The pressure in his hand built up, tensing. Without realizing, Chanyeol crumpled the paper cup he’d just grabbed. The moment Sehun’s eyes slid toward the destroyed cup, Chanyeol sheepishly laughed.

“Oops.” He scratched the back of his head. Tossing the cup into the bin tucked into the corner, Chanyeol grabbed a new cup. Poured himself coffee. Rearranging his train of thoughts while pretentiously stalling.

“I just started working here.” Sehun answered. “I’m in admin.”

“Web design,” Chanyeol told.

“I see.” Sehun nodded.

Chanyeol observed him for any hint of recognition, but received none. Maybe Sehun didn’t know him the way Chanyeol had come to know about him. Like the way Namjoo didn’t bat an eye at him at the beginning.

The two of them – their bond so close, they’d never looked outside their own duo to notice the rest of the world. See who was looking in, lurking.

But now he had her every attention, because who did she have to go to but he?

So, he was coming to understand, this was why Namjoo was off these days. Wavering, wavering, wavering. Lost, confused, not herself. Her special friend was back in town. Reappearing for what?

“Did you just move here?” Chanyeol guessed.

“Oh…yea…” Sehun took a sip of his coffee. “Not too long ago.”

“By yourself?” Chanyeol pried.

“Yes.”

“Married?” Chanyeol wondered. Yes he wanted to hear. Sehun was married. He just returned to his hometown to resettle.

“Just me and my daughter.” Sehun explained.

“Oh…I see. It’s a nice city. You’ll like it here.” Chanyeol kept a friendly smile.

“Yes, I know.” Sehun nodded. He, too, didn’t give anything away. “I should get back to work. It was nice meeting you…”

“Chanyeol.” Chanyeol completed. “Park Chanyeol.”

And he wanted him to remember that for next time.

※※※※※

The human mind is fickle. Human emotions even more fragile. If there was only one question to ask, he would ask Namjoo why she never called him.

Sehun would have picked up.

He believed she hadn’t changed her number either.

Maybe they had been dancing around chances. Waiting for one or the other to make a move first. Coming to an end where neither made any attempt and just let go, getting lost in the depths of life and its demands. At the end of the day they each could only fathom why the other one hadn’t called. And around we go.

Four years later calling now would not make any difference. But Sehun stared at his phone. Namjoo had sounded aggravated yesterday. Yelling at her father.

The Namjoo he knew couldn’t go off on her father like that even if she was upset to the point of tears. She did not scream. She did not rage for pity of her backbreaking mother. Namjoo merely held it in and endured. Coming to look for him in search of a moment’s normality.

But yesterday she had scolded her father like he was not the man who raised her, but a young boy who’d made one too many mistakes.

Four years was a stretch of time for many things to happen. Giving birth. Getting married. Getting into a relationship. Breaking up. Getting fired. Finding a job. Buying a car. Celebrating a birthday. Completely paying off a loan. Buying a house. Winning the lottery. Moving to a new city.

How many things had Namjoo crossed off her list?

What kinds of things had happened to her in the time he was gone?

Only Sehun wouldn’t know without asking. She hadn’t conveyed much yesterday. Just oh…so it was you who crashed into my dad. Done and that.

Like that was all there was to them. She wasn’t the girl from across the street. And he wasn’t the boy who waited for her to come.

Not anymore.

Sehun thought he might run into her on his return. Just didn’t know when or where, on what occasion. Perhaps he had imagined they’d catch up right away.

“Cool, you’re back?” Namjoo might say.

“For good.” He’d verify. “I missed home.”

And they’d click right away.

That would have been best.

But it wasn’t.

Sehun didn’t actually know what to say to her. Sorry I never tried to contact you for four years was not enough. He had sounded like an full of excuses yesterday. Of course, that was what he was.

From the moment he met Haewon and discovered they were going the same route. Two travelers aimlessly taking the road to wherever it led them. How attractive it had been. Sehun felt it was something special between them. She had an exotic kind of beauty and seemed to like him too. The magnetic pull between them was an alluring source from day one. Playfully stretching the tension between them.

They had been cool about it. No strings attached. Promised on it while taking the bus up north. Laughing, sharing jokes and snacks. Brushing against each other building up the steam. Before it all happened and then came down so fast.

And now here.

How to say “I’m home” to the only person who hadn’t left town. It had been a 50/50 chance, but Sehun subconsciously knew his childhood would be waiting for him. Namjoo would not just pack up and leave the place that held all of her. Not like he.

She was not foolish.

So, he would ask secondly, these four years what did you do? Did you get married? Have a boyfriend? The aisle in the chapel, did you walk down it in a sparkling white dress toward a blazing black suit?

Yet the words came to a chokehold when he’d seen Namjoo the last three times. Still the same and not.

Four years and too many things were different.

He had Seulbi. He was a father. Namjoo never tried looking or calling him, which could only mean one thing.

