Waiting for Love

 

Avicii

 

Monday left me broken
Tuesday I was through with hoping
Wednesday my empty arms were open
Thursday waiting for love, waiting for love
Thank the stars it's Friday
I'm burning like a fire gone wild on Saturday
Guess I won't be coming to church on Sunday
I'll be waiting for love, waiting for love
To come around

 

---

 

FRIDAY

 

Byulyi presses her back against her front door, one ear against the wood. She tightens her grip on the doorknob, fearfully hoping that the beating of her frantic heart won’t drown out the sound she’s waiting for. This feeling never deserts her, no matter how many times she stands in this very same spot, hand clammy as they warm up the very brushed silver knob. The hallway is quiet. The seconds tick by.

 

Ah, and there it is. The click of a door, the clink of keys, and the heavy clack, clack of a lock.

 

She takes in a chestful of air. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales once more. Runs her hand through her bangs with a false sense of calm, shakes her ponytail just a bit, and adjusts her tie. She clears for good measure, then swings the door open.

 

“Ah, Byulyissi!”

 

Right on time.

 

They meet each other half-way by the elevator, their footsteps moving just a beat faster. Like clockwork every morning, Byulyi bows, and flashes her most charming smile.

 

“Yongsunssi,” she greets. “Good morning.”

 

Kim Yongsun is the woman of Byulyi’s dreams, even if neither has noticed the full extent of it yet. A successful, self-made entrepreneur with beauty, brains, and heart to match, she’s just the kind of girl whom Byulyi would love to introduce her friends and family to. She’s the kind of girl who would spoil you, and complain when you spoil her back, but you would know from the cute pout that she’s loving it too. Byulyi can tell all this from the sparkle in her eye when she greets her every morning. Or, she spends a little too much time thinking about this.

 

Yongsun bows back.

 

They reach for the elevator button at the same time, and gasp in unison when their fingers brush. Byulyi combs back her hair as coolly as she can with a shaking hand.

 

“After you,” she says with a sweep of her arm. Yongsun chuckles, and the elevator button lights up.

 

She casts discreet little glances at the woman beside her, but says nothing. Her brain rattles for words, but it’s overloaded enough in her efforts to keep cool. She riles herself up with a few words: You’re cool, Byul, very cool. Ladies love you, right? Probably? She has to cringe a little at her own half-hearted internal compliments when even her inner voice sounds as awkward as she feels. “So,” she says at last, “How’s it going?”

 

Very cool, Byul, she thinks with a roll of her eyes. And if she could punch herself without seeming even crazier than she already felt, she probably would.

 

Yongsun turns to her, brightens even more somehow, and it unfairly sets her heart beating even faster. “I’ve been doing well,” she says with a shy smile.

 

“Nice. Cool. Yeah. Me too.”

 

“I’m glad to hear.”

 

The elevator door slides open, and Byulyi stares at the gaping mouth for a while, wondering if it can just swallow her whole and save her from this embarrassment once and for all. But it’s far too late. She stands stock-still as she replays her lame lines over and over in her mind. Her brain entirely short-circuits.

 

“Are you coming, Byulyissi?”

 

She looks up. Yongsun looks like a vision under the dim yellow light inside the elevator, her reflection on every wall like a fleet of angels made in her image. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she gazes out at Byulyi questioningly. Byulyi shoves her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and stiffly steps into the elevator, the metal door sliding just in time to jostle her shoulder. “Ow,” she mumbles. Very cool, Byul, came her brain’s glum response.

 

A hand tentatively brushes her shoulder, settling there like a leaf on a pond through the thin material of her T-shirt. “Are you alright?” Yongsun’s voice is soft as cotton, and Byulyi almost wants to injure herself every day just to hear the concern and feel the slow burn of her warm palm on her skin.

 

Byulyi pushes her hair back to try and save her last strands of dignity. “It’s nothing,” she says with a smile that was neither as cool nor cute as she’d aimed for when her upper lip twitches.

 

The elevator ride is too short, yet too long, especially when the mirrored walls reflect three Kim Yongsuns, all glancing at her once in awhile with a sense of expectancy that she's too tongue-tied to meet. “I like your shoes,” Byulyi says dumbly. She glances down only after the words leave to appreciate the way Yongsun’s cute little toes poke out of her heels.

 

But the smile she receives is sweet. “Thank you. A friend gave them to me.”

 

The next word rushes out instinctively: “Boyfriend?”

 

“Ah,” Yongsun sighs out. Her hesitation forms a lump on Byulyi’s throat, sends a chilling shiver down her spine. She regrets asking. So, so much. She regrets breaking the illusion, regrets seeing the pink tinge on her cheeks.

 

“It's…”

 

The elevator chimes and the door rumbles open. Byulyi shoots a look at her wrist. “Ah, look at that,” she mumbles, clumsily blows. “I’m running late. Have a good day.” And runs away.

 

She arrives at the studio thirty minutes early, and lays her head on her arm, her fingers absently pressing buttons and turning knobs on the soundboard. Her mind desperately trying to reconstruct the Yongsun of her dreams. To forget the nameless male figure beside her.

 

“Ah, unnie.” Byulyi shuts her eyes to the voice behind her. “Why do you look so gross today?”

 

A wave of hair tickles her shoulder. She can already feel the smirk behind that voice, mocking her at close range. She squeezes her eyes even tighter. “Unnie, unnie, unnie,” the voice sang.

 

“Go away, Hyejin,” Byulyi mumbles, her cheeks rubbing uncomfortably against the desk.

