"Take me back, 'cause I wanna stay,

Save your tears for another day."

She asks herself again – how deep does the deception go?

There are worlds that might be within worlds. It all might be one. Seulgi understands with great reluctance that the bitter truth is this – her mind has degenerated to the point she cannot parse the real from the not, the living from the constructs she has designed inside herself. And therein lies the issue of subconscious versus willing and understandable. She knows Irene’s favourite colour is purple because she has carefully constructed it to be that way, but Irene’s favourite colour is yellow, just as Seulgi's is. Things have ceased to make proper sense. All logic has been unceremoniously thrown out of the window. Up, again, may not be up. The very fabric of reality as Seulgi sees it has begun to come apart at the seams, and all that remains to attempt to hold it together is the desire to make something out of it. To stop it from ruining her anymore than it already has.

She wakes in the cold hue of morning light, the curtains and sheets blue. It’s more than an hour before she dresses for work. Before she leaves she takes her phone and the dice from her bedside drawer and puts them in her pocket and then a minute later she unlocks her front door and goes back inside and puts the paper note in the bin. As if might pose some unseen power if allowed to remain out in the open any longer. As if disposing it might bring some closure. But the longer Seulgi thinks about it the more she comes to terms with the fact she doesn't quite know what sort of close she wants at all.

The office is quiet. It’s eight forty-eight and she’s early. Yeri is already there, swinging about on her chair and reading something from her phone when Seulgi steps in and sits down. The room is cold and grey and even the potted plant by the watercooler is wilting and nobody seems to want to be there at all, not least Seulgi. She glances over the room. Her eyes run to Sooyoung, back to Yeri, to Sooyoung again. To the windows at the far end. She has a sudden urge to ask Yeri again if this is real. But would it not be asking her for the first time? Before was in another world, with another Yeri, where the curtains were purple and the sheets too and Irene summarily did not exist. Does she exist in this universe? The real one. Part of Seulgi wants to never find out. The pain of losing someone that has never even existed is so great it overrides the impossibility. There is no paradox too great that the heart cannot alter it in some way.

‘You look distracted,’ Yeri says nonchalantly, without even looking at Seulgi.

‘A little,’ Seulgi replies. ‘Why are you here?’

‘What?’

‘I mean, so early.’

‘Same reason you are.’

‘Which is?’

‘I don’t know. I just am.’

‘Well. I didn’t think it’d be like you to be at work bright and early.’

‘Definitely not bright,’ Yeri says. She swings her chair around and kicks her feet up on the desk and smiles at Seulgi. Seulgi waits for her to say something else but she does not. She just sits there, as if waiting for something. The silence is unnerving. It’s a silence Seulgi isn’t used to – one filled with the desire to air things that should not be aired. To fill the gaps with unnecessary sound. Eventually, she does. She asks, in her meekest voice, ‘Did I mention something the other day about this being real?’

‘What?’

‘Did I ask you a question about whether this is real or not?’

‘Whether what is real?’

‘This. The world.’

‘Come again?’

‘Did I ask you whether the world was real or not?’

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m serious.’

Yeri just laughs. A second glance at Seulgi informs her that Seulgi is indeed serious. She shifts her legs off the desk and sits up and says, ‘No. Why? What are you talking about?’

‘Nothing. Ignore me. I’m distracted, like I said.’

‘You sure you’re okay?’

‘Fine,’ Seulgi lies. She logs into her computer as a distraction. The answer is plain as far as she can see it – these worlds are not the same. The world in which she enquired as to the tangibility of the order of things was where the curtains were purple. As if that might hold some more profound meaning to it. And in this other world Irene did not exist. Or if she did, she lived elsewhere. But another question plagues Seulgi. So much so that she turns to Yeri again and asks, ‘Is this real?’

‘What?’

‘I’m asking you now. Might as well.’

‘Is what real?’

‘This. Is this real? All of it. This job, this office, Sooyoung. Me. You. The world. Is the world real?’

‘Are you sure you’re feeling alright?’

‘Yeri.’

‘Like, is this some of trick? Or prank or something? I’m so confused.’

Seulgi shakes her head. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters. The frustration she feels is soon replaced by reluctant acceptance. She understands this world – there are no illusions, nothing feels out of place. Seungwan still remains as she was and the evening texts still keep coming and work feels no different and here there is nothing to indicate Irene’s presence at all – no number, no anything – and Seulgi’s closest accomplice is still the loneliness that hounds her like a shadow. She also understands that if this were to be some counterfeit land of dreams then surely Yeri would be none the wiser. Logically there should be no higher sentience contained within that dream, because what then? Should yet another piece of her lucid creation step out of line then what next? What becomes of something once it rebels against the master? What consent has Seulgi given willingly or otherwise to Irene or to Yeri or to anything to decide for themselves what they should be and what they should not? Yellow, not purple. How deep does the deception go?

