you call me up again just to break me like a promise; so casually cruel in the name of being honest

- all too well, taylor swift

Things go as they tend to. Seulgi’s world may have grinded into a complete halt, but it doesn’t for the rest. To them, it’s still spinning, rotating around their own personal axes.

The sun still rises and sets on various times, the moon still waxes and wanes. The hours still turn to days, to weeks, to months.

But Seulgi is reeling out of her own orbit, her days blurring into moments simply spent trying to breathe without feeling like there’s a spear that pins her heart in its place.

(It’s worse when she hears Irene’s name. Seulgi feels like she’s suddenly jumping off a cliff and diving straight into freezing water, and ice and needles puncture her lungs, letting all the water in until she’s drowning.

It’s worst when she sleeps, dreams, and jolts awake in sweats and wet sobs—to her hand grasping at the air, reaching for a face that’s no longer there.)

Things go, and Seulgi supposes it’s only really a matter of time until she crosses paths with Irene again. They may work in different circles but they have the same set of friends, the same people in their lives that Seulgi will never have the heart to abandon no matter what happens.

This is exactly what she tells herself when Eunji blows her phone up with five consecutive are you really sure? messages, and a phone call after it takes Seulgi longer than a minute to reply.

“It’s just—I just really need your help,” Eunji stutters nervously. Seulgi doesn’t have to see her to picture the way she’s gnawing at her lips.

She cradles the phone in between her ear and her shoulder, freeing a hand to grab a pair of tight black jeans hanging in their—her—half-empty walk-in closet.

(How ironic, really. She used to complain about getting more closet room, and now she has more space than she knows what to do with.)

She slips it on and walks out, grabs a pair of shoes along the way while pointedly averting her gaze from the completely made bed that she hasn’t changed the sheets of, since the day Irene rolled her suitcase out of the apartment door. “It’s fine, Eunji,” she replies. Still, the line is silent, so she adds, “I can handle it.”

“Yeah?” The woman on the other line asks, seeking some form of assurance. And for a moment, Seulgi curses the fact that between her and all of her friends, she’s known as the one who wears her heart out on her sleeve. “You really think so? You won’t... I don’t know, scowl the entire time or something?”

“I’m not gonna break down and cry, Eunji,” Seulgi gripes, because despite the innoxious words, she knows what Eunji really means. They’ve been friends for a while now after all. “It’s just lunch, right? I don’t even have to make small talk. Or talk to her at all.”

Eunji turns quiet once more. Seulgi would think she has hung up on her, if not for the sound of her breathing. Then, she murmurs, “Seulgi, I’m sorry.”

Seulgi drops the shoe strings with a sigh that rings all over the line; and the pretense that she wants to tie a perfect knot, when she’s really just lacing them to have something to spend half her mind on while trying to get through the conversation. She straightens up, dropping her weight against the couch’s rest, and then clutches the phone back within her hand. “What for?”

“For making you do this. Even though I know you’re not ready.”

Seulgi almost says that she’ll never be so it won’t really make any difference. But it’s going to lead to more doubts coming from Eunji, ones that she doesn’t have the energy to reassure when she barely can even convince her own self.

Besides, she knows that whatever Eunji has planned, it’s too vital to miss, and so she just sighs once more. “It’s okay.” She tips her head back, letting it fall on the curve that tops the couch rest. Her eyes fix on that spot on her ceiling where the wallpaper is starting to peel off, thinks she should get on that soon before it collapses on her too. “I can spend an hour or so in a room with her. For Wendy.”

Eunji’s breath of relief wafts to Seulgi’s line, louder than she probably intended. “Thank you, Seulgom-ah,” she says. Her voice is full of gratitude that Seulgi can’t help but feel a little better. “I just—I know I haven’t really been the most helpful friend lately, being swamped with cases and all. Hell, I don’t even think I’ve been a good wife. But, Seul, you’re not alone, okay? I’m here. Wendy and I, are.”

“You’re trying to keep the city safe,” Seulgi justifies. “Besides, I’m fine.”

She checks the time on her wristwatch, sees that it’s a good hour and a half till the lunch Eunji is calling her about. She still has ample time to spend on walking around aimlessly while trying to get used to the ache that she knows will flood her once she steps inside the same room, and another vein is torn open, adding to the ones she hasn’t even stitched closed.

“Everything’s gonna be fine.”

…

Everything is not fine.

Irene glides through the restaurant’s doors and into their table like the goddess Seulgi has always regarded her as, and Seulgi is completely, physically unable to look away.

She’s the last to arrive, blowing in in her dark blue scrubs like a hurricane that Seulgi isn’t prepared to handle. A crisis that smiles taut at Seulgi, and bows at her out of courtesy and manners Seulgi knows Irene has been strictly raised with.

Seulgi returns the smile in kind, bows so low her forehead almost hits the table. In another time, Joy, who’s sitting right in front of her, would have laughed. But there’s nothing humorous about the stiffness that takes over Seulgi’s entire form, and the strained clench of Irene’s jaw as she sinks down on the chair next to Yeri, one seat away from Seulgi.

It feels hot inside the restaurant despite the cold Autumn breeze that seeps through the gap beneath the double doors. The heat lingers even after Eunji clears , wrapping around Seulgi’s head like a globe that’s starting to take all the air away.

“So, uh,” Eunji begins to say. “Thanks again for coming to help me plan this surprise baby shower for Wendy.”

“You didn’t really give us a choice, unnie,” Yeri teases while Joy chuckles in agreement. Seulgi feels her grip on both sides of her chair slightly go lax, though whatever is wringing her heart doesn’t ease.

Eunji shoots Yeri a grateful look upon seeing Irene smirk in agreement too. “I know, I know. And yes, it’s in a month but, work isn’t really giving me that much free time so I have to start putting it together early, you know?” She flips her handy notebook onto its back and quickly leafs through the pages, until she reaches the checklist written on one of the blank sheets at the middle. “So, Joy and Yeri are going to take care of the balloons. And Wendy’s mom will be baking the cupcakes we’re going to give away.”

“Do you have a venue yet?” Irene asks. Seulgi’s knee, in turn, jerks of its own accord. “I know a place that you can rent. It’s a ten-minute walk from Haseong Med.”

Seulgi knows that Eunji utters a reply. She hears her voice, but it sounds like it’s muffled by water and not one of Eunji’s words makes sense because her brain is suddenly tuning everything out that isn’t the soft lilt of Irene’s tone, while the rest of her entire being is too busy telling herself to breathe.

She almost misses Eunji calling her name. And it’s only out of pure luck that she gets to respond in time; a bullet she considers dodged even though Joy regards her with narrowed eyes b with curiosity.

(Seulgi promised that she can handle it. She has failed one person enough, and she refuses to add more to that list.)

“The uhm, cake,” Eunji explains at Seulgi’s soft yeah?.

She seems anxious now, and a lot concerned. Seulgi pretends not to notice and recedes inside her head, flipping through the things she did manage to catch as she looks for anything she missed before cake.

There’s nothing, and so Seulgi lets out a heavy breath then says, “What about it?”

“Eunji-unnie wants to know if you can take care of it,” Yeri repeats Eunji’s words; for once, she isn’t teasing. “Since Joy and I will have to drive around the city to get most of the party needs. And Joohyun-unnie’s gonna take care of the decorations.”

“Uh, sure,” Seulgi agrees, swallowing visibly at the mention of Irene’s name. “Carrot, right?”

Everyone rounding their table freezes, including herself—especially herself. And Seulgi has to scramble for more words because, , , that’s not it. “I mean, red velvet?”

She doesn’t dare cast a glance at Irene’s direction, keeping her gaze only at Eunji. It is credit to the latter’s years of facing hardened cutthroats that her face doesn’t pull in any way, and simply answers matter-of-factly, “Yes, red velvet.”

But at the corner of her eye, Seulgi can see the way Irene swallows and screws her eyes shut, expelling her breath slowly through pursed lips. It’s a dead giveaway that she’s wrestling with herself, and is trying to regain some semblance of control.

Back then, it usually took Seulgi’s warm palm on the small of her back for the moment to pass. And now, God, Seulgi wants to do just more than that. She wants to kiss her so bad it almost physically hurts. Kiss her and beg her to come back home, tell her that she’s lost without her, and that she no longer knows how to be alone.

But Irene looks fine again at her next breath, polite and completely composed; her lips pressed together in a half-smile that’s more than Seulgi ever got when Irene first arrived.

And Seulgi can’t help but think that maybe, Irene doesn’t really need her anymore.

…

They bid each other goodbye with the same damn smile, terse and overly civil than ever before. Seulgi bows; Irene bows back.

