint tubes. She remembered painting it almost absentmindedly, instinctively. The space had felt too empty.

They stood in silence, side by side. A couple nearby burst into laughter before drifting away again.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Minho finally said, turning slightly toward her. “I don’t know much about art, but your paintings… they’re beautiful. All of them.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “And thanks for coming.”

Minho shrugged. “When Hyunjin told me about the vernissage, I thought I’d come too. Didn’t have much else going on. Didn’t expect to see so many cats, though.”

Nami smiled faintly.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Good. Very busy,” he replied, glancing up at the spotlights on the ceiling. “I started boxing.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, still smiling. “Are you still working at the atelier?” he asked, gesturing toward the paintings with a nod.

“Not anymore. I got a job as an assistant at my old university. I don’t want to become a professor, but the pay’s good and I have lots of time to paint. But I still go to the atelier a lot. Yoojin lets me use one of the rooms. So whenever I can, I go.”

“Sounds like things are going well.”

“Yeah, I’d say so. I’m… lucky.”

Minho nodded slowly. Then silence fell again.

Nami lowered her gaze to her glass, tracing the rim with her finger.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered then.

He turned. “For what?”

This time, Nami looked him straight in the eye. “For what happened… you know, the last time we saw each other. I never had the chance to properly apologise.”

He shook his head. “You did. That night. You apologised. Twice.”

“I know, but I mean really apologise. I didn’t mean to…”

Minho truly looked at her for the first time. His gaze was gentle.

“There’s nothing to apologise for.”

He seemed to hesitate, as if he wanted to say more. Nami said nothing, hoping he would go on. But nothing came. She watched him glance around until his eyes landed on Hyunjin, who was near the entrance hugging Yoojin goodbye.

“We have to get up early tomorrow, so I should probably grab Hyunjin and head home.”

“Of course. Thanks again for coming. It really meant a lot.”

He lingered for a moment, then offered her a crooked smile. There was something familiar in that expression. Something nostalgic.

“It was nice seeing you again,” he said.

Nami hesitated. She wanted to hug him. Just once. Just to be sure he was real, that she hadn’t imagined him. But her body was frozen.

So she simply raised a hand in farewell.

Minho nodded, gave a brief bow, and turned, walking toward Hyunjin.

Nami watched them leave. Then she turned back to the paintings.

One of the cats curled up on the windowsill seemed to be staring at her. Nami smiled faintly, shook her head, and walked away.

March 2024

Are you at the atelier?

A moment later:

It’s Minho, by the way.

Nami stared at her phone screen and came to a halt. A strange feeling made her take a deep breath, somewhere between surprise and something unfamiliar she couldn’t quite name. She hadn’t expected to hear from him again. Not so soon. Maybe not ever.

Her reply came instinctively:

I was thinking of going after class.

She looked at her message for a second, regretting how quickly she had replied. It seemed too eager. She was eager, in truth. But that didn’t make her any less embarrassed.

His response came just as fast:

I’ll wait for you there.

That day, Nami took the shortcut. Normally, she liked walking along one of the backstreets behind the subway station, stopping for takeaway coffee at the bakery across from the second-hand clothing shop. But now she practically ran. By the time she reached the atelier, she was out of breath.

Inside, the atmosphere was calm, as always. She opened the door to her studio and found him there, sitting on the couch by the window, busy checking messages on his phone.

Minho looked up the moment he heard her enter, and for a second, it felt like she had been thrown back in time. And yet everything had changed. His hair was nearly black now. His body looked more solid, his shoulders broader. And most of all, his gaze. It seemed duller, somehow.

Nami said nothing. She simply took a step forward, took off her coat, and draped it over the back of one of the chairs. Then she sat down in her usual spot on her stool and looked at him.

He smiled.

“I was hoping to see the cats,” he said.

She smiled too, amused by the comment. “Told you, we don’t have any.”

“Shame.”

Minho looked around again, this time more slowly, as if trying to memorize all the small changes that had been made to this once-familiar space. When his eyes landed on her again, he looked at her differently, more directly. “So why did you paint them?”

Nami didn’t answer right away. She reached for a brush and played with the bristles out of habit.

“You once told me I remind you of a cat,” she eventually said. “They’re self-portraits.”

It was a lie, but she would never have the courage to admit the truth.

He smirked. “They don’t have big mouths, though.”

She shrugged.

For a while, neither of them spoke. She began arranging her materials without any particular hurry. Minho stayed where he was, never looking away. It was strange. She was used to seeing him wander aimlessly whenever he came here, barely paying attention to her. That day, he didn’t move. He watched her as if she were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

“Would it bother you if I came here now and then?” he asked suddenly.

Nami turned toward him. “You’ve never asked before.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze. “I know. I thought… maybe I wasn’t allowed anymore.”