‘I don’t know,’ she mumbles to herself. It’s loud enough for Yeri to hear but she ignores it, treating Seulgi with the same level of caution she might treat something highly radioactive. By midday Seulgi has made no sales. She stalks into the breakroom looking for the last two slices of salted caramel cake but there is no cake and there never has been. Yeri doesn’t eat cake. Instead she pours herself a cold coffee, the machine half broken as it is, the paper cups old and sealed to their plastic wrapping. It’s here – alone – that she decides on a new course of action. Waters that are yet uncharted must be mapped, new roads navigated in the darkness. She takes the dice from her pocket and rolls them across the table five times. Each time is different. Another five times produces a similar outcome. When Yeri walks in a couple minutes later she’s still rolling the dice.

‘What are you doing?’ Yeri asks.

‘Oh, just rolling these dice.’

‘Well, yeah. Any particular reason as to why?’

‘Not really. Can you do me a favour?’

‘Depends.’

She holds out the dice. ‘Can you roll them?’ she says.

‘What?’

‘Please. Just roll them a few times. I’m curious of something.’

Yeri looks at her as if she holds all the sanity of an asylum patient, or a woman having been lobotomised. She takes the dice and rolls them three times, all to different results.

‘Again,’ Seulgi says. ‘Please.’

‘What’s the reason for this? Are you making fun of me today or something? Getting me to do weird for you?’

‘Please, Yeri.’

‘What was that stuff about the world being real?’

‘Nothing. Just ignore me.’

‘Well. If you say so.’

She rolls the dice a handful more times. Seulgi watches intently. The focus never leaves the fire in her eyes. The dice come to several different combinations. One roll leaves double six. When Yeri is finished Seulgi takes the dice and puts them in her pocket and smiles.

‘What was that about?’

‘Nothing. Just an experiment of sorts.’

‘A maths one?’

‘I guess so, yeah.’

‘Well. Whatever. How’s your morning been?’

‘Not great,’ Seulgi says. ‘Not terrible, just not great either.’

‘Same, to be honest.’

Seulgi just smiles and nods as politely as she can. The truth is a great deal more complicated than that. It is so complicated that she cannot even begin to explain it, not to Yeri, not to anyone. To attempt to do so would in some way serve only to make it worse. To obfuscate things more. She feels for the dice again in her pocket. As if they might have disappeared, but they’re still there. Before she heads back out into the office she smiles at Yeri again. ‘Thanks,’ she says.

‘For what?’

‘Just, thanks.’

‘Are you okay?’

Seulgi glances back at her across the table. It’s a question Irene has been asking more and more of late and the capacity Seulgi has to lie to her is slowly dwindling, the guilt growing. But then what is the alternative? What of this can Irene know? And would she understand? The answer to that is surely no. So Seulgi sits there and smiles and says, ‘Yeah, I’m okay. Just got lost again. I do that a lot.’

‘I’ve noticed.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise. Not to me.’

‘How’s the food?’

Irene offers her a bright smile. For a moment, however fleeting, ephemeral as it may be, it’s enough to remove any and all doubts from Seulgi’s head. It’s a smile that makes her think: This is good, no? This can be real, even if it isn’t. I can make it real.

‘Food is good,’ Irene says. ‘You should try it before it goes cold.’

‘Sorry.’

‘For what? For not eating?’

‘I guess. I feel like I’ve just been distant recently.’

‘I’ve noticed that, too. You know you can talk to me, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well. I’m always here for you.’

She puts her hand on top of Seulgi’s on the table and Seulgi can only smile back at her. The restaurant isn’t quite full. People don’t seem to be paying them any attention. Nothing about it is as wonderful as it once was – the lights are just lights, the shade of burgundy on the wallpaper at the back of the room is dull and faded, and though Seulgi can still smell the coffeebeans and the bacon stronger than they should be, even that has faded a slight. The world itself is waning. She runs a thumb over Irene’s hand as if to reassure her. It takes her a long time to speak. To try and attempt to put into words the maelstrom of madness that lurks within her.

‘There’s this book I read a while ago,’ she begins. ‘It stuck with me an awful lot. It’s called Suttree. By Cormac McCarthy.’

‘Oh, yeah. You were reading one of his books a month or two ago, right? Cities of the something?’

There’s a pregnant pause. Seulgi looks at her uneasily. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘How did you know that?’

‘You told me about it. Said it was a good book.’