But Seulgi walks out of the restaurant first. She has watched Irene turn her back and leave one too many times, she doesn’t think whatever’s left of her heart can bear one more.

…

The cold settles in completely in the week that passes. It’s almost glacial despite the humidity on the overcast days, following Seulgi wherever she goes like a shadow. Or her own ghosts.

It sticks to her skin, permeates her bones, and she finds herself rubbing her palms together for what little warmth her empty hands can offer more often than not.

(Irene’s hand in between hers used to be enough; their fingers twining inside the pocket of Seulgi’s trench coat was akin to cupping a steaming mug of tea to her chest on snowy days.)

But it’s proving to be a difficult task right now, having to alternate it with pushing a practically empty grocery cart while she weaves through display cans and vacant aisles.

She has finally run out of something to eat that isn’t mouldy pickles or expired soup in a can, and has gone through probably every single food chain that delivers takeout. And so she puts three layers of clothing on, and walks her way to the grocery store fifteen blocks down from her apartment complex.

The store isn’t crowded, thankfully; a very convenient happenstance to Seulgi’s plan of simply zipping in and out. She ambles to the row of bottled waters first, grabbing three regular-sized ones from the closest brand she spots. The cereals are next, where Seulgi snags the first box of cornflakes whose name she barely pays attention to, and then the snacks aisle where she picks the smallest can of original-flavored Pringles over her usual.

She’s making her way to the nearest counter when her feet swivels to the left—she’d say it’s reflex, the kind of muscle memory rooted in her marrows—and the next thing she knows, she’s cruising by the laundry aisle and the smell of fabric conditioners are suddenly invading her senses.

Seulgi feels a little lightheaded from the strong scents that surround her air, their sundry whiffs grazing her nose. It’s worse on an empty stomach, she vaguely remembers that fact (though she immediately blocks the memory that comes right next: how she knew about it); and so she scrambles to her feet, stalking towards the other end of the rather long aisle.

It’s weak, all things considered. Seulgi’s definitely had worse head rushes upon waking up. But there’s a woman who turns to the very same aisle, struggling to push a cart half-full, and Seulgi suddenly finds her own hollowed chest being ripped open.

She’s no medical expert; it has always been her ex—Irene’s field, yet, Seulgi’s quite sure that it isn’t a vision driven by the scents swirling in her head.

The universe just really, really hates her sometimes.

…

Irene crosses out another item from the list she quickly cobbled up this morning, in between her walks during the last two post-op rounds.

Wednesdays are her new grocery days, a routine she has started mere weeks ago. It admittedly is still taking some getting used to—the hurried scrawl on a haphazardly torn piece of paper an obvious proof—just like how she now goes for a new brand of fabric conditioner that smells nothing like her old one.

(And refraining to wonder if Seulgi still does her grocery on Saturdays, just like before.)

Though, Irene doesn’t really know why she’s chosen a brand that almost always goes on the topmost level of the shelf, when there are literally two other rows full of plausible ones. But she likes the scent, and so she figures she’s just going to have to deal with a few seconds of standing on her toes to snag a medium-sized bottle.

Irene does just that, frees one hand and leans up, her fingers wiggling to move a bottle by the shelf’s edge. But it seems to need a quick re-stocking with hardly six bottles left, and they’re all pushed to a spot she can barely reach.

She drops back on her heels with a huff, her nose crinkling a little. Her next two tries result the same, the closest bottle barely even moving, so she yields with a sigh and just decides to ask for assistance.

She’s about to turn back in search of any stocker in charge when a taller form eclipses the fluorescent lights, casting a faint distorted shadow on the shelf’s rows and a familiar warmth against her side that she hasn’t felt in a while.

Still, Irene startles a little at the outstretched hand that she sees darting up at the corner of her eye; almost jumps out of her skin at the sound of plastic scratching against wood next. And her heart doesn’t settle. It does the exact opposite instead, slamming on her chest as a raspy sorry follows the squeak of wheels on the concrete floor.

Though everything around her seems to slow into a standstill, and what’s left moving are her eyes that slowly trail the clothed limb. From its fingers curled around the bottle to the face that never fails to make Irene’s heart melt and race at the same time; and up to the piercing yet tender gaze that Irene once mapped a future on every night, right in those lasting moments caught at the cusp of falling asleep.

“Hi,” Seulgi greets. Her smile is uncertain, like she’s dreading to see Irene and yet, she craves the littlest sight of her. And she has to at her chapped lips before speaking again. “Here. It looked like you needed some help.”

Irene almost, almost gapes at the taller woman. But she manages not to, scraping enough presence of mind at the very last second; bits and pieces from the worn inches of her skin pieced together like a shield.

Instead, she takes the bottle Seulgi is offering—and if their fingers brush, she pretends that there’s no spark of electricity that shoots straight to her spine, and that she absolutely doesn’t miss the kind of warmth only Seulgi can comfort her with—and carefully places it down in her own cart.

“Thanks,” she tells her, then says, “Fancy meeting you here, huh?”

They both know it’s Irene’s manners in the works that compelled her to speak, out of not really knowing what to say as Irene never expected to run into Seulgi. Still, Seulgi’s eyes arch into half-arcs in response.

(They don’t fold completely like they often do. Not when seeing Irene feels more like a dream she’s not sure she wants to wake up from, no matter how painful living it is.)

“Yeah,” Seulgi answers with a stiff shrug. Irene doesn’t miss the tightness that presses her lips together, and the way she grips the cart’s handle so hard her knuckles are turning white. “I uh—I ran out of stuff.”

Irene promptly glances down at Seulgi’s cart, catching sight of its meager contents. She tries really hard not to frown in disapproval, but it’s barely even full with nothing remotely healthy in it that her brows crease of their own accord. She’s not even sure if she can call bottled waters, a cereal box and a small can of Pringles stuff.

She lets her gaze travel back to Seulgi’s form. Her hair looks a little longer; still unruly on days Seulgi doesn’t bother with primping it up, just like now.

Her shirt is almost hanging loosely on her shoulders. But Irene vividly remembers that it used to be a snug fit, and so she permits herself to look closely, the dip in between her brows etching deeper as she then notices how Seulgi seems skinnier than they have last seen each other.

A week ago. One week, and Seulgi has already visibly lost weight.

Irene doesn’t really know how to feel about that. Her heart twinges harder the longer she studies her, throbs at the idea that Seulgi might not be taking good care of herself.

But she holds her tongue, not wanting to encroach on something she has lost the right to the minute the tip of her pen hit the smooth surface of white paper, and the life she shared with her ended in just three .

And so Irene merely nods in response, unable to find the words. All she has is an I see, because Seulgi’s warmth is so distracting, and so are her eyes, staring at her like that. Like she’s still the best thing that has ever happened to her despite everything.

“I guess I’ll be going,” Seulgi starts to say when it dawns on her that Irene isn’t going to say anything else. But she pauses at please, seemingly debating with herself whether or not she should continue her thoughts. Though, in the end, she does. “Please always take care of yourself, Joohyun.”

...

She loses sight of Seulgi in between the laundry and kitchenware aisles, only to see her again crossing the parking lot as she’s stuffing the plastic bags inside the trunk of her car.

(Odd, really, if Irene thinks about it. She’s quite certain Seulgi would be halfway on her drive home by the time all of her groceries have been bagged, and not walking past the taxi bay and out to the street only now.

Unless Seulgi waited for her. But Irene refuses to entertain such kind of mind-addling thoughts even for a second.)

The drops of rain falling from the sky do not give Irene the chance to dwell on it. Giant drops that sound angry as they bounce off of the roof of her car, the wetness splashing through parts of her hoodie and breaking Irene’s thoughts.

She scrambles to the driver’s side for shelter; turns the ignition on just as she’s sliding in on the smooth leather seat to fill the inside with heat. Irene doesn’t really wait for her engine to warm up, and hurriedly pulls out of her parking space in a race to get back to the apartment before the gutters turn the roads into shallow rivers.

Though it hasn’t even been ten minutes yet traffic is already building up on her usual route. Irene tsks and takes the first jam-free left turn she passes by, rounding back to the grocery store before speeding towards the other end of the street—an elongated drive home.

The rain refuses to let up, fogging the windows of her car when its humidity mixes with the cold Autumn air and the feeble gusts exuding from her car’s heater. It leaves Irene no choice but to turn the heat down to clear the blur; and yet, it isn’t the lack of it that makes her freeze on her seat. It’s the realization that she’s heading down a painfully familiar road that she no longer has any business wandering through.