There was a moment of silence. In that moment, he seemed younger somehow, like a child. Or maybe just more vulnerable.

“I like being here,” he added in almost a whisper. “I missed it. But I get it if you don’t want me to come.”

“Why wouldn’t I want you to?” she asked, surprised.

Minho hesitated. Then said, “I feel like you hate me.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She stepped away from the easel, moving closer to him without thinking. “Why? I don’t… Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, it’s just a feeling. The way things ended, you know. I don’t know.”

“Minho, I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.”

He let out a breath of relief, and for a moment, his whole body seemed to relax.

Nami looked at him. His eyes wavered, as if he wanted to say more. But he didn’t.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Yeah. Why?”

She tilted her head. “You seem… I don’t know. Different.”

A smile appeared on his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Nami decided to let it go. “Are you bored? Is that why you came here?”

“You want to make me pose again?” he teased, raising an eyebrow slightly. “I’m even more handsome now, so I doubt you’d want to draw me.”

“Yeah, your face is still boringly pretty.”

Minho laughed, and this time, it was real. Loud and unfiltered.

Nami smiled and felt her shoulders loosen. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until that moment.

Maybe, she thought, this was what Minho needed. A space where he didn’t have to explain anything. Where he could just exist.

And she realized, she was more than happy to be the person who could offer that to him.

It was late afternoon when Minho reappeared at the atelier. Spring sunlight filtered through the windows. Nami was finishing an initial underpainting when she heard the door open.

“You’re early,” she said, without turning around.

“You sound disappointed.”

She glanced over her shoulder. He was wearing a cap and a long beige coat, trying not to attract attention as always. But there was something in his eyes that made her frown.

“No, just surprised,” she replied. “I thought you were busy with preparations for the fan meeting.”

Minho dropped his backpack by the couch before collapsing onto it with a groan, exhausted. “Don’t remind me. It’s this weekend. We’ve been rehearsing for four days straight. It’s always so chaotic and loud, sometimes I can’t even hear myself think.”

“But you like it, right? What you do, I mean,” Nami asked. She tried to keep her tone neutral, but she could barely hide her curiosity. “I mean… two years ago it didn’t seem to bother you this much.”

He shrugged, his eyes following her movements as she painted. “Yeah, it was… different.”

“Different how?”

Minho let his head fall back, eyes half-closed. “Back then, I knew why I was doing it. I had a clear goal. Now I just do it because I have to.”

Nami glanced at him, concerned. “Maybe you’re just tired.”

He nodded. “Maybe.”

There was a pause.

“I really missed this place,” he murmured after a while.

She didn’t respond, but something in her stomach started to ache. She quietly wondered what had happened to him over the past two years, during all the time they hadn’t seen each other. Because this wasn’t the Minho she knew, only his shadow.

April 2024

They were sitting on the couch, sipping coffee Minho had bought before arriving. The nervousness of seeing him again had slowly faded with each of his visits, though it hadn’t disappeared completely. Nami let her gaze drift to Minho’s hands. She noticed cuts and bruises on his knuckles. She had to resist the urge to reach out and touch his wounds.

“Did you go train?” she asked him.

“Yeah, last night.”

“Teach me a few moves.”

He turned to look at her, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Are you serious?”

Nami nodded. “I need a break. I’ve been sitting all day, I feel like I need to move a little.”

They cleared a space in the centre of the room, pushing the tables to the walls. Minho stood in front of her, a bit taller than she remembered, or maybe it was just his posture.

“Okay, keep your hands up. No, not like that. Like this…” Minho stepped closer, adjusting her arms into the right position. “Keep your chin down. Elbows in. You’re fighting, not trying to hug your opponent.”

She widened her eyes in concentration and followed his instructions. “I don’t know how you do this. My arms already hurt.”

“That’s because you’re too tense. You need to relax. Come on, try throwing a punch.”

She did. Then tried again.

“Pretty embarrassing,” he commented, laughing. “Try again.”

“You’re a terrible coach.”

On the fifth try, her punch landed on his shoulder. Not hard, but enough to make him flinch.

“Ouch,” he said, blinking a few times like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry! Did I actually hit you? Did I hurt you?”

Nami dropped her stance and stepped forward instinctively. She reached out before she could stop herself. Her fingers brushed his arm, gently, as if checking to make sure she hadn’t left a bruise. Only after a moment did she realize what she was doing. Her breath caught in her throat.

He looked at her without blinking.

She pulled away.

“You’re fine,” she said quickly, turning her back to him.

Minho laughed and settled back on the couch. Nami walked over to one of the shelves, muttering complaints about how poorly the brushes were organized. She pretended she hadn’t felt the warmth of his body, hadn’t seen the way he looked at her.

That day, Minho stayed a little longer, but neither of them brought it up again.