 

“Go away, Hyejin,” the voice mocks. Byulyi opens her eyes just enough to form a glare at the impervious woman before her. Hyejin stands with her hand on her cocked hips, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. She relaxes her arms when Byulyi continues to glare. Frown and glare. And it doesn’t take long for Hyejin to give in. With a groan and a flick of her eyes, she softens and squeezes her arm. “You look like you need a drink, unnie. Maybe even two. Or ten. What’s going on?”

 

Byulyi’s head feels like a wrecking ball when she lifts herself up to an upright position. She throws her head back, and it lolls to the side, giving Hyejin a full view at the saddest soul who ever lived. “She has a boyfriend.”

 

Hyejin watches steadily, then crosses her arms when nothing intelligible comes out of Byulyi’s mouth. A minute into the narrative, the softness transforms and she holds up a palm. Her lips roll into a smirk, her voice bubbles up in a scoff, and she turns with a sway of her hips. “Cute,” her back says with a slight toss of her head. “But I’m not listening to another sob story about your little girl next door. I’ll be in the recording booth while you get your together and you’re ready to get to work.”

 

Byulyi gives herself the minute it takes for the rising star to walk away to wallow in her own self-pity. Her attempts to burn holes into Hyejin back doesn't really make her feel better. “Alright,” she says finally, “You ready?”

 

Hyejin’s voice is pure velvet through the studio’s crisp speakers: “Whenever you are.”

 

“Let’s run it through from the top.”

 

At least, Byulyi thinks, it’s Friday.

 

SATURDAY

 

The doorbell rings unexpectedly at a quarter to four, shrilly cutting into the tranquility of Byulyi’s afternoon. She picks herself up from the couch and peeks through the fisheye, where a brown bottle blocked her entire field of vision. “Open up, unnie.”

 

Byulyi frowns. She still isn’t over the shock of yesterday, and she wants nothing more than to spend an entire Saturday soaking up that fact. Alone. She swings open the door, determined to tell Hyejin exactly that. She takes her time, stews in her annoyance, but her blood freezes when Hyejin exploits the hesitation: “Oh! It's Yongsunssi! Hello! I’m a friend of Byulyi unnie’s. I've heard so much about you! Oh me? Just here to cheer her up. She was all torn up yesterday when she found out—”

 

The locks came undone faster than Byulyi can process. “AHN. HYE. JIN!” she roars, the door nearly flying off its hinges.

 

Two bodies push through her door, shaking with unsuppressed laughter. Byulyi hurriedly takes a step into the hallway where the empty stretch of green carpet greets her.

 

She glares backwards with gritted teeth. “Are you kidding me, Ahn Hyejin?” She growls.

 

Hyejin, reclining against her armrest across her couch, just scoffs. “Don't worry, unnie, she's not here. We saw her downstairs and told her what a big crybaby you are. That was pretty good though. I think I deserve an award. Right, Wheeinie?”

 

“Hyejin-ah!”

 

A different voice pipes up from her armchair. “Relax, unnie, we didn't tarnish your good image.” Two eyes, barely visible behind the back of the chair, curve up at her in a smile. “Too much.”

 

The door slams shut. Byulyi stalks over to her living room with her thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of her nose. “Hyejin, Wheein,” she starts slowly. “Why are you here?”

 

“Live entertainment.”

 

“Hyejin!” Wheein squeals. She giggles anyway when Hyejin sends her a little wink. Byulyi is certain, after years of getting to know them, that they're the only couple in the world capable of getting more and more gross over time despite having spent nearly their entire lives together. She easily gives into the urge to roll her eyes.

 

“Hyejin was worried about you,” Wheein says, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She grins when Hyejin shoots up from her seat, a hint of pink spreading over her cheeks and a number of fumbling protests spreading over her tongue. Wheein looks on fondly, and spreads her arms out. Silently, Hyejin gets up and fits herself against her, wrapping her arms around her waist and tucking her face in the crook of her neck. “It's okay, you big softie,” Wheein cooes.

 

Byulyi walks by them, makes a face, and claims Hyejin’s previous space on the couch. “You two are disgusting.”

 

Hyejin sticks a tongue out at her. “You’re—”

 

Wheein clamps a hand over Hyejin’s mouth and gives the bewildered girl a light kiss on her temple. Unwavering against Hyejin’s protests, she says, “We aren’t fighting today. Not when we brought beer.”

 

“It’s four!”

 

“There's never a bad time to party,” Wheein quips.

 

“Especially when you've been crying over the same girl ever since she moved in,” Hyejin says with a wave of her hand. “Especially if you're intent on crying over your problems rather than solving them.”

 

“So we’re here to cry with you! Over drinks!” Wheein adds cheerily. She sweeps an arm toward the dining table behind her with flourish, where several bulging plastic bags makes their presence known to Byulyi for the first time.

 

Byulyi runs a hand through her hair. “It's four in the afternoon,” she grumbles. But her eyes trail to the bags, and the gesture doesn't go unnoticed.  

 

Hyejin swings her legs over the side of the armchair, pushes herself off, and rummages through the bags to find and toss a golden can in Byulyi’s direction. With a yelp, Byulyi barely manages to bounce the can into her lap when the cold shocks her fingers.

 

She says nothing as a symphony of popping tabs, exhaling cans, and bass-heavy melodies fill every corner of her apartment. She feels herself being pulled to her feet by her limp arms—feels herself drowning in the energy, drowning in the way Yongsun’s smile is etched in her memory—and takes a good, long swig.

 

SUNDAY

 

She doesn’t remember a goddamn thing.