The lamp post by the apartment complex’s front hasn’t changed at all. It still stands curved, its yellow bulb as dim as ever despite the numerous complaints. The open parking still extends to the structure’s side, still littered with all kinds of cars owned by the complex’s occupants.

Theirs was numbered forty three, a space they opted to take rather than one from inside the building’s basement, because Seulgi couldn’t quite remember how to get to the right exit no matter how many times they had driven in and out.

Irene half-expects it to be empty. Seulgi has gone ahead of her just by five minutes after all, and there’s just no way she’d already be home (unless she has ignored every red light she’d be passing by).

But it isn’t. She spots a car—the car—rather easily, glinting amidst the water streaming down her windshield.

Irene’s confusion only grows when she rolls in front of the sleek, blue BMW and checks the plate, staring at the letters and numbers she still knows by heart. A frown quickly takes over, creasing firmer as it dawns on her what it means; that the car is here, looking unused and unmoved for the longest time.

Irene cranks up the wipers before she steps on the gas, gnawing at her bottom lip while the churning in her gut drops to the pit of her stomach.

...

In Seulgi’s defense, it really didn’t look like it would rain when she stepped out of her apartment.

The sky was overcast, yes, she’s going to admit that, but it has been like that for days, and yet, it never rained. Seulgi really didn’t think this day would be any different.

But she was wrong, and now, here she is, stumbling for shelter underneath the shed of the next bus stop she happens upon, shivering in her drenched clothes.

Seulgi’s chin trembles at the jagged breaths she in. Her lungs feel like she’s filled it with shaved ice, and the arms wrapped around herself just pulls tighter in turn, in hopes of trapping the scarce hot air within.

Though, it still escapes through chattering teeth. Seulgi can only watch the puffs of breath that wafts out into the open.

She stares at the wet pavements again after the wisps have swirled away, honestly considering just running her way back to her apartment. But the downpour seems impossible to battle at this rate, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop any time soon either, so Seulgi is left stuck in her dripping clothes and soaked shoes.

She rubs her palms up and down her arms, even up to her shoulders for some poor semblance of heat; suppresses another shiver that threatens to shake her knees.

The rain only seems to pour stronger—like the sky isn’t just crying but angry now, too, all at once—and so Seulgi slinks further back into the shed, sitting on the empty bench as she waits for the moment to pass.

...

Irene perches herself at the edge of the car seat, on her toes in a very literal sense while she cranes her neck and lets her eyes sweep all around the avenue.

It shouldn’t be a struggle, what with the sudden rain ridding the paths of their usual bustle of people. But it’s such a huge city; Seulgi can be anywhere, from the safety of someone else’s home to lying dead in a ditch.

(Her heart aches at both thoughts, one more than the other though Irene isn’t really sure which.)

Her grip on the steering wheel tightens, fingers clamping around the soft leather cover so rigidly that the raised points dig against her skin. It’s not that Seulgi’s in any kind of danger—God, she hopes not—it’s just that, Irene knows fairly well how she gets sick so easily. The longer Seulgi isn’t in front of anything remotely warm to dry her off, the worse her chances of not catching a terrible cold gets.

It takes three corner turns and a narrow, slippery downward drive to find her, with Irene’s heart climbing up in . Seulgi is stooped down, occupied with flicking rain off of her shoes that has been kicked back up from the tires of another speeding car. But Irene will know her form from anywhere, and so she slows to a stop, parking right where Seulgi is.

She puts her window down in a hurry, twisting as much as her seatbelt will let her, and yells amidst the pounding of heavy rain. “Seulgi!”

Seulgi’s head snaps up, her eyes following the direction of the sound. She’s completely taken aback when she finds Irene at the end of it, her gaze latching on onto the way Irene anxiously nips at her bottom lip. Though, she’s more focused on trying to decipher the wild worry that stirs its own storm on Irene’s eyes and the relief that dawns on the rest of Irene’s face, than keeping her own expression straight.

Yet she doesn’t really know what to make of it—that doesn’t stir some kind of hope in her that Irene still cares; one she really can’t afford to feel right now or any time soon—and so Seulgi shifts her eyes, fixing it at the car in front of her instead.

A shiny black car that feels like Irene is truly moving on. (And if Seulgi is searching for something to douse the tiny spark of hope that blooms in her chest, this is it.)

“Seulgi,” Irene calls out again, albeit calmer this time. “Get in. I’ll drive you ho—” She cuts herself off and swallows thickly. Because it’s a word that hurts. Something Irene can’t bring herself to say just yet when home used to mean Seulgi.

Instead, she finishes with, “Back.”

A corner of Seulgi’s lips curve up into a shaky smile, the other anchored in place by the ache she feels punching her gut. “Thanks, but I’m okay,” she replies. It’s as polite and as civil as a refusal can be, despite the burning need to run away because she doesn’t think she’d be able to stand close to Irene for more than ten minutes without getting close to tears, let alone sit next to her in an enclosed space, with no one but the two of them. “I can just wait for it to stop.”

Irene doesn’t speak for a long second. She only quietly stares at Seulgi, even though the latter is refusing to meet her eyes. Until she lets go of another breath that almost sounds pleading, then says, “It’s not stopping anytime soon. You could be stuck here all night.”

“It’s fine,” Seulgi tells her. A cold, strong gust sweeps through the street and carries her voice away; it’s honestly a miracle that she’s able to hold in the shiver in her next words. “I’ll just wait for the bus, or run my way home or something.”

Irene’s answering laugh is almost inaudible, though it shakes as she does her head, mumbling to herself. “Always the stubborn one.” She twists back on her seat, faces the windshield again, before pressing one of the buttons on the wooden panel by the left side’s door.

Seulgi can only watch her slide the windows up, giving in into her wishes.

(But she would be lying if she says it doesn’t feel like a stab on an old wound that has never healed, even if she did tell her to go this time.)

She swallows down the tight knot in , freeing the haggard breath stuck behind as she waits for another car to take her entire world away, again.

But it doesn’t move. And Seulgi’s eyes can only blink in time with the hazard lights that come to life. They widen at the gentle slam of a car door, and when she looks, Irene’s already braving the heavy rain with a purple umbrella and a thick navy blue hoodie as her only defenses.

“Get in the car, Seulgi,” Irene orders as soon as she has rounded the car’s front and halts two steps away from Seulgi. She never liked bossing the other woman around—they’ve always been equals in her eyes regardless of age—but Seulgi’s choosing to be stubborn, leaving her with very little choice.

(She knows she could heel and just leave. But even if things are how they are now, Irene will never have the heart to do that.

It almost broke her the last time; Irene’s sure the next definitely would.)

Seulgi merely looks up at her in response. Irene seems taller from where she’s sitting, far more composed compared to the hot mess that Seulgi knows she is. And she feels the ache from every part of her that’s already hurt sore dig deeper under her skin, wedging its pangs in the spaces between at Irene’s throaty please.

Suddenly, she’s just so exhausted of everything that her nod is barely there. But Irene doesn’t miss it—with Seulgi, she never misses anything—instead gives her enough of a nudge to step closer and meet Seulgi halfway, as the taller woman ducks under the umbrella she hasn’t folded away until they’re face to face.

Seulgi hasn’t stood this close to Irene since the time she asked her to stay, a dernier ressort turned coup de grâce that snapped off of its strings and spun out of her hold. And Seulgi has to shove her hand that isn’t gripping the bag of groceries inside her coat’s pocket, fingers curling into a fist with her nails digging crescent moons into her palm, just so she’d refrain from doing something stupid.

Yet, the proximity is enough for her to smell Irene’s shampoo. She hasn’t changed it, she notes, and it lingers on her nose the same way it always does, swimming in her head just like before.

Seulgi finds herself pushing forward and slipping inside the car with bated breath. She stays deathly still, even more so when Irene slides in back to the driver’s seat, too stiff to move for a multitude of reasons.

Afraid to make a bigger mess inside this brand new, completely unfamiliar vehicle is what tops it all, so she says, “I’m sorry I’m making a mess.”

“It’s okay,” Irene assures her. She doesn’t push the handbrake down yet, and instead roots for her kit that she keeps inside the compartment under the armrest that separates the two front seats.

“Here.” She tears through a brand new pack of surgical towels open, handing them to Seulgi. “You can use these.”

Seulgi hesitates on taking the offered pieces of cloth. A ride home is already one thing, and anything else she takes from Irene might just be too much.

It must have been evident on her face, in the way she tugs her lip in between her teeth, because Irene sighs and takes it on herself to lean closer and dab at the droplets that have slid down on Seulgi’s forehead. “You’re going to get sick if you don’t dry yourself.”

