Synopsis: You never meant to fall for your roommate not between the empty ramen cups, unfinished portfolios, and shared silence over midnight coffee. But she was there, day after day, sketching through the quiet, peeling back pieces of you you didn’t know were still soft. You don’t know when it started. You just know you love her and that might be the scariest, realest thing you’ve ever felt.
Word Count: 10,771
Kang Haerin X Male Reader
a/n: when I was starting this one i was crazed in imagination juice but as i progress in the story i dont know how to end it so sorry if the ending feels so rush
Snap. Snap. “That should do it,” you muttered, stepping back from your camera. A lone tree against a tangerine sunset. The last shot you needed.
“Finally. Portfolio half finished. Overseas film studio, here I come.”
You grinned — not because life was good, but because hope was stubborn. You slung your bag over your shoulder and walked home.
Not home exactly.
A room you rent. A box, really — with four walls and just enough air, light, and water pressure to qualify as “livable.”
The door creaked like it hated being opened.
The other side of the room — your neighbor’s — was still untouched, still white as a blank canvas. No one’s ever rented it.
“I’m home,” you said to no one.
Then:
“I’m home, Garfield.”
Your orange tabby greeted you with a familiar meow — less affection, more hunger.
“Alright buddy, let’s feed your fatass.”
You rustled around for his food, poured some into the chipped ceramic bowl.
“Easy on the bites, man. I should take you out for a walk sometime.”
He hissed. Not a fan of cardio.
You collapsed onto the floor by your coffee table — now cluttered with printed photos. Carefully, you clipped them to the clothesline stretching across your wall. Street corners, late skies, cracked reflections in puddles. Fragments of a story you still didn’t know how to tell.
You looked at them like you made something sacred. Maybe you did.
Then you sighed. Time to work.
You showered. Changed. Wore your usual: the same long-sleeve shirt you’ve washed too many times, and your lucky thrifted Carhartt jacket — the one that made you believe, for a brief second, that life might finally shift in your favor.
“Bye, Garfield. Don’t eat the wall paint.”
You stepped out into the shallow hallway.
It was quiet. Eerily so.
The kind of silence that felt like it had its own pulse.
Outside, the city moved. But for now, you walked through it like a camera panning across a quiet frame — just another shadow passing under the light
Haerin’s POV
“Miss, excuse me.”
A whisper behind her, someone trying to squeeze past as they exited the train. Haerin didn’t respond. Just shifted her oversized bag — canvas corners poking through the fabric, brushes wrapped in old scarves — and stepped sideways, eyes still on the screen above.
Arriving at (-) shortly.
She sighed.
Flexed her shoulder, cracked her neck slightly. Then walked out the moment the train doors opened — not waiting, not hesitating. She always exited like she had somewhere better to be. Even if she didn’t.
The streets outside were grey and blinking. She walked like a ghost with a destination, eyes fixed on the crumpled paper she kept rereading — an address scribbled messily. Someone else’s handwriting. Not hers.
And then she saw it.
The apartment.
Its paint was peeling like sunburnt skin. Moss was eating through the wall’s corners like the building was being swallowed inch by inch. The gate creaked open, hesitantly, like it wasn’t used to guests.
She stared for a long moment.
Not in horror.
Just… quiet resignation.
You were spinning lazily in your chair, a pencil resting on your upper lip like you were deep in thought.
You weren’t.
You were thinking about Garfield’s massive appetite.
How the hell are you gonna feed him next week?
Not to mention your own daily survival costs — food, water, electric bills, your dreams?
Then it hit you.
“Ah, shit. The landlady said there’s a new tenant moving in today.”
You stopped spinning. Half-dramatic.
“Just please… not some dude who snores like a truck. Please. Please let it be someone quiet. Or cute. Cute and quiet. Imagine that, bro. Like a poetic girl or somethin’.”
You spun one last time — and the chair gave out.
“Oof. …Oops.”
Flat on your back.
Staring at the ceiling.
Wondering if the universe heard you.
Wondering if that poetic girl even exists.
The door creaked.
Haerin stepped inside. The air was still warm from earlier sun, the lights off, the place half-shadowed.
A shared living room. Tiny kitchenette in the corner. Cramped, quiet — a liminal space between two rented lives.
And then —
a soft rustle.
From under the couch, a round orange body emerged. Lazy, slow, but confident.
Haerin blinked.
The cat blinked back.
She didn’t speak. Just crouched down, reached into her oversized bag, and pulled out a small packed pouch of cat food. Quietly tore it open. Garfield perked up, sniffed, then devoured.
Haerin watched him for a while.
Her hand hovered, then gently rested on his head.
“I wonder what your name is,” she said softly, almost to herself, as she scratched behind his ear.
Garfield purred — rare approval.
Meanwhile, You…
You were already halfway out the studio before the second hand hit your official end shift. Your bag barely zipped, your compilation project saved but not backed up. You didn’t care.