A week later, they found themselves at the pub near the atelier. They’d been drinking for about an hour, sitting in their usual corner. It had started drizzling outside, but from inside, they hadn’t noticed yet.

Nami was holding a half-full glass of beer in her hands. She hadn’t eaten and felt warmth in her cheeks. She wasn’t drunk, but her arms felt lighter, her shoulders more relaxed. And even though her thoughts were beginning to blur into a hazy tangle, they kept circling around just one thing: Minho, sitting across from her, laughing at something she’d said. He had one elbow resting on the table, holding his beer with the other hand.

She was struck by how easily they had fallen back into old habits. As if the time apart had never existed. As if nearly two years hadn’t passed without those ridiculous exchanges, without the comfort of their shared silences. A faint thread of tension still occasionally passed through her when their eyes met and neither of them found the strength to look away first. What they had wasn’t friendship, not exactly. But it wasn’t love either. It was something in between, a kind of limbo with no clear way out. And Nami was afraid. Afraid that if she reached out to him, if she tried to get closer again, he would disappear. So she made do with that strange relationship and all their unspoken words.

She leaned forward slightly, letting her eyes wander over his face. If she had been more sober, she wouldn’t have dared to be so bold. Minho noticed and lowered his head, smiling in that shy, almost awkward way he had started adopting lately. That sweetness was new. Two years ago, Minho had been charming, mysterious, always a little untouchable. Now there was something more delicate in the way he looked away, in the way he smiled.

Her gaze traced his features, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Then she noticed a detail she had always missed.

“You have a mole here,” she said suddenly, voicing her thoughts out loud. Her words hung in the air, as if someone else had said them. Before she could stop herself, her finger rose and gently touched the side of his nose. “I’d never noticed it before.”

Minho blinked, surprised. The touch was brief, almost imperceptible, but it made him sit up straighter. He looked at her for a moment with an unreadable expression. Nami could see in his eyes that he was trying to process what had just happened, as if that innocent gesture meant something he hadn’t yet figured out how to name.

Then, softly, he said, “Do it again.”

Nami hesitated, her eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise. She reached out again, this time more slowly, brushing her fingertip against the mole just above the curve of his nostril. Her hand lingered for another second. He smiled again, this time with a hint of mischief, and looked away, almost embarrassed by his own request.

“My mom has the same mole,” he murmured.

“Do you look like her?”

Minho nodded. “They say I’m her exact copy.”

“Then she must be a beautiful woman.”

He laughed, more relaxed now. “Yeah, she is.”

For a while, they sat in that silence. It was comfortable. The pub’s background music filled the space, and the smell of fried food drifted in for a moment before fading again. Then Minho leaned forward, resting his head briefly on his folded arms on the table. A small sigh escaped him, like he was trying to let go of something heavy.

His hand reached out and found hers.

He didn’t hold it, not exactly. He simply took her index finger between his and began to play with it, lifting and lowering it rhythmically. It should have felt strange. But it didn’t. It felt completely natural, as if they had always done it. She didn’t pull her hand away. She let him do it.

She looked at his hand, and her heartbeat slowed to match its rhythm.

And yet, that feeling came back, that ache in her chest. Worry.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Minho?” she asked softly.

He didn’t look up. “I’m just tired.”

“You said you slept twelve hours.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, almost reluctantly. “But I only got three hours of sleep over the last few days.”

Nami tilted her head slightly, studying him. His face was dull with fatigue, the shadows under his eyes deeper than usual. “Is it really that hard? Your job, I mean.”

He stayed quiet for a long time.

“It’s just that… it used to be fun,” he said finally, lifting his head a little. “It still is. I mean… yeah, no, it is. Being tired is a good thing. I just wish… I don’t even know.”

He looked at her, and whatever he saw made him pause again. His gaze lingered for a moment, uncertain. Then he gave a small, genuine smile. “Why do you worry about me so much?”

“Because I like you,” Nami admitted simply, the words slipping out before she could catch them.

Minho blinked rapidly, then looked down at their hands. His ears turned suddenly red. He didn’t speak for a while, as if trying to figure out what to do with that truth.

“Is it weird that I like the fact that you worry about me?” he asked in a whisper, almost like a confession, his voice unsure.

Nami laughed. “My brother would probably say there are people who find that hot. Like, sexually.”

Minho’s ears flushed even redder and he looked like he was about to burst into laughter, but something in his expression shifted suddenly, as if an idea had just occurred to him. He straightened up, but didn’t let go of Nami’s hand.

“Oh, your brother!” he said, smiling smugly. “How’s he doing?”

“Good,” she replied, amused by the obvious attempt to change the subject. “He found himself a girlfriend. She’s nice.”

“I’m glad.”