 

All she knows is that her head hurts like a mother, pulsing and clawing with so much regret. She swears not to drink anymore. Ever. It takes several long moments of aching to realize her head seems to be pounding to the beat of a fist against her door. Her door...her door... The sunlight hurt her eyes. The pounding turns into a ringing. Or is that her doorbell? She doesn’t remember standing up—realizing only moments later that she’d been laying face-first on her rug, empty cans and bottles strewn haphazardly around her head—and she doesn’t recall how difficult it is to be vertical as she slouches her way toward the door, stumbling and grabbing onto anything she can get her hands on: the back of her chair, the table, the counter, the wall, finally slamming against the door. “I’m coming,” she grumbles against the wood. Her hand swipes three times against the knob, the ringing in her head misdirecting her each time.

 

It seems like an eternity when she finally manages to open the door. Leaning on the frame with an elbow for support, she pokes her head out through the gap. “What do you want?” she growls, holding her forehead.

 

“Uhm.”

 

The soft voice jolts her awake. Yongsun. Yongsun in a pretty yellow sundress, bright and early, her pink cheeks flushed to complement her hair. It's a stark contrast, at the very least, to the grim mess in Byulyi’s apartment.

 

Like a crack in a dam, this realization dawns alongside many others. Suddenly she is hyper-aware of everything. The scent of fresh shampoo wafting in front the hallway, the blinding hallway light, the dazzling smile, the deep indents across her cheeks from her fibrous rug, and—glancing down—the fact that she, Moon Byulyi, musical genius and half-convincing lady killer, is not wearing any pants.

 

She ducks behind the door with an awkward laugh. “Can I help you, Yongsunssi?”

 

Yongsun blinks, a blush spreads—secondhand embarrassment, no doubt. “I’m, um, sorry if I...interrupted anything. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Some of our neighbours told me they heard some strange noises. I hope everything is alright?”

 

“S-strange noises?” Byulyi gapes and racks her brain, but she comes up empty and the implications weigh heavy in the air. “I don’t...remember.”

 

She swings the door open just a bit when Yongsun puffs up her cheeks a little, looking halfway between suspicious and concerned. Byulyi clears her voice. “Do you want to come in?” she asks coolly. But she hits her forehead against the frame of the door when she loses her grip on the knob and winces.

 

Yongsun giggles, but a loud voice cuts the embarrassment short.

 

“Unnie! Come back to bed!”

 

A second voice, thick with suggestion, joins in. “Don’t keep us waiting, Byulie-unnie.”

 

Her jaw drops in horror as she snaps back to look at Yongsun, almost hitting her head on the door a second time. The spluttered explanations come out in clumps, hands gesturing in cacophonic accompaniment, her head all the while pounding with dread and regret. She can barely comprehend what she tells Yongsun. Please understand, her eyes plead.

 

But Yongsun’s giggle slows to an awkward laughter, and the sound feels like a javelin through the heart.

 

“I better not,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She looks up in that pretty way and bites her lip, and Byulyi’s heart nearly stops. “You seem to have company.”

 

Chills run down her spine. Her inner world is a mess of confusion, abstract shapes and half-formed words, but she wills herself to take a deep breath. Tries to remember how to function as a human being. “Sorry,” she finally says, leaning her head on her door once more, one hand over the side of her cheek where the rug made its mark. But the apology sounds small and hollow, and she isn't quite sure what she's apologizing for, but it feels right. She is sorry for so many things that she didn't know where to begin, so she starts again: “Sorry that you had to see me like this. We accidentally ended up drinking a lot.” She swallows the urge to ramble. “The girls are idiots, but they’re good kids. So...whatever you heard, it’s probably nothing?” She pauses for a moment and cranes back to give her apartment a long glance. “I hope whatever you heard wasn’t ual. I swear to god if those two idiots…”

 

Yongsun chuckles, light and airy this time, and Byulyi smiles, the response Pavlovian. “I understand,” she says. “Your friends seem fun.”

 

“Yeah. Sometimes. Until you get to know them,” Byulyi replies. Though she cannot deny the affection for the two girls.

 

“Well, it’s good to know you’re alright. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

 

“Y-yeah. Yeah. I’ll...see you.”

 

With a wave and a smile, Yongsun left. Byulyi can’t bring herself to watch her return to her own suite, and closes her door instead, leaning her back against it with a heavy sigh. The meeting seems like nothing short of a disaster, polite as Yongsun was. She must think I’m some kind of crazy, drunken, maniac, Byulyi thinks sullenly.  

 

“Ahn Hyejin! Jung Wheein!” she shouts. “I’m going to kill both of you!”

 

MONDAY

 

Byulyi locks her door with a sigh. She decides, like she had tried and failed so many times before, to stop waiting at her door for the familiar scrape of wood and metal. It’s a success, but it doesn’t feel right when she reaches out for the elevator button alone. The halls seem so wide suddenly, and every movement seems to echo so loudly.

 

She isn’t ready to face Yongsun, even if she did nothing wrong. To her knowledge. A part of her  wants to knock on her door, rush in and just kiss her. If she thinks she’s crazy anyway, why not? A part of her doesn’t understand why she is so worked up over the short interaction. It didn’t go that poorly, not even in her overplayed memories. It was certainly one of the longest interactions that they’ve ever shared. If only she didn't get swept along so easily. If only those two idiots didn't have a crazy, drunken Rihanna concert by themselves in the middle of the goddamn night.

 

It's too late for regrets. As much as she wants to indulge in the art of fruitless complaining, maybe things are just not meant to be. Yeah, she's afraid to know what Yongsun really thinks of her. And, yeah, she wants to know where this damn longing can go. She can’t possibly spend every day of her life craving her proximity, stuttering like a fool just to try and unravel her secrets, one layer at a time. But what else can she do?