“I—I’ll do it,” the taller woman manages to reply. It comes out more as an embarrassing squeak than actual words, and if they were anything but what they are to each other now, Irene would tease Seulgi to her heart’s content.

Yet, she can’t. Because Irene honestly doesn’t have the faintest idea what they are. They’re friends but they’re not, and she doesn’t really think they will ever be simple as that.

Not when just having Seulgi this close to her side again and watching her squeeze her hair dry is the most painful yet the most peaceful she’s felt in a while. Like there’s a storm and the wind is howling, but Irene feels perfectly safe inside this car because it’s where Seulgi is.

And God, not when she still loves her just as much as she’s always had, right from the start.

...

When Seulgi’s all but chapped and dry, Irene finally eases on the brakes, punching on the gas until they’re driving out of the street.

Seulgi only peers out the window, at the empty streets that are somewhat a blur, thanks to the rain that’s still hammering on the roof and splashing the glass.

It’s densely quiet despite the radio crooning in the background, which only grows as the car rolls into a stop at a traffic light, the stillness making Seulgi feel so uneasy that she’s brought back to a habit she has never really managed to get rid off.

She lifts a now dry hand, pressing the knuckles onto an open palm. The cracks get Irene clucking her tongue at her in response, and Irene’s hand reaching out to lightly tap hers.

It’s a little too late for Irene to realize that she probably shouldn’t have done it, when Seulgi’s hand hovers in the air as she freezes for a split second before bowing at Irene in apology.

Yet, Seulgi’s still the one who mumbles a sorry out loud first. A word that she’s said too many times that she can’t help but wonder if it’s starting to lose its meaning.

Irene opens to speak, but the traffic light turns green once more and she’s forced to return her attention onto the road.

Seulgi just goes back to staring outside the window.

...

It’s a fairly short drive from the bus stop’s shed and to the apartment complex. A silent, wordless one, though when Irene pulls up in front of the entrance, Seulgi doesn’t move right away and instead thanks her politely.

Irene replies with a courteous you’re welcome, a timid smile tacked at the end of it. But she makes a split second decision to talk to the other woman again just as Seulgi wrestles the seatbelt off and turns, calls her name right before she can step out of Irene’s car—and, inevitably, her life for another painful set of weeks or months, leaving her with a burgeoning question that she’s been wanting to ask.

“Seulgi.”

Seulgi drops the hand that’s about to jerk the passenger door open, twisting around to look. “Yes?”

“Why didn’t you bring the car with you?”

It’s a simple question. But it has so many answers that Seulgi doesn’t even know where to start: because it’s supposed to be theirs, because Irene’s perfume still lingers on the seats, because the lavender air freshener they got from Daegu hasn’t completely wasted away and all it ever does is remind her of Irene.

Seulgi feels her jaw tighten, though her voice is even when she settles with a thought and says, “I’m trying to save on gas.”

It’s the least complicated one after all.

“Thank you again, for the ride,” she repeats. There’s a tremor in her voice and her eyes glisten, which explains why she doesn’t bother with bidding Irene goodbye. She simply smiles tight, turns and finally hops out of the car, following the cobbled path that leads to the apartment complex. All the while willing herself not to glance over her shoulder to where she can feel Irene is still looking.

...

(It’s just the third time Irene has watched her walk away. Yet in those three times, Seulgi has taken a part of her with her that Irene knows she’s never going to get back.)

...

Seulgi eyed the extravagant amount of bubbles coating their humble bathtub, excitement filling her features at the first dip of her frozen, numbed toes on the warm water.

Her wife had drawn them a bath. She said it was to combat the snow that pillowed down on them on their walk back home from dinner with their friends—it was a nice night out that she wanted to spend with Irene, so she convinced her to not bring their car—though Seulgi thought it was really more of an excuse to try out the new bath essence Irene had insisted on getting.

Nonetheless, she wasn’t complaining. Especially when Irene sauntered inside the bathroom and whipped off the damp shirt that was starting to stick to her skin, sliding off her tight jeans and kicking both pieces of clothing to a corner. Something she never would’ve done on a normal night.

But it wasn’t like any other night. The sentimental part of Irene would say it was magical, with the snow blanketing everything that their eyes could reach in thick yet soft white sheets. This year’s first snow—their first as a married couple, too—that Seulgi couldn’t resist leading her towards the park a few blocks away from their apartment.

“Hurry up, Hyun!” Seulgi had told her then, pulled at their linked hands as her words dissolved into huge, contagious giggles.

“Baby, where are we going?” She had asked. But she didn’t stop walking. Her steps even grew brisk to match Seulgi’s giant strides, until their shoulders were brushing side to side.

Seulgi had only grinned at her in response. She was embarrassingly charmed by the smile that folded Seulgi’s eyes into arcs, rising behind the striped scarf wrapped around Seulgi’s neck. Ultimately so that she hadn’t noticed how Seulgi had led her further inside the park.

She merely did because the dark sky turned a different kind of dark when they reached the small clearing that was surrounded by thicker trees. Its ground was covered with thinner snow, what with the branches and the shades cradling the more abundant white sheets.

Though, it also seemed a little brighter, thanks to the multitude of lights coming from the string lights hanging by the lower branches. And this was what Irene meant by magical, because the snow glinted under them like they were made of stardust, and she could only stare at the expanse in awe.

She only had snapped back into attention when she felt Seulgi’s lips pressing on her cheek. “It’s nice here, right?”

Irene could just nod in answer. Seulgi didn’t say anything else, simply lifted their joined hands and slowly spun her around, Seulgi’s button nose scrunching as she grinned at her when Irene made a full circle and finally faced her wife.

Seulgi untangled their fingers, but only so she could loop Irene’s hands on her neck while hers found their home around Irene’s waist.

“Seulgi-yah,” Irene had said amidst her own giggles. She could feel them starting to sway in time with whatever music was coming from the center of the park, with Seulgi leading them in slow circles. “What are we doing?”

“I have no idea either,” her wife had answered, chuckling first before leaning down to close the scant distance in between them. She had been a hair's breadth away, with Seulgi’s nose bridging the gap as she nuzzled it with Irene’s, until she finally captured her lips in the sweetest kiss.

…

Irene couldn’t help but groan in satisfaction as she lowered herself into the tub. It was a very relaxing contrast to the cold that seeped under every inch of her from their impromptu detour, with Seulgi’s very own warmth as the one that calmed the chills that were about to settle on her spine. “Oh my God, I could sleep here. Can we sleep here?”

Seulgi chuckled. Irene could feel her breath hitting her shoulder as Seulgi gathered her long hair up in a messy bun before gently pulling her close, her wife’s arms snaking around her until they were pressed against each other and she could feel Seulgi’s heartbeat on her bare skin. “We could, babe. As long as the water’s still warm.”

“Twenty minutes tops then,” Irene deduced. She sunk further into Seulgi’s embrace, humming softly when she felt the taller woman tuck her head in the crook of her neck. She closed her eyes and smiled at the brush of Seulgi’s lips that traced the slope of her shoulder; shivered at the tip of Seulgi’s tongue that dipped into her collarbone. “No,” groaned Irene. “Baby, don’t start! I’m too tired.”

“I’m not, I promise,” Seulgi assured.

Another , and a soft nip that Irene half-heartedly voiced a protest at. “That doesn’t look like you’re not starting anything.”

Seulgi laughed her surrender, settling on planting innocent, open-mouthed kisses on every surface that her lips could reach. Then, she said, “I’m just… I’m just really happy, I guess.”

Irene shifted her head up to look at her wife, her eyes growing tender at the earnest look that reflected on Seulgi’s own. She leaned up, and then kissed Seulgi’s jaw. “Yeah?”

“I’m still probably on a high from the wedding,” the other woman stated, brushing it off with a shrug as she pretended to ponder. “I mean, it’s been just two months after all. Maybe three?”

“Three and a half,” Irene corrected her with narrowed eyes squinting. “Are you saying you don’t remember our wedding date?”

“I’m honestly still blanked out,” Seulgi admitted. All she could focus on about back then was how she was finally married to the love of her life, and everything else was this one giant blur of happy things. “All I know is you looked so beautiful that day. And that your dad cried because I kissed you. And mine cried during his speech.”

Irene pulled back a little, staring at her in disbelief.

“And the cake! That was some damn good cake.”

“Are you being serious right now?”

Seulgi nodded in answer, then pressed on, “The honeymoon too, of course. I mean, I was chafing by the next morn—”

She didn’t get to finish as Irene shoved her away, her flushed cheeks now red for an entirely different reason that Seulgi could only laugh at. “It was a compliment, baby!”