The conversation drifted again, and then again, one, two more times. It felt like it would never end. They talked about their families, a new show Nami had started but wasn’t sure she liked, the anime Minho wanted to start but hadn’t had time for yet. Their hands remained together on the table, his fingers still playing with hers, like he never wanted to stop.

She didn’t move. Not once. Not even when she felt the need to go to the bathroom.

She knew that moment would end.

But she let it be enough.

May 2024

May was drawing to a close when Nami saw Minho again. The weeks had passed slowly, a succession of interminable mornings, long afternoons spent grading papers, and drunken evenings with friends, punctuated by occasional messages from Minho and filtered glimpses of his life through Instagram. Stray Kids had been in New York to attend the Met Gala, and a flood of event photos had taken over her feed. Minho had even flown to London for a Gucci event, his name now listed alongside internationally renowned celebrities. He’d sent her a blurry picture of himself in a grey suit, likely taken back at the hotel. In secret, Nami had searched for other photos from the event and saved one of Minho standing next to Paul Mescal.

They had stayed in touch, just enough not to disappear completely from each other’s lives. Minho often sent her random pictures or embarrassing moments of the other members, without any captions. Occasionally, she’d wake up to a string of voice messages from a drunken Minho. He never said anything meaningful, but Nami would replay them just to hear the sound of his laugh. She’d reply with simple phrases, laughter, and photos of stray cats that had started to hang around her house. It gave her the illusion of continuity.

So when he texted her saying he had a day off and planned to stop by the atelier, Nami found herself both sighing in relief and holding her breath in anticipation at the thought of seeing him again.

But as she made her way down the narrow hallway toward her studio, she hesitated. Minho’s unmistakable laugh echoed faintly from inside, but it was overlapped by another voice, more animated and unfamiliar. For a moment, Nami wondered if it was Hyunjin. But the tone was different. More childlike, quicker. Nami paused in front of the door, then slowly pushed it open.

Inside, Minho was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a sketchbook resting on his thighs. Next to him was another guy, hunched over his own sketchbook, laughing at a poorly drawn doodle. Their heads were close together. There was an obvious intimacy in how they interacted.

Nami recognized him immediately. Han Jisung. One of the members of Stray Kids. The one Minho talked about most often. His roommate. His closest friend.

Finding him there, in the space Nami had always considered hers and Minho’s, was like coming home and finding a thief rifling through all your drawers, looking for hidden jewellery. She felt betrayed. That room had held their silences, their glances, their quiet. It was as if their bubble had suddenly burst. For Minho, perhaps it was just another room. But for Nami, it had been a refuge, a place where the complicated feelings that bound them could exist without consequence.

Minho looked up and his expression lit up cheerfully. “Oh, Nami, you’re here!”

She tried to smile but knew she hadn’t succeeded.

“This is Jisung,” Minho continued, pointing to his friend. “He was curious to see the atelier, so he came with me today.”

“Nice to meet you,” Nami said, her voice devoid of any emotion.

“Nice to meet you too,” Jisung replied, smiling timidly, cautiously. He didn’t try to fill the silence. He simply bowed his head again and returned to his sketchbook, his posture slightly hunched, as if he had already sensed her displeasure.

Nami walked past them, her hands gripping the strap of her bag. She let it drop onto the stool with a dull, almost aggressive thud. The boys’ laughter resumed behind her, as if she weren’t there. As if she were just another piece of furniture.

That place had become sacred to her. A quiet space where she and Minho could meet halfway. It was their grey area, where they didn’t need labels. They weren’t friends, or lovers, or anything else. They were just themselves, their silences and nonsense conversations. No one else had ever truly belonged to that space.

So finding someone else there didn’t just feel wrong, it felt like a betrayal. Minho had brought someone into something she hadn’t even realized she had claimed until it had been violated. She looked at the couch where they used to sit, at the brush shelf he had once reorganized just to tease her, and everything suddenly felt off. As if her memories were less real now, overwritten by this new person who laughed too loudly and acted too familiarly. She hadn’t realized how much she needed that room to be theirs, and theirs alone.

The afternoon dragged on slowly, thick with invisible tension. Nami tried to paint, but couldn’t focus. Behind her, the two boys kept drawing, laughing at their weird doodles, talking about things only they could understand, conversations Nami couldn’t take part in. Sometimes Jisung would fall silent when he sensed she was looking at him. She tried not to stare too directly. But she couldn’t hide her disapproval, either.

Toward evening, Minho approached her. “We were thinking of getting something to eat. Want to come with us?”

Nami barely turned to look at him.

“There’s this place nearby,” he went on. “Jisung and I go there a lot.”

She didn’t respond right away.

“My treat,” Minho added with a faint smile.

Nami gave the barest nod.