 

“Why are you such a ing coward?”

 

That was Hyejin. Caught in the heat of their argument yesterday, they’d fired up all the wrong weapons, ripped out all the wrong chords, and Byulyi had sent them both out the door at the pinnacle of her anger.

 

“Unnie, this is stupid.”

 

That was Wheein. Just as Hyejin was dragging her off by the hand, she had given her this look. Wide, sad eyes that reflected the irrationality Byulyi had spent so long denying.

 

This is stupid.

 

She steps into the elevator, dreading the thought of work. The thought of working with the wild and unruly Hyejin after their fight gives her goosebumps. She trusts their friendship to mend, knowing how her moods can be. She trusts her to be professional, but she knows that she won’t make it easy.

 

The work day passes in a wave of stunted conversations and quiet sighs. Wheein comes in after class with a small cake during the extra hours they spend working on Hyejin’s track, and Byulyi watches, poking at her own piece with a fork as Wheein feeds away the anger in Hyejin’s eyes. There are no snide comments this time when Wheein wipes the cream from Hyejin’s bottom lip with her thumb. Instead, she simply admires—though not without a tinge of envy—the beauty of the composition: the image of Hyejin’s lips against Wheein's cheek, their open smiles when Hyejin thanks her for the cake, the way Wheein leans into the palm of Hyejin’s hand on her back, and the way Hyejin does the same when Wheein cups her cheek, gently reprimanding her about her temper. Byulyi wonders if they notice these things too.

 

The sun has long set by the time Byulyi stumbles into her lobby. She rolls a shoulder back and stretches, feels the fatigue right down to her bones as she shuffles toward the elevator.

 

“Byulyissi,” a surprised voice says.

 

Byulyi whirls around, and is immediately met with a mirrored look of surprise. Yongsun strides toward her, her hair bouncing in waves around her shoulders, with a man trailing closely behind. He has the kind of face you’d bring home to your parents then immediately ditch on the curb, Byulyi thinks. His presence behind Yongsun is a challenge, and she straightens her spine immediately in response. He looks on with a sweet smile that Byulyi wants to punch off his face. Not that she really would. He looks like such a nice, teddy bear kind of guy that it's unfair. She can't even hate him! It's just not right.

 

The surprise quickly descends into polite bows and tight smiles. The concierge looks up at them from his newspaper with a quirked brow.

 

“Hi,” Yongsun says sweetly, “how are you feeling today?”

 

“Better,” Byulyi replies, pushing her hair along the curve of her head and to the side. “How are you?”

 

They exchange pleasantries all the way to the elevator, and it isn’t until the button is pressed and Byulyi’s eyes have flickered between them a dozen times that Yongsun seems to remember the man behind her.

 

“Oh!” She raises a hand and presents him like a consolation prize. “This is Eric.” Eric waves. Stupidly, Byulyi adds.

 

But she plays it cool and extends a hand. The American way, she thinks. They take a step forward to enter the arena, where he grips her hand firmly with a weak, mismatched smile. His hand is a little clammy, maybe a few shades shy of holding a small monsoon in his palm, and it takes more muscle control than she had to hide the grimace. Fortunately, she didn't have long to think about the warm fish sausages around her hand--he gives her an unexpectedly strong shake that sends her stumbling into Yongsun, who reflexively presses her palms into her shoulders.

 

Her face must be a thousand degrees hot by the time she finds her footing—finds her hands on Yongsun’s hips, and Yongsun’s hands on her shoulder. Her sweet scent is intoxicating. Byulyi wants nothing more than to push the boyfriend aside and kiss her until they both forget their own name. But she notices the embarrassed shade of pink on Yongsun’s face, hears the awkward laugh. Reality closes in, and she leaps away.

 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, straightening herself up once more to resist the urge to calm her racing heart with a flattened palm. She clears and stands just a little too far. Yongsun shakes her head and gives her a  little smile. Byulyi shifts her longing gaze to the glowing white button. Please hurry, she begs her promise of escape.

 

But the elevator couldn't care less. The numbers seem to stop on every floor, just to spite her.

 

“Have you eaten yet, Byulyissi?” Yongsun says politely.

 

The question takes her aback. She presses a hand on her stomach. The empty cough echoing inside tells her she hasn’t eaten since Wheein’s cake hours ago. “Ah, I must’ve forgotten,” Byulyi says sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck to avoid Yongsun’s eyes.

 

“I'm thinking of making dinner. Do you want to join us? We always make too much anyway.”

 

She blinks up at them, unsure if she heard correctly. Unsure if she wants to hear correctly. The elevator dings, and she has the seconds it takes to walk inside to come up with an answer before she falls outside social decorum. “That sounds cozy,” she says, buying herself another moment to panic. She wants more than anything to get to know Yongsun. But to see her in her own domestic world, her an observer—she doesn’t know if she can do it. “I don’t want to intrude.”

 

“Oh! It’s no trouble at all!” She adds softly, “Really.”

 

Byulyi meets her gaze, sees it reflected on all sides in her peripheral, and gives Eric a long, weary look. “Really, I don’t want to interrupt your evening,” she says, hoping her voice sounds less bitter than she felt. “Enjoy yourselves.”

 

“Are you sure?” It’s Eric who speaks this time, his voice stupidly warm to match his stupidly kind face. “We’re just having tteokbokki. It’s Yongsun’s favourite.” He smiles down at her affectionately, but Yongsun doesn't look. Her expectant gaze stubbornly adamant on giving Byulyi a heart attack.

 

She wants to say yes.