“Oh my God, stop!” Irene whined. She splashed some water on her wife this time, trying to wash off the stupid, smug smirk that adorned Seulgi’s ridiculously-beautiful-but-right-now-annoying face.

“I mean, that thing you did with your tongue…” Seulgi continued, then left it at a pregnant pause so she could waggle her brows, and ended it with an impressed whistle.

“Shut up!” Irene pulled away from Seulgi’s hold—weakened by laughter and her attempts to block Irene’s hand that wouldn’t stop smacking her just about everywhere—and turned around, straddling her because there really was only one way to wipe off Seulgi’s smirk.

“Ah.” Seulgi clucked her tongue, grinning. “And here I thought you said not to start anything—”

The rest of her words were muffled by a deep kiss. (Not that she was complaining.)

...

The month passes in a haze that Seulgi tries to survive day by day, vacillating between work and trying not to think about how different her life used to be for the rest of it. The first is easy; she’s always had excelled in her job—maybe even a little too much sometimes.

But the second? Seulgi is still trying to figure that out.

If it hadn’t been for the calendar reminder she has set on her phone, and the five hundred calls and ten thousand messages Eunji bombards her with three days before, she would’ve forgotten the surprise baby shower completely.

But she hasn’t. So this is where she finds herself now: needing to hitch a ride to bring the giant cake she picked up yesterday.

(She still refuses to use what was once her car, but getting a new one feels like a kind of immutability that she isn’t ready to take on yet.

It’s not like she’s hoping that the past months have just been one big nightmare she’d eventually wake up from (she is); she simply needs a little more time.

Ah, the irony.)

She can easily call for a cab. But Eunji has decided to go all out like she’s gunning for Wife Of The Year, which means Wendy’s not just getting a surprise party but also a new place, and Seulgi can’t afford to get lost and potentially ruin everything since she has Wendy’s favorite cake.

“Seulgom-ah,” Eunji coos at her over the phone. The sweetness dripping from her tone only tells Seulgi that whatever she’s going to say next, she isn’t going to like it. “We sort of fell short on the paper cups, so I sent Joy and Yeri back to the store to get more.”

“Okay,” Seulgi replies. “Any chance they could swing by my place and pick me up?”

“I’m sorry,” the other woman instead apologizes. And even though she can’t see, Seulgi can picture her hesitant wince.

Seulgi heaves a deep breath in answer, then, “Yeah, I figured. And you’re probably on your way to pick Wendy up, huh?”

“Yeah. I just got in the car.”

“I guess I’ll just really have to take a cab,” she mumbles, short of a groan to becoming a whine. “But thanks anyway, Eun—”

“Seul—” Eunji interjects before she even gets the chance to hang up. “I—uhm…”

“What is it?” Seulgi asks, and then checks the time on her watch. When she sees that she still has a good twenty minutes to spare, she adds. “Do you need me to pick up anything else?”

“No. Just...” There’s a pregnant pause Eunji leaves the line with, not really knowing how to break it to the other woman. But there hasn’t been any better way to tell Seulgi anything than to give it to her straight, so she says, “Irene-unnie’s actually on her way there now.”

Seulgi feels her heart slam in her chest, closing up as if she’d spew anxiety if she so much as utters another word. It’s still pounding hard even when she lets a strained ah slip out together with a breath.

She has barely even recovered from the last time Irene had driven her home, and now, she has to endure it all over again.

Seulgi eyes the closed fridge door, imagining the untouched six-pack cooling by the chiller; briefly wonders if it’s going to make her less of a good friend if she shows up all ramped up in alcohol. But it’s her best friend’s day, and Seulgi has avoided her enough that she’s probably already on top of her list—if a saint like Wendy has one—so Seulgi just shakes the thought away and swallows down the whys dangling at the tip of her tongue.

Eunji takes her silence as sign to continue, says after a beat. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t ask her.”

I didn’t have to goes unsaid, but Seulgi doesn’t wait around long enough to hear Eunji say it.

...

The call leaves her with barely enough time to clean up (just merely shaking by the island countertop, at the thought of Irene inside the apartment again, and it makes her miss Irene so much she doesn’t know what to do with her hands).

Irene is nothing but punctual, and so when Eunji said she’d arrive in fifteen minutes, she’s ringing Seulgi up and knocking at Seulgi’s door a minute after.

The only thing Seulgi manages to fix is the clothes she’s wearing, smoothening the creases on her dress shirt and picking off the non-existent lint on her black jeans. But the mess that is her life is scattered all over, evidences of how she’s failing to keep the pieces together ever since Irene left.

Her nerves are almost frayed but she manages to remain civil when she cracks her door open, even returning Irene’s hesitant smile in kind.

“Hey,” Irene greets her. “I kind of heard you needed a ride?”

The hand grasping on the door knob curls tightly at Irene’s even—but sweet, always so sweet—tone. It’s been a month since Seulgi has last seen her, and yet, her heart still threatens to beat its way out of her chest.

She has to swallow hard to keep it in its place, and then steps aside to let Irene in. There’s really no point in trying to hide the state of her apartment and asking Irene to just wait for her at the hallway, when a mere glance is all it will take to see the pillows and the thick duvet that’s sprawled on her unmade couch.

Irene follows her inside, though her gaze seems to be affixed on the twisted sheets that furls past the couch rest, while Seulgi treads towards the kitchen and carefully extracts the cake from the fridge.

Irene feels her heart clench, but it’s not like she’s doing any better when she spends more time lying awake and completely unable to sleep in on call rooms more than her bed back at Yeri’s apartment.

Seulgi lightly kicking the fridge’s door close snaps her back to attention (and if Seulgi catches her staring at the couch they once owned, she pretends not to notice).

“All set,” the taller woman states to Irene.

She watches her shift the box to cradle it more steadily in her arms. The lid rides up when one of its corners get propped against Seulgi with the movement, and so Irene offers, “Need help?”

“No, but thank you,” Seulgi answers politely; thinks she should really be used to this, to their relationship reduced to stilted talks and four-word conversations, tight smiles that make Seulgi’s skin itch.

With a nod, Irene leads the way out to her car. Though, she passes by the pile of clothes collecting dust in the hamper, and is unable to help the tut-tut of disapproval that escapes her lips.

Seulgi only smiles sheepishly at being caught, practically hiding behind the box she’s carrying in her arms. It’s not huge per se, just a little bit bigger than the average cake, but it’s enough to cover half of Seulgi’s face. “I’ll get to those, don’t worry. I guess when—”

When she’s no longer busy? When she finally learns to use the washing machine? When she can smell the scent of Irene’s favorite fabric conditioner and not feel like bawling right on the spot?

Irene folds her hands over her stomach, palm pressing against it softly. “When you’ve got absolutely nothing left to wear,” she finishes. And it’s playful and it’s easy that she surprises even her own self with how light it came out.

Yet, Seulgi’s answering chuckle is hoarse, barely there, much like the air circling in her lungs. She’s suddenly breathless at the sight of the genuine, pleased smile on Irene’s face, and suddenly, it’s all too much. “Yeah,” she rasps. “You got me.”

They stand in silence for a beat, their eyes falling on everywhere except at each other: on the stains left by the frames that used to hang on the walls, the splits in the bookshelves—spaces in between Seulgi’s books where the ones Irene owns were once wedged in; on the boxes of takeouts piled near the sink, to the bedroom door that’s hardly ever opened.

Like two people cataloging the end of things.

…

If there was one law that ruled over Irene’s work life, it was: anything that could go wrong will go wrong, and it will go wrong for Bae Joo Hyun.

In this case, it was when her patient’s spleen ruptured right at the very same moment she was about to take it out, and what was supposed to be an hour of surgery turned to almost four.

By the second hour, she had already missed the dinner Seulgi had prepared for them. Granted there was no occasion and they had absolutely nothing to celebrate, but Irene loved it when Seulgi took the time to turn their usual meals into special ones for no reason at all. Her girlfriend was spontaneous like that, still believing up to this day that she was such a no jam she needed to keep Irene on her toes to make up for it.

The sun had long set when she finally got home. It was a moonless night, which plunged the living room of their apartment into a certain kind of darkness that she found hard to maneuver through. It certainly didn’t help that her only source of light were the fluorescent bulbs that lit their floor’s hallways, and that there was no movement inside the apartment even after the creak of their front door rang into the still night.

“Seulgi-yah?” Irene called out. She flicked the lights on but found both the living room and the kitchen empty, save for their fancy plates set on the dining table, and the unlit candle that sat on the center.

She hooked her keys on the rack sticking behind their front door, right next to where Seulgi’s were hanging, and threw her bag on the vacant seat nearest to her.