The restaurant felt almost stifling compared to the cool evening air. The smell of grilled meat hung in the air. Minho and Jisung sat naturally at a quiet corner table after greeting a couple of the waiters. Nami took a seat across from them in silence, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Jisung noticed. In fact, he’d noticed everything. He seemed hesitant to speak whenever Nami looked at him. His voice would soften, he barely finished his sentences. But Minho didn’t seem to notice. He was relaxed, at ease.

Nami tried to join their conversation. She asked a few questions about their trip to the U.S. But it was obvious from her tone that she didn’t really care. She wasn’t even listening to their answers. She was watching them. Watching the way Minho looked at Jisung. Not just fondly. With a familiarity, a deep ease that only comes with truly knowing someone.

Hyemi’s words echoed in her mind: he’s gay.

Nami hadn’t cared. She had told herself it didn’t matter.

But in that moment, watching Minho lean in toward Jisung, laughing, she felt something bloom bitterly in her chest. Something she’d felt before. The same feeling she’d felt as a child, forced to stand on the side-lines while her brother received all their parents’ attention. That feeling of exclusion that made her want to scream. That sense of always being the one left out. She knew her feelings were irrational, but she couldn’t stop them.

When they finished eating, Minho got up to pay. Nami and Jisung remained seated in silence. He glanced at her, then looked down at the table again.

“It’s really nice,” he said after a brief pause. “The atelier, I mean. I get why Minho always wants to go there. It’s very… peaceful. I really liked it.”

Nami didn’t answer right away. She looked at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, in a low voice, she said: “Please don’t come again.”

Jisung froze, his eyes wide and her words hanging between them. He opened his mouth slightly, but couldn’t speak.

She didn’t repeat herself. But she didn’t try to soften the blow, either. She simply looked away, as if she hadn’t said anything at all.

June 2024

It was a humid, hot Wednesday. Nami heard a knock at the half-open door of the office she shared with two other assistants. She had been hunched for hours over a pile of essays she needed to grade, twirling a red pencil between her fingers, her focus repeatedly broken by the buzz of the university’s air conditioning and the distant sound of drilling from the construction site across the street. Her eyes felt dry, her mind dulled by monotony and sleepless nights. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Her colleagues were both out for lunch.

When she looked up, her breath caught in her throat.

Minho was standing in the doorway.

He wore a cap pulled low over his forehead, and a black mask covered most of his face. But his eyes were unmistakable; large, dark, hesitant. The shock of seeing him there, on campus, in her office, made it almost impossible to breathe. Her heart kicked into motion at a sudden, confusing speed, somewhere between alarm and hope.

“Minho?” she said, standing up so abruptly that her chair banged loudly against the cabinet behind her. She rushed to the door and grabbed a sleeve of his shirt to pull him inside, shutting the door quickly behind them. “What are you doing here? Are you out of your mind? Someone could recognize you.”

He let her pull him in without resistance, his gaze slowly moving around the cramped room.

“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

He sat at her desk like it was his own. He picked up a small ceramic frog Nami kept near her monitor and turned it over in his hands, his thumb brushing across the tiny raised black eyes.

“I’ve been busy,” she said. Her voice was flat, but her hands trembled slightly as she crossed them over her chest.

Minho took off his mask with one hand, placing it on her desk. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she replied. She paused, then added, “I told you, I’ve been busy. I barely check my phone.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

The silence that followed was tense, like something could snap with a single wrong word. Nami didn’t move. The longer he stared at her, the more she felt something inside her begin to crack.

Since their last encounter at the studio, something inside her had broken. They had spent weeks, months, trying to mend their relationship. She had convinced herself that their strange friendship was enough, that she could go on like that without ever letting it become something more serious. But it wasn’t true. She couldn’t keep pretending that it didn’t hurt to be near him and always feel like she was waiting for something he would never be able to give.

She walked over to the opposite desk, her colleague’s, and sat down. Being farther from him seemed like the only way she could breathe.

Minho looked at her. He said nothing.

“Can I ask you something?” she finally said. Her voice trembled.

He nodded.

“Do… do you like men?”

His eyes widened slightly, his hands stopped playing with the frog. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then a faint, tentative smile flickered across his lips.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never really thought about it. But I think I do.”

Nami felt her chest tighten. Then, suddenly, an unexpected wave of anger hit her. She wasn’t angry that Minho might be gay. She didn’t care about that. She was angry at herself. In that moment, she realized just how much she had unconsciously hoped he wasn’t. Hopes that now proved useless.

Then he added, quickly, in a low voice, “But I like women too.”

Her breath caught again. He avoided her gaze. He kept his eyes fixed on the frog, starting to rub its belly as if trying to remove a stain. His embarrassment was obvious, as though that confession had drained all his energy.

“I don’t know,” he continued. “If there’s someone I like, it doesn’t matter if they’re a boy or a girl. You know what I mean?”