 

“No,” she says instead, “I should get to bed.”

 

There’s a flicker of something in Yongsun’s eyes, but the elevator dings and the door slides open. All she catches is a resigned sigh and a gentle goodbye.

 

And all she can think about is how lucky Eric is to be sharing a plate of homemade tteokbokki with a woman like Yongsun.

 

TUESDAY

 

Byulyi wakes up groggy on a hot Tuesday morning.

 

She had spent the night cycling between what ifs and half-hearted vows to give up altogether. As she sat at her dining room reading the same two lines on her open novel last night, she thought she heard a murmur in the halls, and, against her better judgement, poked her head out just in time to see Eric say goodbye. The clock had struck midnight an hour ago, but at least he didn't stay the night. Not that it’s any of her business. Yongsun is a grown woman. She can do whatever she wants. Whoever she wants, she adds with a lump in .

 

She listens at her front door at the usual time, and doesn’t wait. She expects the day to breeze by, much like yesterday. One day will be easier than the next, and, eventually, breathing will be easier. Maybe one day, they’ll even be friends.

 

She doesn’t expect to trip over the gift on her doorstep.

 

It’s like discovering a treasure chest when she picks up the small, pink cotton bag by the straps and sets it on her dining table. She fishes out the periwinkle blue, plastic lunchbox, holds it delicately between her hands. It’s still warm. It must be a mistake. But the slip of paper at the bottom of the bag, with her name in pink pen printed neatly along the top, seems to indicate otherwise. She picks it up like a leaf of gold between her fingers. The stationary, framed by cherry blossoms, is as cute as the round handwriting. “Please remember to eat,” the note says simply. "Your neighbour, Kim Yongsun."

 

It can't be. She stares at the signature while the minutes crawl by. It can't be, yet here it is, the letters heartbreakingly impassive yet hopelessly warm. Your neighbour, Byulyi chuckles, as if she can ever forget. 

 

But still, this can't be. 

 

Byulyi’s heart stops when she removes the lid. Tteokbokki. No, no, no, It can't be. This can’t be red, glistening, homemade tteokbokki swimming before her eyes. She was ready to skip breakfast until the work day begins, but the big, marshmallowy rice cakes look so delicious and inviting. Any progress she had made in forgetting Yongsun is gone in a heartbeat.

 

She covers the container, packs it into her work bag, and carries it, along with the butterflies, to work.

 

“Wow, someone’s got a gross smile on their face today,” Hyejin says as she steps out of the booth. “Thank god I didn’t notice it earlier. Your face would’ve ruined my voice.”

 

“She’s been grinning all day, Hyejinie,” Wheein says, swivelling around in her chair, “but she won’t tell me what happened. Make it stop. It’s freaking me out.” She rolls over to Hyejin and hands her a bottle of water, which is received with a quick kiss on the lips.

 

“You’re both so rude.”

 

“Yet you’ve still got that creepy smile on your face,” Hyejin shoots back. “So, are you going to join us for lunch? We’re gonna order in since Wheein has work to do.”

 

She has been waiting for this moment all day. Has been mentally practicing her triumphant smirk for this very moment. Not even Hyejin’s exasperated eyeroll can ruin this for her. “Actually,” she says with a flip of her hair, “I brought my own.”

 

The looks on her friends’ faces is exactly what she is looking for, sending Byulyi into a fit of laughter that folds her over and nearly topples her off her chair.

 

“You...cooked?” Wheein asks incredulously.

 

“No,” she replies, wiping a stray tear. “I didn’t cook.”

 

“She probably just bought it from the convenience store,” Hyejin says with another roll of her eyes.

 

“Nope.”

 

They gape, first at her, then at each other in astounding synchronicity. “Spill!” Hyejin demands. Wheein nods eagerly. But Byulyi just shrugs, and makes her way to the break room. They follow her in a storm of noise, ranging from pleading to whining to demanding, a flurry of “Unniiie” uttered at every pitch, volume, and tone.

 

“What the is that?” Hyejin breaths when Byulyi pulls out the blue box from the fridge.

 

“A lunch box.”

 

“A handmade lunch box? Like...with love?”

 

Byulyi removes the lid and gingerly places the box in the microwave. She turns back to the girls with a satisfied grin while the microwave purred. “Someone made it for me, that’s all.”

 

“That was tteokbokki, wasn’t it?” Wheein says.

 

“Homemade tteokbokki,” Hyejin adds.

 

“Who made it for you, unnie?”

 

“Yeah, you don’t just casually take the time to make food for people for no reason. Even Wheein doesn’t make me lunchboxes.”

 

“Hey! You don’t make me lunch either.”

 

At the familiarly obnoxious beep, she retrieves the smoking box from the microwave and carefully sets it down on the table. Hyejin and Wheein scramble to sit in front of her, forks ready in hand. Byulyi frowns. “I’m not sharing this,” she says, pushing her lunch closer toward herself.

 

“What? No! You’re not keeping that to yourself.”

 

“Yeah, it looks so delicious!”

 

Byulyi sticks out her tongue. “Get your own.”

 

Wheein turns to Hyejin when realization dawns. “It’s from Yongsunssi, isn’t it?”

 

Hyejin lifts her glare just long enough to return Wheein’s awed expression. She narrows her eyes at the box. “No way. Is it? No. What? Oh my god, is it really?”

 

“She was just being nice,” Byulyi says with a shrug. She spears a rice cake with a fork, and admires the red sauce sliding off, clinging on. The first bite is delicious. The second, addicting. She sighs blissfully, eyes closed as she attempts to capture every nuance in the flavour and texture.

 

“You look like you just wet your pants in all the wrong ways.”