“Baby?”

Irene figured her girlfriend was somewhere in their bedroom, perhaps already asleep judging by the lack of response. Though she headed towards their kitchen first, placing the array of pastries she had bought on her way home on the white island countertop. They were all Seulgi’s favorite, and she’d really hate to call it a bribe, but they were essentially what it was.

Walking back, it turned out that Seulgi was indeed sleeping in their bedroom. She was sprawled in the middle of the bed, with her feet hanging just a little past the edge. She had nice clothes on and the Oxfords that she only ever wore on fancy occasions, which made the already hefty guilt press in harder on Irene’s chest.

She could hear Seulgi’s soft snores, so she knew that her girlfriend was not feigning sleep. And there was peacefulness in her features, the kind Irene fell asleep to every night. Though the tiny frown that creased in between Seulgi’s brows might be her fault.

Seulgi didn’t even twitch when Irene sat on the bed and the mattress dipped, nor budged when she unlaced the thin black strings and took off her shoes as well as her wool socks. She was about to kiss the frown away when she felt Seulgi’s closed fist dig against her hip.

Irene shifted on the bed, moving to tuck it into Seulgi’s side so as to not crush Seulgi’s loosely balled fingers. But it was when she reached for Seulgi’s wrist that she noticed the glint of something white gold resting in the middle of Seulgi’s palm.

Irene quickly leaned forward to tap the lamp on, shedding more light—both in a literal sense and then not—in thinking that her mind was playing tricks on her. But, there it was, glittering under the bright glow that their bedside lamp casted all over the room.

Irene felt her heart shoot up past their concrete ceiling and into the rooftop. Because it was a ring, with a humble gem sitting in the middle that she only saw when she lowered her face to check.

“Kang Seulgi!” She yelled, completely unable to help it. Her arms darted out and latched onto Seulgi’s shoulders, shaking her awake. “Yah! Seulgi!”

Seulgi did startle. But she smiles lazily at Irene amidst the sluggish blinks, being the first thing her eyes had set its sights on. “Hey, you’re home.”

Though, she grew confused at the way Irene seemed to only gape at her in response. She lifted herself up, and then propped her weight on her elbow. “Hyun? Are you okay?”

She raised her hand, wanting to wave it in front of an unblinking Irene who seemed to have ceased breathing. But the sight of her clenched fist wiped the remnants of sleep completely, remembering what was concealed in her palm.

“Oh ,” Seulgi cursed under her breath. She looked at Irene again, debating whether or not to try and hide the white gold ring, but Irene’s lips were already quivering and her eyes were starting to fill with tears, and , , this was not what she had planned.

Seulgi jumped off of the bed, caging her head in between her arms—that same way she always did whenever she was feeling embarrassed. Her opened fingers ruffled her hair in disheartenment, because she had this whole speech she had written in her head. A speech she slaved a whole week for to perfect, only to be ruined because she fell asleep at the worst possible moment.

Her frustrated groan was what pulled Irene together, calling to her again; calmer this time, but the pleasant shock and disbelief were written all over her watery smile. “Seulgi-yah.”

“I had a speech,” Seulgi told her. “And—and dinner! Also, flowers. And wine! I even had vodka in the freezer in case you said no.”

“Seulgi,” Irene tried once more. She stood up, rounding the bed until she was in front of a restless Seulgi. She caught her by her wrist, pulling her back and close to her, and then cupped both of Seulgi’s warm, flushed cheeks.

The pads of her thumb wiped the tears that filled her girlfriend’s eyes, wiped them until they were dry because Irene wanted to be clear—she wanted to look into her eyes and be clear when she said a breathless, “Baby, yes.”

It took a long second before Seulgi’s face slowly lit up, but it was good all the same, like the clouds opened and gave way to the sun to shine at its best.

Though it fell on the very next beat, replaced by a firm frown that Seulgi often wore whenever she made a very difficult decision. “Wait, no.”

“What do you mean no?!”

“Baby,” Seulgi cooed upon feeling Irene’s temper quickly rise. “Not like this.”

She pressed a wet kiss on Irene’s lips to distract her so she could pocket the ring, and for a moment it worked. But Irene was a woman with a mission. She wanted that ring on her finger now.

The ring hadn’t even made it halfway deep into Seulgi’s pocket before Irene was breaking away and reaching for it.

In turn, Seulgi quickly pulled it out and hid it again inside her fist. Though she had to raise her hand this time, as high as she could so Irene would not be able to reach it.

“Yah, Seulgi-yah!” Irene whined, stomping her feet. “Give me my ring!”

“No, babe,” Seulgi replied. She stood strong, on the tip of her toes just in case she needed to dash away.

But Irene had never played a fair game, and so she dug her fingers on Seulgi’s side and wiggled them on Seulgi’s most ticklish spots.

It had the latter bawling over. Though before she could snatch the ring away, Seulgi was already darting her hands out and wrapping them around Irene. The fist that was keeping the ring safe rested above the other, effectively locking her girlfriend in an embrace.

“I want to do this right, Joohyun.” Seulgi said. She pressed another kiss to appease her, letting it linger, and then ducked to stare at Irene’s eyes with utmost earnestness. “Please let me do this right.”

...

Wendy and Eunji’s new place is a humble abode. A cozy, modern two-storey structure—befittingly brightly-lit, both from the abundance of tall glass windows and the multitude of wall and ceiling lights that surround it—with two main rooms and a guest’s that Wendy excitedly drag-waddles Seulgi and Irene to see.

(Though it has been just the master’s bedroom, and the still empty guest room. But Seulgi has a hunch that Wendy is simply skipping the nursery for all the right reasons.)

And then the party’s starting, sanguine and upright, with Wendy’s smile serving as its very life. It’s wide and has her eyes crinkling, warm, watery laughs booming out of her chest as she watches Eunji lead her parents—her wife’s third surprise and whom Wendy hasn’t seen in years—inside the living room and straight to her.

But it all seems to pass rather quickly, just like any other day in Seulgi’s life now. Quick and in a hazy blur, with Irene’s silhouette at the corner of her eyes being the only thing that makes sense in this huge room full of people—half of which she doesn’t know.

By the time things do clear, Seulgi can hear Irene laughing as Wendy croons at the small crowd huddled close. She tries to stop herself from looking, but she has long accepted that even self-preservation is non-existent when it’s the still love of her life involved. So she does, tries not to get choked up because Irene is ethereal; fails for the very same reason—among the thousand others that Seulgi is struggling real hard not to think about.

She balls both her hands into fists, forcing herself to focus on Wendy who’s glowing, radiant and really just plain happily rambling. “Thank you so much everyone for coming. You guys made me and our baby really happy.”

She’s speaking so fast and gesturing so wildly that Eunji can only beam at her in adoration, and stoop down to kiss her cheek.

“No, I mean it,” Wendy continues. “She won't stop moving.”

She winces at one particularly hard kick. Eunji quickly cups a palm over the offended spot, trying to settle their daughter down.

“I told you not to eat too much cake,” the taller woman chides gently. “You know what cake does to her.”

“But it’s red velvet, hon. You know what that does to me.”

“Never thought I’d see the day Jung Eunji would be so whipped,” Jennie, Eunji’s partner from the city’s Homicide Division, teases out loud.

Eunji only laughs it off, her eyes never leaving Wendy, who falls right back into listing the people she wants to thank. “Joy and Yeri, thank you for the cute clothes and shoes. She’s so going to rock the hell out of these onesies.”

She pulls her wife closer, curling an arm around her waist to rub at the side Eunji knows now often aches. And Seulgi finds herself swallowing the bitter taste rising at the back of ; finds the moment so unbearable she has to look away, because she doesn’t understand how years of being together rescinded into something barely existent in what felt like a blink, and for better or for worse, till death do us part became we ask the court to dissolve our marriage wedged in between unintelligible words scrawled mechanically across four white sheets.

The room suddenly feels warmer than it should be. So warm and lacking of air that Seulgi is unable to fight the urge to up and grab her empty paper cup, quietly pushing her chair away from the makeshift table. Her manners tug a hushed excuse me from her dry mouth, footsteps light as her lithe feet ambles her through the kitchen.

She meant to simply get a refill of the fruit punch, but she passes by the stocked dainty bar and feels a pull for something stronger that almost stills her steps. Yet, Seulgi doesn’t want to be that friend, the kind who trades an innocent cup for some whole bottle and inevitably ruin one of the best days of her friends’ life.

It barely wins over, so she quickly chucks the paper cup to the bin before the smallest thing changes her mind, and jogs out of the back door, down the three flights of stairs that prefaces the entire backyard.

