In the evenings when they find themselves alone yet unable to say the words that their hearts ached to proclaim, a piece of paper and a few ounces of ink often found themselves in tangent along with their feelings.

Nights like these were always subjected to such a sight.

It was a routine. Its origins a mystery, even for the two that often found themselves trapped in that habitual dance of chained emotions.

Inside her office, it would always happen in her office with the doors locked, the lights turned off and the curtains pulled part so that the flickering light of the lamppost outside served as their only source of illumination.

The lighting was dramatic, if nothing else. It set a mood that would have one think of an evening rendezvous with an illicit lover. Which, was as closer to the actual truth that any normal passerby would guess. Even if the scene was set in SME’s very own building.

"Please sit down." Sunny told her just seconds before she even took that hesitant step to the inside.

She'd take her time walking towards the visitor's chair that was always propped up in front of her desk, just long enough to notice how tense her shoulders were as she leant against the chair, how frantic she looks, how dull and almost lifeless her eyes were and how uneasy her breathing seemed to be.

"Sooyoung?" Only to find that she too breathed far too heavily than she normally did and that she was standing right in front of her desk in manner that suggested that she had come there for nothing more than business alone which was a far cry from the real reason for her presence there.

"Please sit down." Sunny repeats, Sooyoung complies, and everything else falls into silent obscurity thereafter.

...

No spoken words.

...

No voices.

...

Just the two of them in the isolated world of her office with a pen, a few measly pieces of paper and a wall clock that would hang forgotten until the very last second that they notice the lateness of the hour.

They begin as they had, accidentally, just a few weeks ago. From a small dresser, Sunny procures a small stack of spiral notes and a cheap ballpoint pen. They both smile and, after a few tense seconds, one of them would scribble down questions about the mundane. About Taeyeon and Tiffanys' relationship, about Hyomin’s sudden resignation, politics, world hunger, world peace, the constant attempts of her desperate uncle at marrying her off to some wealthy noble family's son, their parents, any subject that they can possibly broach.

Tonight, she feels much more inclined to be the one answering the first question so Sooyoung finds the pen in her hand, and the notes in front of her, and starts writing down what she had been wanting to ask her since she had caught a glimpse of her frazzled form this morning.

How have you been?

The first question of the night. Simple and direct.

...

Just the way that Sunny preferred things to be.

...

Flipping over to an empty page Sooyoung pushed it along the desks surface to her and waits until she figures out what to respond to her with. 

Fine. Bordering on stressed. The usual.

They went off from there, passing the notes back and forth.

Every now and again, lighthearted laughter would be heard, followed by an indignant huff. The former usually coming from Sooyoung, and the latter from Sunny who felt more than displeased to answer one certain question of hers. She would always find that there was no choice for her in the matter. May it be demeaning or otherwise, they've made an unspoken vow to answer truthfully and wholeheartedly if only for tonight.

The lies and the masks could be saved for the morning when they were most needed, but in these late hours, both Chief Representative and Admiral take time to loosen the imaginary shackles and chains that bind them to their jobs. It was at these times that they set aside their duties to be just Choi Sooyoung and Lee Sunny.

This was a temporary grace period that only took effect when no other eyes fall unto and scrutinize them.

So they could never complain.

As the notes slid over to Sooyoungs’ side of the desk again, the question it contained forced a genuine smile to grace her features.

Does it still hurt?

It took her a moment to realize that what she was referring to was not a broken arm caused by a bullet from the barrel of her father's gun, but a slowly healing wound just below her abdomen from a botched attempt at her life by terrorists during the rare moments that she had been given precedence over one of the country’s many military practices.

Just another hectic day that ended with her doubled over, blood all over her uniform and the sound of terrified screams playing in the background. The funny thing was that she was the one who ordered for security to be lessened specifically just to keep