 

“Hyejin!”

 

But Byulyi doesn’t apologize. It’s the best tteokbokki she’s ever had.

 

“It’s okay.” Her eyes snap open at the sound of Hyejin’s muffled voice, and glares at the offending rice cakes on each of the girls’ forks.

 

“I told you I’m not sharing!” she cries, holding the box nearly to her chest.

 

“Well, it’s not bad,” Wheein supplies, ignoring her. “Not the best either.”

 

“Texture’s pretty good.”

 

“You don’t really like tteokbokki though, Wheeinie, and this isn’t spicy enough for you.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right.”

 

“You two are horrible,” Byulyi huffs.

 

“But you know, unnie,” Wheein says, reaching over to wipe off a hint of sauce left over on Hyejin’s lip with a pinky, “this is pretty beyond normal neighbourly kindness.”

 

Byulyi shrugs again, even though she wants to sing at the mere thought of Wheein’s implications. “I met her boyfriend last night. They even invited me up for dinner. They probably just made too much and stuff.”

 

“Are you sure that was her boyfriend?” Hyejin asks.

 

Byulyi chews. Doesn’t say anything.

 

“Yeah,  if I wanted to have a nice romantic evening with Hyejin, I’m certainly not  going to go around inviting my neighbour to join in. Even if it’s you.”

 

“I feel like I’m enough of a third-wheel without a formal invitation,” Byulyi says with quirked  brow. She gestures to their clasped hands and wandering eyes. “Like right now. Like pretty much every time I see the two of you together.”

 

“Wheein has a point,” Hyejin says, waving her free hand around in emphasis. “Did you see them all lovey-dovey?”

 

“Not every couple needs to be as gross as you two.”

 

“Yeah, but there are little things!” Wheein chirps. “Little brushes, looks. I don’t know. Chemistry? Body language? You can just tell if they’re really in love.”

 

Byulyi shakes her head. “Don’t get my hopes up, Wheeinie. I’m...I’m just going to return the container tonight and that’s it. I’m not even going to think about coming in between a beautiful couple. They...look good together.”

 

“So do you. I can see it,” Hyejin says with a tilt of her head. “We weren’t lying when we saw her the other day in the lobby. She saw us holding hands and told us we’re cute. I mean, anyone with eyes can see that we’re cute, but not many people would openly say it, you know?” Wheein nodded eagerly. “Maybe you should try harder before you give up.”

 

Wheein shakes her head, gives Hyejin a slight nudge in the shoulder with her own. “That’s not up to us, Hyejinie,” she says. Then she turns to Byulyi. “Unnie, I just hope you know that no matter what kind of silly thoughts you’ve been having, you deserve a girl who makes you tteokbokki and packs it in a pretty blue lunchbox as much as the next person.”

 

Byulyi swallows the remainder of her rice cake, the sweet and spicy burn leaving a warm buzz in her stomach. She doesn’t know what to say.

 

It’s another late night as the deadline for Hyejin’s new album draws close, and the entire neighbourhood seems to be empty by the time she gets back to her complex. She gives the concierge a nod that goes unnoticed from behind the newspaper, and runs a hand through her hair, shuffles along--thankful that no one is around. The elevator arrives as soon as the button is pressed, and it’s just her and her reflections all the way up. So she whistles the tune of Hyejin’s new song, sputtering to a stop when the elevator doors stops on her floor.

 

She puts her things down and takes out the lunchbox. You can’t return a box empty, she thinks as she rinses it out. And maybe this is just the opportunity she needs. Eric or no Eric. If only her fridge wasn’t so damn empty.

 

WEDNESDAY

 

The concierge doesn’t look up from his newspaper when she jogs through the lobby a second time. And when she passes him for the third time, with bags full of groceries, he’s engrossed in a drama blasting through the crackly speakers of his cell phone. Oh, but of course she forgets the eggs. She patters by him a fourth time. When she returns to pass him for the fifth time, he finally looks up. “Go to bed, Byulyissi. It’s almost two in the morning,” he grumbles. “Crazy young people.”

 

She simply laughs and returns to the apartment, shivering with excitement.

 

Three hours later, her kitchen is a wasted battlefield: dirty bowls, spatulas, spoons, and cups fighting for space along globs of wasted batter and burnt crumbs. The recipe was supposed to be simple. Except recipes are seldom foolproof, and Byulyi is just the kind of culinary fool who can’t tell between salt and sugar, the difference between tablespoon and teaspoon. Five trays of cookies later, there are just enough perfect—or nearly perfect—little circles to fill the blue box. The rest, though edible, range from innocuously misshapen messes to this-is-not-how-cookies-should-taste. Avant garde cookies, she decides, as she throws all of it into a big paper bag. She scribbles “Hyejin” and “Wheein” on the side of the bag with a marker and a grin. They’ll appreciate the treat, she thinks, even if it’s a game of Russian roulette. Maybe they’ll appreciate the adventure.

 

By the time the kitchen is clean, and the box is packed into the cotton bag with a painstakingly crafted two-line note, the sky is the colour of flame. It’s too late to sleep now, her watch tells her. Running on her last dregs of adrenaline, she quickly sneaks out into the hall and drops the bag off by Yongsun’s door.

 

By the time her alarm rings for the day, she is exiting a coffee shop, a large coffee in hand, and well on her way to work. The streets are empty as the sun awakens alongside Seoul. She reaches out to catch the light in her fingers, and smiles at the way it sets her fingers ablaze. She thinks back to her note, and wonders if Yongsun will let her step into her light in the same way.