She didn’t need him in her life anymore.

The penetrating thought was impossible. They had spent an entire lifetime together. Growing up from bony kids to full fledged adults. Their lives may have changed, but the strings that kept them tied together could never be cut off. Friendship was like that. Forever remaining constant.

If Namjoo was upset with him now, she could forgive him later down the road. He knew her better than anyone else.

“Shut up,” she had snapped when her puberty hit and she started growing taller, her s forming. On days when she started outgrowing her school uniform she had asked for his sweater, because it was bigger and would hide her figure.

Sehun had body slammed a boy who’d once. With a bruised eye they had cackled like hyenas on the walk home. Namjoo had smacked him around when his shoulders started growing awkwardly broader before the rest of his body started catching up.

Two gangly kids they were. Sharing awkward years, the most embarrassing moments of their lives, and having the first taste of beer once of age. These first-time experiences were always shared between them.

Things like that stayed deep in the heart, never leaving the memory.

In four years, how much had Namjoo missed him? Because he had missed her. While cradling Seulbi to sleep in his arms his best friend would have helped him. Make a bottle of milk? Sure. New baby clothes? Namjoo would have oohed and ahhed over everything in the store. Hold a baby? Definitely. Change a diaper? Grimacing, Namjoo would have helped.

She had talked about it once. The only Catholic chapel in town was where she wanted to get married someday. “I don’t know,” she once said, “a handsome man might show up one day, and he’d fall for me, and we’d get married.”

Five kids? Maybe she wanted five kids. She wanted to be a stay-at-home mom like so many other mothers in the city. It was such an experience raising a child she had beamed. It would be a fulfilling life for her and she could die happy.

Working at a school sounded just like her. Being surrounded by innocent children. And he thought, once more, she would have loved watching Seulbi grow up. But that had been a missed chance.

Four years…

Waving goodbye, Sehun drove home and ran down the road to wait with the eager group of mothers picking up their children. Plenty scurried through his mind. Where to start. What to say?

His breathing hitched when the bus rolled around the corner and slowly eased toward the curb. A child glued his face into the window, staring at his mother with a mischievous smile, eyes narrowing into crescents. Toward the front Namjoo hadn’t noticed, but she was standing up, waiting for the bus to come to a halt.

A flow of voices erupted into the air once the door opened and Namjoo first stepped out. Sehun watched her patiently help each kid down. Smiling enchantingly as they called out bye to her. And then came Seulbi who searched for him. Tiny feet bolting in his direction.

“Daddy! Daddy! I miss you!” She threw her small arms around him. Sehun scooped her up gladly.

“Did you have a good day?” he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

She nodded energetically. Switching his attention, he caught the sight of Namjoo with a foot inside the bus, preparing to leave. Just like that.

“Wait,” he called out. Gripping onto the pole near the door, Namjoo hesitated. A half second and she started heaving the rest of her body up, soon to be inside the bus, then away. “Namjoo.”

Stopping again at the sound of her name, Namjoo gave it a moment then looked his way.

“Do you want to grab something?” he asked. “Juice? Coffee? Ice cream?”

They had always gone for ice cream late afternoons. After school. Once university classes ended. When they met up late afternoons after strenuous work hours. Ice cream had always been their number one choice to wind down after a long day.

“Then,” he tried, “are you hungry?”

She turned away just giving him her side profile. She would go. She was angry with him. Then her lips moved, saying something he couldn’t hear. Relief punctuated through him when Namjoo stepped back and the bus doors closed.

Looking at him, she emotionlessly said, “I have an hour.”

She waited for him to reach before shifting to follow him down the road. Seulbi quietly clung onto him without questioning him about the teacher. Throughout the years she had grown in tune with his emotions. Knowing when he was stressed, frustrated, or sad. Giving him a hug or a kiss to brighten his day.

His daughter would ask later in Namjoo’s absence. What about the teacher was important to him?

Unlocking the door to his first level apartment, Sehun invited Namjoo inside. He kept it clean of clutter for the sake of his daughter. At four years old, Seulbi knew better than to run into the sharp edge of a counter, but she could trip over a toy or fall onto the hard surface of the floor. Sehun had cushioned the floor in case she tripped, because a parent could never be too careful. His daughter’s toys were in a plastic bin next to the television set.

It was not a big space, but big enough for him and a young child. Plus, when Seulbi was older and required privacy she could take the extra room next to his. Because he wasn’t going to leave town. Sehun was here to stay, and he wanted to be on good terms with everyone.

That included his childhood bestie. The most important person he did not want to lose. He wanted Namjoo in Seulbi’s life. She could be his daughter’s female figure, and if she were to grow up, he wanted Seulbi to become rational like Namjoo. Don’t be impulsive like me he would tell her someday.