A small swing set stands in the middle of the even grass lawn, at a perfect spot that’s surrounded by flowers in various colors and kinds, and healthy, green bushes that go up to Seulgi’s knees. At the upper right corner is a sturdy tree, bulky enough to support a hefty weight, and short enough to make climbing it quite easy. Eunji has told her once that she’s planning on building a treehouse on it when her daughter turns four—something Seulgi has always wanted to do with her own children someday.

She trudges towards one of the swings, still thankful despite of the cold getting more and more unrelenting, that the sun has chosen to be generous today. It eases the harsh, sharp air that swirls in her lungs as she plops down on the yellow plastic seat, tipping her head back to welcome the heat that grazes her face.

It’s a good enough distraction, because someday has turned into never, yet Seulgi honestly can’t see herself building a family with anyone else that isn’t Irene. So the treehouse will have to stay inside her head, and she and their children would just climb it in her dreams.

It works for a few beats. The calm breeze works its wonders in the way it kisses the bared parts of Seulgi’s skin, though it can never quite soothe the mess that brews and festers within her.

(She once thought that Irene brings out the best and the worst parts of her, a fact that stands true until now. But Seulgi has yet to figure out which of her is it nowadays, the worst who wants to ask Irene when did she decide that she was done and that they were no longer worth fighting for; or the best who wants to shoulder all the blame, because, maybe, maybe she pushed Irene to walk away.)

A soft click from the door pulls Seulgi out of her reverie. The squeak of sneakers sliding on the concrete steps follows it, the sound trickling into nothing not long after.

Seulgi digs the toes of her own shoes on the ground to still the swing, and then looks over her shoulder to check. But she freezes halfway through, when Irene’s voice floats from the bottom stair landing. Gentle, and tender, and just exactly how Seulgi has always remembered.

“It looks nice out here, huh? Eunji really outdid herself this time.”

She’s left letting a hand curl around the swing’s chain, fingers gripping it tight. As tight as the yeah that comes out of . Then, “She’s really going for wife of the year award.”

Irene chuckles softly, and Seulgi feels the sound of it squeeze her heart. “At this rate, I really think she is.”

The smaller woman strides towards the empty swing next to Seulgi, (forever) graceful and beautiful in her ruffled blue dress, even though she’s dwarfed by the thick padded coat cloaking her petite form.

Seulgi can only swallow hard and watch her as she goes around the swing set; can only nod dumbly when Irene tilts her head and asks may I, before taking up the vacant space.

The silence falls on them like a blanket, wrapping around their shoulders and pressing in a weight that Seulgi finds quite hard to bear. She contemplates on saying something to break it, but Irene’s breaths are even, so peaceful that it lulls even her own restless mind.

In the end, it’s Irene who finds the courage to; says, “I can’t believe it’s just been four years since those two got together.”

“Feels longer than that, huh,” answers Seulgi. She casts an uncertain, fleeting glance at the other woman, not letting it linger for even a second. Her heart is already yearning more than enough, completely out of her control. She doesn’t need her eyes to add to the things that she no longer has any hold over.

Irene gently nods in response, laughs softly as she adds. “To think that they started out as something… casual.”

Seulgi can’t help the lopsided smile that tugs at the corner of , remembering fondly how Wendy vehemently insisted that they definitely had no strings attached, despite the way she perked up when someone mentioned Eunji’s name in passing, and how her shy smiles were starting to become Eunji’s and Eunji’s alone.

(The other half of her smile is pinned in its place, downcast and strained, by the truth that they may have had more years on Wendy and Eunji, and yet, here they are.)

“But Wendy was already halfway in love the morning after,” Irene continues, filling in Seulgi’s silence. “I don’t think it has ever been just casual.”

“It never was,” Seulgi easily agrees. She shuffles on her seat, leaning her head against the thumb that’s wrapped around the chain. (And if it’s at Irene’s direction, she pretends not to notice.)

Irene’s eyes close of their accord, her lungs in a lungful like as if she’s savoring the three words. But then, how can she not when Seulgi’s voice—that used to be a constant in her life just like her very presence—feels almost foreign now.

She laces her fingers together above her lap, fiddling with her thumbs as she shifts on her own seat and leans her back lightly against the chain, too, away from Seulgi. It lodges some form of distance in between them that Irene deems healthy.

(And needed, because she can feel a tremor in her hands that only Seulgi’s warmth can settle, and it’s so, so easy to just reach out and conveniently forget that it’s something she no longer has the right to do. Even though she chose to give up on it no matter how unwillingly; chose to turn her back on it despite how it left a chasm in her stomach that she will never be able to shake away.)

Yet, it also puts Irene in a position where all she can see is Seulgi, and she’s quite sure that fixing her gaze on her while all this longing surges at the tips of her fingers is anything but. Still, she does. Because while Irene may be strong—the strongest—there are things that she will never be able to fight. This is one of them.

“They’ll be great parents,” Seulgi continues, completely oblivious to the way she just sent Irene’s heart convulsing all over in the worst of ways. “Total pushovers, but—”

She takes a breath as she catches herself, cuts her own thought off upon realizing that she’s veering towards a rather dangerous territory. And she almost wants to laugh for lack of anything else to do that isn’t bolting up and running away.

Yet, the thing is, Irene agrees. Wholeheartedly so. But she just swallows hard and nods because she can’t find anything else to say other than I still think we’d be the best parents, and that’s just… no. So she scrambles for a quick thought and instead says the first thing that surfaces, “How are you, Seulgi?”

Seulgi lifts her head, turns to hazard a smile towards Irene that the smaller woman sort of wishes she hasn’t casted. She meant to brush it off with a quick I’m fine, but Irene nips at her bottom lip and that stops her, makes her close again.

And then the corner of Irene’s mouth curls into a smile, shy under Seulgi’s prolonged gaze. Her cheeks dust pink from the cold, and Seulgi thinks she can’t be blamed for losing hold of what happens next. Granted there is no wine that could’ve loosened her tongue, but she’s drunk on Irene’s scent, and Irene’s smile that once belonged to her, latching on onto the parts of her held together by tape and glue.

“It’s hard,” she finds herself suddenly saying—admitting, confessing. “Sitting right next to you and pretending you don’t mean the world to me.”

It’s not even angrily. Just completely somber and honest that Irene sort of wishes she shouldn’t have asked. Especially now that Seulgi’s shoulders slump like it has suddenly caved in under some invisible weight—Atlas finally letting go of his hold on the sky—and Irene is left aching with a need to pull her close.

But before she can even get a chance to do something—anything in response, Seulgi’s already standing and dusting the back of her pants off with shaky fingers. Her eyes gloss over with pain, regret writing itself all over the rest of her already wounded face.

Irene fails to find the courage to ask what part she does regret, for fear of hearing her say everything; and neither is she brave enough to ask Seulgi to stay. She can only watch Seulgi take off in hurried steps, feeling each pound of her heel on the ground against her rib cage; can only stare at the empty space she leaves.

Can only wonder if the last seven minutes even happened at all.

...

The baby shower officially ends at Wendy’s dinner invite. Irene turns it down as polite as she can, while Seulgi simply makes herself scarce before Wendy can even find her to extend the invitation.

Irene opts to just go back to Joy and Yeri’s place—she really ought to start looking for her own apartment, but that in itself is a finality that Irene isn’t sure she’s ready to face—feeling every inch and part of her ache. Like she’s suddenly scrubbed raw and red, coated in skin-deep burns that will never heal.

She crawls into her bed feeling entirely weary, but still wide awake despite all the comfort curling up in her favorite gray hoodie brings.

The plaster on her scabbed wounds; long and tattered and worn, threads pulling apart at the hems and the seams. Its cuffs are real loose that it keeps on slipping off her elbows, and its color has long started to fade from being washed one too many times, along with the scent of the person who once owned it.

Yet it’s one of the few things Irene can hold these days without tasting the bitter bile of regret that rears its presence at the back of , one of the few things she can actually look at without seeing the hurt that marred Seulgi’s face that day.

So Irene pulls at the cuffs until the sleeves are stretched down, and if she brings it close to her face for a sniff, she’d say it’s purely out of habit. Though, she isn’t even sure anymore if the subtle smell of spicy perfume and Seulgi’s unique scent is still sticking to the fabric, or if it’s just her memory that’s in the works when she buries her nose on one of its sleeves to take a whiff.

It only ever happens at times she misses Seulgi most, after all.

...

It doesn’t really work. If anything, it only intensifies what is supposed to be a dull, throbbing ache. So much so that Irene ends up barging out of what is supposed to be her safe space, and practically throws herself out towards the uncrowded street.