 

“Thank you for the food,” she had written simply. “It was delicious. Please join me for dinner tomorrow and allow me to return the favour.”

 

It’s formal. Cordial. But it was the hardest sentence she had ever written. All she can do now is wait. Grip her phone tightly, hope Yongsun will see her number scribbled on the bottom, and wait.

 

Nothing.

 

She waits all day, and nothing.

 

They finish Hyejin’s album and the release date is set. Tears and hugs and cheers wash in from every direction. But there is also nothing. She can barely force a smile, even when Wheein and Hyejin prank the entire company with her salty and misshapen cookies. Even when the everyone else is swept with beer and joy in the celebration, she and her phone sit silently.

 

Hyejin and Wheein pour beer down to muffle the sting of rejection. “Months of work, unnie,” Hyejin says, shaking her head, “don’t let one girl ruin that for you.” Byulyi nods, even though it’s too late.

 

Several more drinks allow her to forget long enough to enjoy the party. Several more after that has her staggering into the lobby of her building. Someone calls her name, but the ground is moving too much for her to respond. All she knows is that her whole body is heavy, gravity is not her friend, and that the elevator button needs to stop moving. Finally, the button lights up and blooms into five more buttons in her blurry vision. She watches, mesmerized, wondering how the building managed to install moving buttons.

 

Her eyes struggle to stay open. Darkness.

 

God damn her jaw hurts.

 

She opens her eyes to find herself sprawled across the floor of the elevator. Her arms flail all around her, scratching at the walls for something to hold onto, but comes up empty. Lying down is always easier than standing. And so she resigns. 

 

She hears her name again.

 

She slurs something vaguely resembling a question. Damn, it’s warm. She claws at her shirt. The fabric itches. She just wants to take everything off, but it’s so damn hard to keep her eyes open.

 

It’s warm.

 

Comfortable.

 

And she is so, so sleepy.

 

THURSDAY

 

Something jolts her awake, and it rattles her brains. With a groan, both hands reach for her throbbing head. I’m never drinking again, she silently vows. Her body screams regret in her face, and the fiery morning sun seems to have a personal vendetta against her. She twists around in her blankets, away from her window.

 

Wait.

 

How did she get in bed?

 

She shoots up, instantly regretting it as pain blossoms along her jaw, and howls. Her hand clasps against the injury, but it isn’t enough to contain the jabbing—a thousand tiny knives, all concentrated in a concerted effort to make her life miserable.

 

A quick patter of bare feet across hardwood sounds in another room, and stops at the threshold. “Are you okay?” A soft voice floats in.

 

Byulyi widens her eyes. In her doorway, Kim Yongsun stood, tentatively watching from behind the frame, her hair mussed, pajamas wrinkled, yet somehow looking more attractive than ever. “Y-Yongsunssi,” she gasps.

 

Then, one after another, things begins to sink in. This blanket isn’t hers. The window, the dresser, the table, the mirror, the photographs. None of these things are hers. Even the long, cotton T-shirt on her body isn’t hers. The realization sets her cheeks on fire.

 

Yesterday. She doesn’t remember anything. Again.

 

As if sensing the question on her tongue, Yongsun explains. “The concierge saw you in the lobby last night. Do you remember coming in?”

 

Byulyi shakes her head.

 

“Well, you fell into the elevator and bruised your jaw. He brought you up to our floor, and we couldn’t find your keys, so...here we are. Oh, um, here. I boiled an egg for you. In case you woke up early. Ah, hold on.” She disappears, nervously almost, then returns with a hardboiled egg. Byulyi reaches out, but Yongsun shakes her head. “Let me,” she says, seating herself close enough for their thighs to touch.

 

“Bear with me, okay?” she whispers, fingers reaching up to caress the side of Byulyi’s face.

 

She tries not to wince when the warm egg rolls across her bruise—Yongsun is so close, and she doesn’t want to jeopardize the moment in any way. “Does it hurt?” Yongsun says, her voice low with concern.

 

“No.”

 

Byulyi doesn’t know what compels her to cover Yongsun’s hand with her own, but it feels right somehow, and she blames the hangover when she doesn’t fight the instinct. In a single moment, when she feels Yongsun tense at her touch, she chokes. She was on the verge of letting her go and running away, once and for all. From that moment alone.

 

But she bites the bullet and waits.  

 

The egg stops. Time stops. The air between them, thick with anticipation, feels like swimming in jello. Yongsun relaxes, tugging a smile on Byulyi’s lips. Slowly, carefully, like taming a wild animal, Byulyi inches her hand into Yongsun’s hair, and sweeps it back behind her ear.

 

The details on her face are mesmerizing, and the words escape before she could reel them back. “You’re so beautiful.”

 

Yongsun gasps softly.

 

The words feel like a weight off her chest, and for the first time, despite her sore, sleep-addled state, Byulyi isn’t nervous. Even if this is her first and last moment with Yongsun, it feels like breathing. But better. Suddenly she isn’t sure whether she’d ever come across this feeling before. It’s so delicate and new, and surely this must be transient. Something so beautiful can’t be hers forever. But she has to know. Has to know if, at the very least, she can keep a souvenir of this moment.

 

“May I kiss you?” Byulyi whispers.

 

She watches through hazy eyes as Yongsun swallows. She can feel the slight vibrations of her nervous fingers along her own cheek, the warmth of her glowing face, and the breath of air on her lips as she exhales her consent.

 

Byulyi runs a thumb along the line of Yongsun’s cheek. Soft, pillowy, and sweet. Her eyes flutter close as she tries to memorize every dip and curve of her lips against her own. But she wills herself to pull away. Wills herself not to dirty something so chaste and beautiful. Most of all, she wills herself not to cry.