On the moment of arrival, Seulbi would immediately stomp her feet and beg for juice. Today she did not. Shy in front of Namjoo she merely stared up at him when he let her down. Sensing her desire for something to snack, Sehun opened the fridge and handed her a juice box. His daughter took it gratefully then scurried past Namjoo plopping onto the couch, tablet in hand. Keeping her own time while he busied with his business.

“I can make basil fried rice,” Sehun peered inside his fridge. “The meat’s still thawing from yesterday.”

“I don’t know what that is.” Namjoo still stood on the opposite end of the pale wooden table the apartment had come with.

“It’s good. Promise.” He said. Grabbing a bag of the plants, he closed the fridge. “Do you want to sit?”

“You just leave her like that?” Namjoo asked.

Sehun peered into the adjoining room where his daughter was laying down, tablet propped on her tummy, the straw of her juice box. Lazily comfortable.

“She’s fine.” Sehun turned to rummage through a low drawer for a pan.

“How long have you been raising her by yourself?” Namjoo asked.

Suddenly his nose was runny. Sehun wiped it with the back of his sleeve. “Some three years. I managed. It took a long time, but I finally got some aid from the government program for single parents. It’s harder to qualify than a mother, did you know? Just because a mother is more commonly known as the caretaker.”

He peeked at Namjoo. He could tell her everything, but he didn’t want to be the only one talking. Yet she stood nearest the door, never inching any nearer. Not really looking at him or Seulbi. What’s going on with you he wanted to ask.

“Are you ok?” he turned the burner on. “I heard you fighting with your father yesterday. You must have been really upset.”

Namjoo flashed him a mean glare from the corner of her eye. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh…ok.” He apologized. “Sorry.” He bit his lower lip. “By the way, how is your mother?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about them!” Namjoo snapped. Seulbi jolted from the couch. Sehun gave her an assuring smile then turned to Namjoo, whose expression filled with remorse and conflict.

A brow dug down her eye. Something in her face tensed. “Just…forget it. I lost my appetite. I have to go.”

Swiveling, Namjoo grabbed the doorknob and escaped. Sehun opened his mouth to retaliate, but the door closed and his friend was already gone.

He didn’t notice Seulbi sitting up from the couch, nervous. Not turning till he heard her feet tip-tapping against the floor toward him.

“Daddy k?” she murmured hugging his leg.

He softly smiled. “I’m ok.”

Leaning her head into his leg she comforted him.

※※※※※

“Hey, I know my cooking’s not up to par, but you don’t have to act like it’s the worse.” Chaeri broke into her thoughts.

They were having dinner. Namjoo arriving later than usual. She’d stomped all the way down the street with the wind blowing her hair into her face. Forgetting she’d never taken off that cartoon cut apron. Noticing only after a few casual stares down the street. Yanking it off when she arrived at the school, she tugged on the doors discovering the super attendant had locked up for the day. Groaning she’d driven around for a while until coming home to a dinner waiting for her.

“It’s bland, but edible.” Namjoo murmured scooping a spoonful into .

“That hurts.” Chaeri pressed a hand to her heart. She playfully grinned, but Namjoo didn’t look. “So, what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing.”

Propping a knee up onto her chair, the roommate leaned forward. “Is it that guy? If he annoys you, can I have him instead? I think he’s hot.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Dropping her spoon, Namjoo shoved away from the table. “I’m not hungry.”

Tottering off to her room, she closed the door and buried her face into her pillow. In the morning she was more grumpy than groggy. On her way to work Namjoo yawned and pulled her jaw down to stretch the tense muscles in her face. She didn’t want to show up in the classroom with a dark frown. It was embarrassing carrying her personal emotions into a room full of innocent children or be moody in front of the other teachers.

Tapping her cheeks, she climbed out of her car and headed inside the building. Arriving later than expected. The bus had already dropped the kids off. The teacher already gathering them in her classroom. Heading down the hallway, Namjoo paused in front of the door with a long rectangular window. Inhaling, she smoothed out her blouse all the way down to her pants and walked inside.

“Good morning!” she happily greeted loudly.

“Hello, Miss Namjoo!” the kids called back.

Crossing the room to the back where her apron hung off a hook, Namjoo waved and grinned as easily as breathing was. She could do this. Pretend nothing was wrong. Her life was as straight as a line of ducks. She wasn’t feeling this problematic fist pounding her chest from inside.

A tug on her pants made her stare down. Clutching the apron in her hands she wondered who.

Oh Seulbi stared up at her. That tiny round head craned back so eye met eye. A rude awakening bomb shelled her.

“Miss Namjoo?” The soft, quiet voice grazed Namjoo’s skin.

“Y…yea?” Namjoo stuttered, stunned. She never imagined Sehun’s daughter approaching her. Seulbi who always blended into the background.

“Dun be mad my daddy.” Seulbi still gripped onto her pants. The purity of a child’s innocence gushed guilt through Namjoo. And she was ashamed about her outburst yesterday.

“Pwease?” Seulbi pleaded. “Miss Namjoo?”