Sera's Side – That Walk Home
They left the convenience store quietly.
No dramatic ending, no lingering glances (well, not obvious ones). Just two people walking down the cracked sidewalk, steam still in the air and the smell of spicy broth clinging to their clothes.
Sera hugged her jacket tighter against the night breeze. Seoul was colder than expected for early autumn. Jisoo walked beside her, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other holding that same canned coffee, now half-empty.
"You always drink those?" she asked casually.
Jisoo shrugged. "Keeps my hands busy."
She looked over at him. "And your head?"
He didn't answer.
They reached the intersection near her building. Her street was up ahead — quiet, lined with low-lit apartments and overgrown trees. It was the kind of road that felt like a memory.
She stopped and turned to him.
"This was nice," she said softly. "We should do it again sometime."
Jisoo's eyes met hers.
And this time—he nodded.
Just once.
Then turned and walked away into the night.
And Sera stood there for a few seconds longer than she needed to…
just to watch him go.
The next morning in Sera's Apartment,
"Did you sleep at all?" Minjeong asked, flopping onto Sera's bed like she lived there.
Sera rolled her eyes. "Not really."
"Let me guess. Mr. Brooding Eyes and the ramen date?"
"It wasn't a date."
"Please. You fed him. That's practically marriage."
Sera threw a pillow at her.
They giggled like kids, music low in the background, the scent of hot cocoa floating from the kitchen.
It was tradition: every few weekends, Minjeong came over and they'd catch up, complain about school, and pretend their lives weren't complicated.
But today felt… different.
Because every time Sera looked at her phone, she didn't know if she wanted a message from Jisoo—
or if she wanted to send one.
Meanwhile in Jisoo's Apartment,
The lights were off.
They always were, unless someone needed something.
Jisoo lay on the couch with his arm over his face, trying to nap but failing. The events of the night before kept replaying in his head.
The noodles.
The questions.
Her voice.
"You're tolerating me pretty well."
The way she'd said it—like it mattered.
Like he mattered.
He didn't know what to do with that.
He never did.
The door slammed.
Haejin walked in, tossing his bag onto the floor, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Did you eat?"
"Yeah," Jisoo muttered.
"Liar."
"I said yeah, didn't I?"
His brother looked at him. "Don't start."
"Then don't ask."
"Why are you always like this?"
Jisoo sat up sharply. "Like what?"
"Like the world owes you something. Like I'm not trying."
"I never said you weren't—!"
"You act like this is easy for me too, Jisoo. It's not."
Silence.
Thick. Ugly.
Haejin ran a hand through his hair. "You want to help? Stop shutting me out."
Jisoo bit down on his tongue.
He didn't say I don't know how.
He didn't say it hurts too much.
He didn't say I'm scared if I let anyone in, they'll leave.
Instead, he stood up, walked past his brother, and shut himself in his room.
He sat on his bed in the dark.
Phone glowing softly in his hand.
The screen blank.
Then—
slowly, like his thumb had a mind of its own—
He opened his notes app.
Typed one line.
> Spicy noodles taste better when you're not alone.
And stared at it for a long, long time.