 

“You’re crying,” Yongsun whispers, wiping away the stray tears from the corner of her eyes.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Why are you sorry? That was...really nice,” she says with a shy smile. Byulyi’s heart leaps, but she tears her gaze away toward the window, squinting into the morning sun just to avoid losing herself in her eyes.

 

“I’m...I’m glad,” Byulyi says. “Thank you.”

 

Three gentle fingers press against her cheek, carefully avoiding the bruise, and turns her head. “Why are you thanking me?” Yongsun asks, her dancing brown eyes boring into her own.

 

“F-For...letting me...e-e-experience.” She takes a breath before continuing: “For letting me experience something I’ve only dared to dream about before.”

 

Yongsun says nothing, but she doesn't move away. She simply smiles, and nuzzles into Byulyi’s palm.

 

“Eric is a lucky man,” Byulyi finally says, a half-hearted smile hanging lopsided on her lips, “I hope he treasures you.”

 

“What?”

 

Yongsun drops her hand. The egg rolls off the bed with a crack, cutting through the silence like shattered glass.

 

“Eric?”

 

Byulyi musters up a more convincing smile as she picks up Yongsun’s hands from her lap, cradling them in her own. “Look,” she says. “I...like you a lot. You’re the sweetest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, but I’m not...going to get in the way of your happiness. I’m...more than happy to be your friend, and—”

 

“There’s nothing between me and Eric.”

 

“What?”

 

“He and I...He’s like a brother to me, as much as my parents hate that. He can be a little overprotective, but he's been my guardian angel since I came out to my parents. I...well...it's a complicated history and...um”—her hands break free of Byulyi’s to loop around and interlace their fingers together—“maybe I can tell you about it over dinner tonight? That's...if you still want to.”

 

Byulyi blinked. “Y-yeah! O-of course! I just...thought…I didn't hear from you….so I thought….”

 

Yongsun giggles. “Of course I do,” she says, pressing a soft kiss on her lips. “I’ve wanted to ever since I met you. I tried calling you, you know. To thank you for the cookies and all. But this man kept picking up. I called him so many times that I think he actually got mad at me.”

 

She recites Byulyi’s number by heart to prove her point, and, sure enough, she had either misremembered her own phone number, or had the handwriting of a limbless chicken in the adrenaline-fuelled 3am haze. Her own damn phone number! How did her zero turn into a nine, and her one turn into a seven? Her hands fall from Yongsun’s to bury her face in them while she decides whether to laugh or cry. Maybe both.

 

She doesn’t even want to think about how upset she was yesterday. Over her own silly mistake!

 

Yongsun laughs, openly and loudly--the joy unmistakable in her decibels. But by the time Byulyi looks up, fascinated, Yongsun’s hand had already trapped the sounds inside. “Sorry,” she mumbles into her fingers, “that was really embarrassing.”

 

Byulyi chuckles, and gently peel her fingers from her lips. “Your laugh is really cute,” she whispers into the inch of space between them. “Don’t ever hide it from me, okay?”

 

Yongsun looks up, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip so invitingly that Byulyi boldly closes the space, smiling into it when Yongsun doesn’t pull away. It’s chaste at first, just like their first kiss. She didn’t want to dirty something so beautiful and pure, but when Yongsun’s hands push her down by collarbone, and her legs swing over to straddle her hips, she doesn’t think Yongsun would mind.

 

But she is nothing if not a gentlewoman. It’s with great effort that she manages to pry her hands from Yongsun’s hips, even more so when her hands gently pushes her back by the shoulders. And it takes everything not to pull her back when she sees Yongsun hovering above her on shaking arms, chest heaving, eyes glazed, lips parted. “That...escalated quickly,” Byulyi murmurs. “Maybe we should...slow it down a bit.”

 

It’s unconvincing to her own ears, but Yongsun is far too special for this. Even though she’s never met anyone nearly as magnetic, she knows has to be something more.

 

“Sorry,” Yongsun says, her voice rough with an edge that would’ve destroyed Byulyi’s resolve altogether if Yongsun didn’t fall face-first into the blankets in attempt to scramble off her. When she gets up, she flashes the most endearing smile in hopes to cover her clumsiness. Byulyi laughs, and climbs off the bed. With a flourish, she offers Yongsun a hand from the foot of her bed, and pulls her up.

 

Toe to toe, heart to heart, Byulyi runs a thumb across Yongsun’s cheeks. They exchange a smile, relishing in the intimacy of proximity.

 

“Maybe,” Yongsun says shyly, tucking her hair behind her ear, “you'd be interested in joining me for breakfast too?”

 

Byulyi grins. She’s certain that she looks like an idiot, but nothing is further from her mind as she envisions breakfasts, lunches, and dinners every day beside this woman. It’s too soon. Maybe it’s too soon. But god does it make her grin like an idiot.  

 

Besides, she's waited long enough.

 

“I’d love to.”

 

END

 

--

 

Notes: Hello everybody! Thank you for reading to the end. I know this collection is originally supposed to only feature long works, but...suffice to say that I went super overboard. I decided to not post this as a separate piece. The reasons being:

a) it's too much a part of the Songbook, and

b) I learned that I really dislike writing in present tense. I feel that this was more of a practice piece than anything else, and it will probably be the only long piece in present tense. It's amazing what a difference it makes!

Also, if you haven't already, please watch Avicii's music video for this song! I watched it halfway through writing this, and it's just really beautiful. I may or may not have shed a tear or two for it. 

As usual, comments, subs, upvotes, and even you, my dear lurkers, are very much appreciated.