Seulgi nods through her best poker face. It’s a statement, nonchalant as ever from Irene, that raises a hundred other questions. Has Seulgi read that same book in this world? Has she brought it over by accident, without ever realising it? Or has her subconscious transferred her assimilation of the novel in the other world – the real world – to this one, and Irene is merely a product of that? The answer, as always, is vague and mired in mystery. So Seulgi continues. She says, ‘It’s by him, yeah.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Not a lot. I think that’s the beauty of it. At its core, it’s about a man who lives on a river boat by himself in rural America. He’s poor, he’s got a group of friends who are all misfits in society just like he is, he goes from place to place getting drunk and getting into fights and not really doing anything at all. And he doesn’t learn from any of it. There's no parable to be gleamed and he never quite better himself. He never comes to rethink his life's morals or anything. But at its heart there’s a deeply profound story there. A lesson to learn from it. Suttree – the main character, that’s his name – he’s got a lot of history. A lot of backstory to him. He’s got issues with his dad and his ex-wife and he never talks about any of it. He never attempts to find solutions to his issues. He’s not scared of the unknown – how could he ever be? If he doesn't know it, how could it affect him in anyway? He simply doesn't think about it. He’s scared instead of what becomes of it when uncovered. He’s terrified of what that knowledge might bring him, and so he refuses to seek it out. And so his life is unfinished in a roundabout sort of way - there's all this stuff that never gets resolved one way or another, things that are just ignored until they mount and mount - but maybe it's better like that. He isn't tortured by the truth. He doesn't even think about it. I think there’s something very moving in that. Something I can relate to a whole lot. And I think for that reason it’s stuck with me ever since. I don’t know if I’ll ever forget it. Or if I even want to.’

Irene’s face is lined with concern and curiosity. ‘What are you scared of finding out?’ she asks.

‘A lot of things. I know that sounds vague.’

‘A bit.’

‘Well. Yeah. But it’s true. There are so many things out there that I’m not too sure I want an answer to, and the problem is it’s so very tempting to go looking for those answers. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Kinda. I think so.’

‘That’s the gist of it. Answers would bring closure. But what if those answers also brought with them a lifetime's worht of misery?’

‘For you?’

Seulgi shrugs and turns away. Out there it’s beginning to rain, small streaks of it running down the murky glass planes like slow planarians. It’s a moment later that Seulgi feels Irene’s finger run across the back of her hand, soft and gentle and encouraging. She turns to her again, almost apologetic, and asks, ‘What’s your favourite colour?’

‘Yellow. I told you that the other day. Why?’

‘No reason. Just forgot. I could’ve sworn you told me it was purple ages ago.’

‘Don’t think I ever said that. Or if I did, maybe I was drunk at the time.’

‘Maybe. My favourite colour's yellow too.’

‘I know. You've said. What’s up, anyway? Why ask me that all of a sudden?’

‘No reason,’ Seulgi repeats. She sits there and stews in her alienation. This world is not hers and she is a nomad within it and it is all the more strange because it categorically is her world. Her world and nobody else's. Is is not? Irene should like purple because Seulgi has made her to like purple. Anything else makes no sense. She conjures for herself a great many possible solutions. Perhaps Irene is no dreamt thing at all. That she might have her own agency, separate from Seulgi’s influence. And if that were the case, what then? How can the two coexist, coincide? Separate gods in the same hollow universe. Lo, behold. Or perhaps the truth is closer to home – perhaps Seulgi has simply decide that she should like yellow. She understands this is a very real possibility. That she has in fact manufactured Irene this way, and never with purple, and has told a lie to convince herself so utterly that Irene is real, that Seulgi is not in control. The most carefully crafted schema, crowded into the fevered lobes of her mind. Irene could be just that – Seulgi’s. There is no reason for Seulgi to believe the delusion does not run that deep. None at all.

The third outcome she has thought of is so absurd it might just be correct – this is real. Irene is real. And for whatever reason, nothing else is. Seungwan is a friend that has never been. Yeri, SBI, Sooyoung, her parents. Her career choices. There was a park across the street from the house she lived in for fourteen years growing up and she played there with three boys a couple years younger than she was every day after school and maybe none of this ever existed either. Twenty-six years in the blink of an eye. And what becomes then? What becomes of these realities when exposed to their origins? Must they collapse? Must Irene, should she be as unreal as Seulgi has been led to believe?

It is this that has Seulgi so on edge. Months of indecision balanced precariously on the teetering edge of sanity. The outcome remains the same either way – she is losing her mind. She knows this even if she knows nothing else. Irene tilts her head a slight. It’s a loving gesture, full of care and worry for the love of her life, and all Seulgi can do is try and smile and her hand and say, ‘Sorry for worrying you all the time.’