She should have felt relieved. Those words should have loosened the knot she had carried in her stomach for weeks, months. Instead, the knot tightened. Her stomach twisted, her thoughts racing faster than her heartbeat, aware that even that explanation wasn’t enough to calm her. If anything, it made things worse, because it wasn’t about labels anymore. It was about her. Her voice faltered with frustration, disappointment, and the pain of not being wanted back.

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, finally looking her in the eyes. His voice was calm.

“You don’t like me.”

Minho’s expression tensed slightly. “Nami, please…”

“I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable,” she cut in. “But I don’t think I can be your friend. I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice was barely audible.

“It’s not… Nami, I…”

“Don’t worry,” she said, forcing herself to keep speaking. “You don’t have to say anything. I understand. But I don’t think I can go on, whatever it is that’s between us. I’m sorry.”

She took a deep breath. Her chest ached, but her eyes remained dry.

“I know you like going to the atelier. You can still go, if you want. It’s yours too. But I’d rather we didn’t see each other anymore. Do you understand?”

She looked at him, really looked. His face was serious, and there was something in his eyes, maybe pain, confusion, guilt. For a moment, she considered taking her words back. Pretending it was all a joke. But she didn’t. Because she also saw something else. That familiar hesitation. The same one he had after she kissed him. The same look that had made her feel like a mistake.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. No words came. His lips pressed together, his gaze once again fixed on the little frog in his hands, as if hoping it could answer for him.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

Then she walked out of the room.

Nami had spent the past few days wrapped in silence. A deeper, suffocating silence. The kind that allowed cruel truths to rise up forcefully in her mind, truths she wasn’t ready to face. She had cried for hours in the university bathrooms, only to shed no more tears afterward. Her entire body ached, as if the pain had seeped into her bones.

So when she returned home that evening and entered the lobby of her apartment complex, her breath caught when she saw him sitting on the floor by the mailboxes, his face hidden by a cap and a mask. For a moment, the world stopped spinning. Her knees buckled.

He stood as soon as he saw her, as though he had been waiting an eternity. Her first instinct was to ignore him, pretend she hadn’t seen him, get into the elevator and lock herself inside her apartment. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t have the strength.

But something in the way he looked at her made her hesitate.

She opened her mouth, not even knowing what to say, but he spoke first, his voice low and grave.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said, his eyes scanning her face for something to hold onto. “But listen. I… I really…”

He faltered, the rest of the sentence dissolving silently into the air. Nami’s heart pounded in her chest.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked after a moment, once she was sure she could speak without betraying any emotion.

He just nodded.

He followed her through the lobby, their footsteps echoing in the quiet. In the elevator, neither of them spoke. Nami couldn’t find the courage to look at him. She couldn’t bear the weight of his presence beside her.

Inside her apartment, Minho hesitated at the threshold. He stayed by the entrance like a guest who knew he wasn’t welcome. The space was small: a small living room with a kitchenette, a hallway leading to the bathroom and bedroom. The air smelled stale, mixed with the scent of a candle she had lit the night before.

“You can sit wherever,” she said, putting down her bag with calculated slowness.

He removed his shoes but remained standing, his gaze wandering through the room as if trying to memorize every detail of this unfamiliar space. The messy stacks of books, a dying plant by the window, a few photos taped to the wall.

“Do you want something to drink?” Nami asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.

He shook his head. “No.”

Nami sighed, sat at the kitchen table, and clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. Minho didn’t move, his posture tense, as if unsure how to act.

Before she could speak, he broke the silence.

“I want to go back to the atelier,” he said in a whisper, barely audible, like he was ashamed of his own words. Like a student who knew he was giving the wrong answer. “With you.”

She closed her eyes.

“That’s selfish.”

“I know,” he replied immediately, not trying to defend himself.

“Well, I can’t. I really can’t do it.”

“Why not?” His voice rose; not in anger, but in desperation.

“You know why.”

Minho ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He seemed to be fighting with himself, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right words.

Her patience snapped.

“If you have nothing to say, then leave.”

“It’s just that…”

“Please, Minho. Go. Now.”

His voice cracked. He took a step forward. “Don’t push me away. Please, don’t.”

Nami felt a wave of anger rise within her. “You’re the one who kept me at arm’s length all this time! I told you I have feelings for you, that being your friend hurts. So why do you keep dragging me into this mess?”

“Because I can’t do this anymore!” he shouted. “This life… I can’t take it anymore.”

She stared at him, stunned by his outburst. Minho didn’t cry, but his shoulders began to tremble, his breath coming short.

“I have no choice in what I do,” he said, his voice cracking. “I only follow orders. Even when I have the chance to choose, someone always tells me I should’ve done it differently. This life used to be fun, but now it feels like I don’t own any of it.”