(Irene doesn’t really know if it’s winter dawning that keeps the people inside, or the time of the night. But then again, her mind doesn’t have any particular destination at all either. She figures she’s not in the right headspace to answer the questions swimming inside her head.

What am I doing out? Where am I even going? What time is it, even?

What if I made a mistake?)

Her feet take her inside the local bar all of her friends frequent, and she’s welcomed by the bass blaring loudly from the speakers, violent and thumping; the floor shaking beneath her feet.

It’s not her kind of music nor scene, but it drowns out all the whys and the what ifs. And so Irene walks straight to the bar, signalling for a drink that she has no plans on touching. She sits on one of the stools that’s far away from the throngs of overly drunk teenagers, pretending to watch the sea of sweaty bodies duking it out on the dance floor.

And if her eyes trail at the double doors from time to time, she absolutely isn’t hoping to see a familiar face while chalking it up to fate.

.

But the next hour hits and she doesn’t. Irene doesn’t really know how to deal with that even more.

That, maybe, fate had other plans all this time.

.

(And that, maybe, she had a hand in that.)

...

It takes four stout tumblers of whiskey, long after the ice cubes on her untouched first drink has melted and the dark liquid has been watered down, before she’s careening towards the very first step of what she’d later on file under: things she should never have done.

The ice cubes haven’t even settled in the tumbler this time, the still swirling amber liquid barely washing over it, when Irene snatches the first one off the counter and pours the liquor down on . Pounds the other three straight away without even wincing.

Four glasses—and a fifth she doesn’t get to finish—coupled with I meant every word I said, when I said that I love you I meant that I love you forever that echoes over and over in her head.

The next thing she knows, she’s stumbling inside the bathroom, phone in one hand and the fifth tumbler of whiskey in the other, locking herself inside the last stall. Rings are what becomes her source of music for the next thirty seconds as the bass dies beneath the blood rushing to her ears.

And then comes Seulgi’s voice, thick and raspy with sleep. “Joohyun?”

Irene’s sure she’s not even half awake, and she finds her lips tugging of their own accord, picturing what Seulgi looks like.

“Is everything okay?”

It’s not, it’s nowhere even near okay, but she doesn’t really know how to tell Seulgi that; doesn’t really know how to tell her that she never meant to hurt her earlier—never meant to hurt her at all.

Doesn’t really know how to admit that maybe she acted rash, maybe they—she made a mistake.

So she says, “Yes. I just—I guess I just wanted to know if you got back safely.”

Because I love you, how did we get here is a little too much even for her alcohol-addled mind.

“Oh.” Is all Seulgi can say. She searches for the right words, but ultimately stops trying because something hurts.

Something does, every day. But it hurts more at this very moment because she can hear Irene’s voice as if she’s just sleeping right next to her, like she could just turn and she’d find her there, so close and within her reach. Yet, the reality is Seulgi may never ever get to touch her again.

It sits heavily on her chest, carving an Irene-shaped hole in it that leaves the edges raw and throbbing.

“God, this was a bad idea,” Irene hisses, more to herself than anything. She puts the glass down on top of the tiled sill, trading it with running trembling fingers through her hair. “A very bad idea.”

Her own chest aches, and the sound of Seulgi’s breaths that waft from the other line is making her dizzier more than downing her first ever whiskey. “I should go,” she rasps, the liquor a gravel in her voice; barely hears the faint I know that Seulgi answers her with before the line goes quiet and they’re left listening to each other breathing.

Irene closes her eyes. It’s really to try and stop the room from starting to spin, but her mind wanders into something that she’s not even sure is worth deluding herself into thinking: that this is like some long distance thing—that she’s away for some medical conference, and she calls her wife five minutes before it starts because she misses her so bad, and now she’s just waiting for her to fall back to sleep.

Because months ago, they were doing exactly that. Months ago, they were going to make it. Despite the two am fights, the worst of for better or worse where everything was slipping out of their hands, they were going to make it.

“But don’t hang up, please,” Seulgi scrambles to say. Irene can hear her shake her head. She spends a few good beats in silence, but her breaths are deep and heavy, as if there’s water in her lungs that has her drowning.

And then she whispers a stuttered mess of her thoughts, never quite completing it, “I know—I don’t—I mi—I…”

“Oh, Seul,” Irene says just as quietly. Her hand flexes with a desperate want to touch Seulgi, to comfort her in all the ways she knows how. But Seulgi isn’t here, and Irene still thinks she has long lost the right to do that.

In the end, it’s the alcohol she reaches out to, tipping her head back to down the glass and blink the unshed tears away.

But the essence loosens her tongue, and the next thing Irene knows, she’s dropping her weight against the hard wall as she slurs over her phone, and more tears are filling her vision. “Seulgi, tell me how to stop thinking about you.”

Her lashes flutter swiftly, catching droplets and flicking them away. Irene has to press the back of her free hand against her eyes to get them to stop, but it leaves completely open, letting unrestrained words suddenly fly out. “Because I can’t, and I don’t know how. I miss you. I miss you so much that I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“Hyun-ah—”

Irene presses her hand harder, screws her eyes shut as tight as the grip the endearment curls around her heart. “Don’t call me that. Please don’t call me that,” she pleads, and the crack in her tone when she continues makes Seulgi’s breath hitch. “Or I might do something really stupid.”

“Joohyun, I...” Seulgi starts to say, but pauses when she feels her own throat closing up on her. And she has to swallow the knot that has taken its space just so she can breathe again. But the words stuck behind also escape, and Seulgi is unable to catch them. “I don’t know how. I don’t even know how to be alone anymore.”

It isn’t really the answer Irene is expecting to get, though frankly, she’s not really sure what she’s hoping to hear either. If anything, she was so sure she’d be the last person Seulgi would think about—and the very first person she’d try to forget—after all the pain and the hurt she caused.

And Irene doesn’t know what to say about that, too, that isn’t in any way wanting to take it back—their separation back. So she tells Seulgi, “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

She looks down on the floor, burying her lips underneath her hoodie. But her choked sob breaks away from her restraints, tugging hard on Seulgi’s heartstrings. “God, I don’t even know why I called.”

Seulgi never liked it when Irene cried, and absolutely hates it when she knows she’s the cause. Her line grows silent again, save for the creaking Irene hears that signals Seulgi moving. There’s a ruffling of sheets that follow, and the brush of Seulgi’s feet against the carpet.

(And that’s how Irene remembers that Seulgi is somewhere in their—her living room, still unable to sleep on the bed they once shared.

God, what are they doing?)

And then, it’s just static. And the mix of anxiety and relief she’s suddenly whelmed with: relieved that Seulgi hasn’t dropped the call, anxious when Seulgi’s voice fills her ears and asks, “Where are you?”

“I… Seulgi…”

“Are you at Kwon’s?”

Irene opens to speak, to tell her no despite actually being here, but she hears the telltale croak of the closet door, the one with the loose hinge they never got to fix, and that brings about another bout of what ifs that floods her with uncertainty. She’s thrown off long enough for Seulgi to take her silence as a confirmation.

There’s more rustling from Seulgi’s side, the sound of clothes sliding against skin, and it’s really pretty much useless to ask, but still, she does. “Seulgi what are you doing?”

A soft slam prefaces Seulgi’s voice, then, “Something really, really stupid.”

“Seul, don’t,” Irene says, despite the hope that flutters wildly in her chest. She tries to tamp it down, because they shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s traitorous, treacherous much like her heart.

“I can’t let you go home drunk, Joohyun.” Seulgi sighs, deep.

Irene wants to say, but I’m not drunk.

Wants to say, you don’t have to, not anymore.

But her resolve has been broken into pieces she can’t pick and piece together, and the walls she’s spent the past months building have crumbled along with it, weakened by four glasses and the unchanged way Seulgi’s voice wraps around her name.

And all that’s left to say is, “Okay.”

…

Irene is nowhere near drunk when she asks Seulgi to spend the night, but she pretends that she is.

Pretends that it’s the alcohol working when she pulls Seulgi to lie down next to her on this tiny bed, and she’s dizzy not because of Seulgi’s warmth and her scent that’s filling her head.

Pretends that she’s asleep when Seulgi wakes up in the middle of the night and slides out of the bed, away from Irene’s weak hold.

Pretends that the sound of her bedroom door closing doesn’t press a hefty weight on her chest, and the blurry sight of Seulgi’s back walking away from her is just from the remnants of sleep that she hasn’t rubbed away.

While Seulgi spends the next few weeks trying to pretend that the call didn’t happen.

It seems like it’s the only thing they both have gotten good at, after all. Pretending.