‘It’s okay. I just want you to be happy, is all.’

‘I know. Me too.’

‘You will tell me if anything’s wrong, won’t you?’

Seulgi thinks about it for a long time. She says, as a barefaced lie, ‘Yes.’

‘Good. I don’t want anything hidden between us.’

‘Never. Irene.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Can you do something for me?’

‘Sure. What?’

She pulls the dice out of her pocket and sets them on the table.

‘Dice?’ Irene asks.

‘Can you roll them a couple times for me?’

‘What? Why?’

‘I just want to see something. Please.’

Irene looks at her for a minute in confusion. Then she picks up the dice and rolls them three times at Seulgi’s behest. Each time they land on double six. She rolls them another three times to double six. When she’s finished Seulgi takes the dice and puts them back in her pocket and smiles and says, ‘Thanks.’

‘Why’d you get me to do that?’

‘Just wanted to see.’

‘To see what?’

‘I think they’re loaded dice,’ Seulgi lies. ‘Found them in one of my drawers in my room.’

‘Oh, I see. Are you gonna show me it, by the way?’

‘Show you what?’

‘Your apartment. It’s been, like, what? Five months? Half a year? Longer, I think. And I still haven’t stepped foot inside your apartment.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sure. Whenever you like.’

At that Irene only beams. Seulgi thinks about it. She wonders what might happen should that come to pass. Anything? Would the walls of these worlds crumble? Would it invoke some paradox? Perhaps her room holds no special significance at all, but then what about her curtains, her bedsheets? Seulgi smiles. It’s all she can do. The mask rarely slips anymore, even in front of Irene. It isn’t until she’s alone again that night, stood in front of Irene’s bathroom mirror, that she allows it to fall.

The weeks pass, and it grows colder.

The curtains go from red to blue and back again. She talks to Seungwan less. Even Yeri grows distant and absorbed in her work. Irene is much the same, locked away from Seulgi’s small group of acquaintances by chance of existence, resigned to her solitary oneiric prison and none the wiser about it at all. It is in this time that Seulgi’s decision is made. She makes it with no real conflict at all. The questions remain – is the world in which her curtains were purple the same as this one? Or as Irene’s? Do they exist separately, and if so, how far along is her degeneracy? How rampant the fever of misery?

The answer lies in Suttree. Seulgi subscribes herself to the mantra that what she does not know cannot hurt her. The ignorance is a shroud. There lie a thousand answers to a thousand questions and none of them appeal to her for even a moment. On a Friday afternoon at five thirty-eight she takes a cab to Sincheon and pays and steps out into the fading light of the day. It’s cold and the wind rattles in her clothes and she can hear it but she’s smiling like a lunatic as she walks. She tells herself she’s had the day off work to distract from the truth that she does not know whether she’s had the day off work or not. Work here – even now – has no form to it. Her recollections of Yeri and Sooyoung come from another world, imports from a life where she is a great deal more miserable and there is no Irene and everything is dark and she is as lonely as the titans.

She walks right through the lobby. The hall is three doors down on the left. Seulgi isn’t running but she wants to. Her heart races like it’s never raced before. Blue curtains, red, purple. The dice and the note. What use is any of it? Here she stands, defiant of pragmatism, safe in the idea that she is fine as long as she is with Irene. Her hand goes out to the door. She stops only when she hears a voice from back down the corridor toward the lobby.

‘Seulgi?’

She turns to see Irene standing there in confusion. And before Irene has chance to say anything else Seulgi almost runs over to her and cups her face and kisses her right there in the middle of the hallway, passionate enough to almost knock them both off their feet. It’s filled with love and yearning and melancholy and Irene’s lips taste sweet and they taste foully bitter and they taste of banana milkshake and mustard and she hates mustard and she’s wearing a yellow sweater because yellow is her favourite colour, yellow and not purple. Seulgi pulls away, hands still on Irene’s face. She’s almost crying.

‘What was that for?’ Irene asks, a glimmer of shock in her eyes. She glances about to ensure nobody is watching them.

‘Sorry.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I missed you.’

Irene giggles into Seulgi’s warm embrace. ‘Since last night?’ she asks.

‘Am I not allowed to miss you? I love you.’

‘I love you too. Why are you here and not at work?’

‘I had the afternoon off and I wanted to come see you?’

‘Really?’

Seulgi nods.

‘Are you crying?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’ Irene teases.

Seulgi smiles. The faintest form of happiness. Thinking: I want to stay. Please oh please let me stay. She says, in a voice barely there, ‘I’m just really happy, is all. Really happy.’