There was bitterness in his voice that surprised her.

“But when I’m with you,” he continued, his eyes pleading, “I forget all that. With you, I can be myself. And I need that. I need you. Even if it’s selfish.”

Nami felt a pang in her chest. Her body moved before she could think. She crossed the room and gently cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at her.

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” she said. “I really am. And I wish I could fix it. But we can’t be friends anymore. Not like this. It hurts too much.”

He looked at her, desperate. “I like you, Nami. I really do.”

“Liar.”

“No, I mean it. I’ve liked you for years. I swear.”

Her heart tightened in her chest. “Then why did you look so disgusted when I kissed you?”

“I wasn’t disgusted. Just surprised, that’s all.”

“But you never came back.”

“I was scared.”

“So if I kissed you now, you’d be happy?”

“Nami, don’t…”

But she did it anyway. She rose on her toes and kissed him, soft, hesitant. He didn’t pull away, but when she stepped back, his expression wasn’t happy. It was sad.

“You don’t like me at all,” she whispered.

“That’s not true.”

“Then prove it.”

Something in him changed. His gaze grew more serious, more determined. Like he had finally surrendered. He stepped forward and kissed her again, this time deeper, more urgent. Real. His lips crashed onto hers with unexpected force, driven by years of silence, longing, and waiting.

They stumbled backward blindly. Her hands tangled in his hair, his fingers gripping the hem of her blouse like he needed something to hold onto. Their breaths grew ragged and uneven, the silence of the room filled with gasps and desperate kisses. His lips travelled along her jaw, brushing her skin, down to her neck, his breath warm against the frantic beats of her heart.

His hands slipped beneath her shirt, slow but deliberate. She gasped, surprised by how deeply she had craved that touch. Her skin burned beneath his palms as he explored her waist, the curve of her ribs, just beneath her bra. And yet, even in that frenzy, he hesitated.

Then he stopped entirely. Looked at her like he was afraid she’d vanish at any second. Nami felt his hands tremble.

She took his face in her hands. “It’s okay. If you don’t want to, we can stop.”

He didn’t respond.

“Please. Talk to me.”

“I’m not good with words.”

“And I can’t read your mind.”

He sighed, then paused, the weight of unspoken words thick in the air. He looked away, as if searching for someone to give him permission.

“Even if you could read my mind,” he began, his voice cracking slightly, “I don’t think you’d understand.”

Another pause. Longer, more painful. He let go of her and clenched his fists. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“My feelings for you… they’re the only thing I can control,” he admitted. “I don’t have control over anything else but this. If I keep them in check, everything will be fine. I won’t ruin anything between us.”

Nami felt her heart clench. His honesty was raw, sharp, like a wound freshly reopened. He wasn’t just afraid to let go. He was afraid of what she might see if he did.

She smiled, even though her throat was tight and her chest ached.

“You’re safe with me. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“What if you stop liking me?”

She kissed him again. That was her answer.

This time, he surrendered completely. Their kisses deepened. They clung to each other as if trying to erase all the months of silence, all the missed moments. One kiss turned into two, then three, until they lost count. Their clothes were discarded with no ceremony, left on the floor.

When he touched her again, Nami gasped. Skin to skin, his fingers traced the sensitive lines of her body. The moan that escaped her lips broke something in him. His body tensed, his breath came faster.

He pushed her back until she collided with the kitchen table. Her breath hitched as his body pressed against hers. His warmth, the touch of his hands; it was overwhelming. With his eyes, Minho asked one last time for her permission, for reassurance. She nodded, breathless.

Her fingers found the scar on his stomach. She traced it slowly, reverently, and his breath caught. Then his lips found her breasts, first softly, then with growing hunger. She gasped, her head falling back, spine arching, fingers knotted again in his hair.

There was no time to think. No clarity. Only instinct. He undid his belt, and she tried to help, both of them moving with urgency. When he finally entered her, they both gasped, overwhelmed.

Their bodies moved together on the table, the hard, cold surface making everything feel even more real. They held each other tightly, movements hurried and messy, but full of need.

Nami clung to him, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer with desperate need. Her body arched with every thrust. She moaned his name, over and over. Not softly, but with force, urgency. His voice, usually calm and controlled, was now raw and cracked.

None of this had been planned. They had dived headfirst into something messy, something that had been consuming them from within. As if everything they had kept under control had suddenly exploded and neither of them knew how to stop. His grip on her was tight but uncertain, his palms trembling against her sweat-slicked skin.

When she met his eyes, she saw only him, stripped of any mask.

In that moment, there was no future. No promise, no guarantee. Only each other. And the desperate, fragile hope that surrendering to these feelings might mean something more.

It was almost three in the morning, but neither of them could sleep. The apartment was immersed in darkness except for the faint light coming from the kitchen. In the silence, you could hear the distant sound of cars speeding down the main road.

Minho sat on the floor, his back against the couch, a bowl of instant ramen balanced on his knees. The chopsticks clinked against the styrofoam as he slurped the noodles, chewing absentmindedly. His t-shirt was wrinkled, and his hair was messy and still damp from the shower. He looked tired, but his features seemed softer.

Nami was lying on the couch behind him, curled up under a thin blanket, her face resting on her forearm. She watched him eat in silence, a small smile curling her lips. There was something oddly comforting about the scene: his bare feet on the rug, the way he kept blowing on the ramen before each bite, even though it had already cooled.

“Stop it,” she suddenly heard him mumble, mouth still full.

She widened her eyes, caught off guard. “Stop what?”

He swallowed. “You're staring at me.”

Nami chuckled softly. “Sorry,” she whispered warmly. “I’m just happy.”

Minho let out a short laugh, trying to hide how her words embarrassed him. He looked down at the now nearly empty bowl and mumbled, “What a weirdo.”

He finished the last bite, set the bowl aside, and slowly slid down to the floor. With a soft groan, he lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head.

After a moment, Nami slid off the couch and joined him on the floor. She lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, their bodies parallel, eyes turned toward the ceiling as if it could provide answers to all the questions lingering in their minds.

For a while, there was only silence.

“I’m sorry I got mad earlier,” she finally said.

Minho slowly turned his head to look at her. His expression was unreadable in the dim light. “Don’t worry,” he replied. Then he hesitated, his lips parting as if he wanted to say more. But he didn’t speak.

She nudged him lightly with her elbow. “You can talk to me, you know? I don’t judge.”

He nodded faintly. Another pause. Then he shifted position, turning onto his side so he could rest his head on her stomach. She inhaled, surprised, but didn’t oppose. She adjusted slightly. Her fingers found his hair and began stroking it slowly.

“I already know you're weird,” she said at last, a smirk playing on her lips.

Minho let out a brief, embarrassed laugh, muffled against her pyjama fabric. “And you like me anyway?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she replied. “You’re weird, but you’re a good person, Minho.”

Minho sighed deeply and didn’t speak for a moment.

“I’ve always wanted to live my life simply. Even though I’m a celebrity.”

Her fingers paused for a moment, then resumed their slow rhythm.

“But I don’t think my brain is wired as everyone else’s.”

“What do you mean?”

He moved again, turning his gaze back toward the ceiling. “I don’t know when it started. At first, people told me I was special, praised me for being different, for expressing myself freely, for not being afraid to seem weird. It made me feel like I had something to offer. But then that became a problem. People started acting like I was too much. Too different.”

He exhaled sharply. “All the rules that never used to bother me now feel like chains. I keep trying to fit into a mould that’s too small for me.”

“Do you feel trapped?” she asked gently.

He didn’t answer right away. Then continued, “I feel like I could do so much more, but I’m not allowed to. Like being myself makes other people uncomfortable. So I try to hold back. But every time I do, it feels like I lose a part of myself forever.”

Nami felt her heart clench again at his words. She took his hand and intertwined her fingers with his.

“I’m sorry they make you feel this way,” she murmured.

He shrugged. “I don’t blame them. But it’s still frustrating.”

They fell silent again. She kept stroking his hair, occasionally brushing his temple with her thumb. He seemed calmer, his breathing steady.

“Can I come back to the atelier?” he asked suddenly, still looking at the ceiling.

She giggled. “Of course, but only if you come alone.”

“No Jisung?”

“Only Hyunjin is allowed,” she replied in mock sternness.

He laughed, and she felt the vibration travel through her skin.

“Jealous?” he teased.

“Yes.”

A surprised laugh escaped his lips. “You’re not even trying to deny it.”

“Why should I? It’s the truth.”

They both laughed. After that, neither spoke. They remained lying there, fingers entwined, bodies close, eyes still on the ceiling. They didn’t talk about what had happened. They didn’t put any labels on it. They just shared the quiet.

But Nami’s mind began to wander. Would anything really change between them? They couldn’t go back to how things were before. And that scared her.

What if he pulled away again? What if the world outside that room, outside the atelier, claimed him once more, taking him away from her again? She tightened her grip on his hand. It was warm. His presence was there, tangible.

Minho sat up slowly. He turned toward her slightly and looked at her. Not with the same intensity as a few hours earlier. But with gentleness, with affection. With the eyes of someone who sees something precious in front of them. He leaned down and kissed her. A short kiss, too short. Then he laid his head back on her stomach, grabbing her hand to make her resume stroking his hair.

Nami laughed. He hadn’t given her an answer. He hadn’t said anything. And yet it felt like he had. She closed her eyes and sighed, content.

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