You booked it.
Down the street, around the corner, into a 7/11 like a man chasing a dream.
Four cup noodles.
Two one-liter water bottles.
One hope for survival.
Back home, you pushed open the door, shoulder first.
“I’m home,” you called lazily.
“Garfield—ah, there you are, buddy. Damn, you’re heavy.” You scooped him up, holding him like a child.
“Ready to eat?”
He meowed like clockwork.
You glanced around.
“No visitors today, Garfield?”
As you slid off your jacket and draped it over the counter, a voice, quiet but clear, floated in behind you:
“You talk to your cat?”
You nearly jumped out of your soul. Your elbow knocked a chair over. Clatter.
“Jesus—! Uh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was… here.” You turned toward her.
She stood by the shared kitchen, her hair still slightly tousled from the wind outside. No shoes, just socks. Her eyes steady, unreadable.
“You must be the new tenant?” you said, catching your breath.
She nodded.
“Mhm.”
No name. No follow-up. Just confirmation — soft and short.
The kind that lingers.
You stood there, still halfway bent from lifting Garfield, one shoe off, your jacket slung carelessly over the back of the chair you just knocked over.
You looked at her.
She looked at Garfield.
Garfield looked at no one. He was too busy licking the floor where the cat food had been.
You cleared your throat.
“Right. Uh—sorry, again. I didn’t think you’d be here. I mean, obviously you’d be here, you live here now, that’s… yeah. Makes sense.”
Nothing. Just her blinking. Slowly.
You tried again.
“So you like cats?”
She tilted her head slightly.
“Not allergic, if that’s what you mean.”
“Ah. Yeah. No, that’s good. That’s good. He, uh, he bites strangers sometimes. Or purrs. He’s complicated.”
You were talking too fast.
You could hear yourself malfunctioning and couldn’t stop.
“I’m Y/N, by the way. I stay in 4B. You probably already know that. Landlady said she gave you the side unit, so…”
Haerin simply nodded again. “I’m Haerin.”
Then, after a pause, added:
“Your cat has good taste in jackets.”
You blinked.
Looked down.
Garfield had made himself at home on your lucky Carhartt. His entire fuzzy orange body sprawled across it like royalty. He was already asleep.
“…Cool. Great. Yeah. That’s his now, I guess.”
Another silence.
You scratched the back of your neck, praying for a meteor to crash through the roof and save you.
Haerin turned slightly, about to head back to her room, but then paused and looked over her shoulder.
“The instant noodles are gonna get cold.”
You looked down. The bag you dropped on the floor. Four cups tilted, water bottles sweating from the humidity.
“Right. Dinner.”
“Gourmet.”
And with that, she turned and disappeared down the hallway, the door to her room clicking shut with the softest thud.
You stood there, blinking.
Garfield snored.
You sat on the floor later that night, cross-legged beside Garfield, who was once again curled into a judgmental orange loaf.
The lights were off except for the one desk lamp you clipped to a window curtain. It cast a yellowish glow over the room, warm and sleepy.
Your noodles had gone cold.
Again.
You were too busy unraveling your social crash-and-burn from earlier.
“Okay, listen,” you said, half-whispering to Garfield like it was a war strategy meeting.
“She’s quiet. Like… poet quiet. And she feeds you like she’s known you since birth. That’s weird, right? Not bad-weird. Like… Miyazaki-weird. Soft-weird.”
Garfield blinked slowly.
Unhelpful.
You sighed and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling where your prints hung from clotheslines like laundry full of sunsets and street lamps.
“She didn’t even flinch when I knocked the chair over. She just stood there. Like some kind of… calm apocalypse.”
No response. Just a tail twitch.
“And she said the thing about my jacket. What did that mean? ‘Good taste in jackets’ — is that flirting? Is that sarcasm? Is she a minimalist? A performance artist?”
Your voice trailed off as you pulled your hoodie over your head, face buried in it.
“You know what, forget it. I’ll just stay quiet. Be normal. No weird vibes.”
You paused.
“…Tomorrow.”
📻
Meanwhile — Haerin’s Room
She sat cross-legged too, mirroring you unknowingly. A small paint-stained pouch lay by her foot, and her suitcase was half-opened, clothes still in travel folds. She wasn’t unpacking. Just… listening.
The wall was thinner than expected.
She heard your voice.
Not clearly. Not word-for-word.
Just the tone — low, fast, stumbling, full of things unsaid.
And for some reason, it made her smile a little.
🎞️
The Next Morning
You were fixing the photos again, straightening a crooked one, when you heard movement behind you — soft steps. A door opening.
You turned.
There she was again. Haerin, in a sweater that looked two sizes too big, holding a mug of tea, no makeup, hair messy.
She stared at the ceiling photos for a second, then asked:
“What are those for?”
You panicked. A beat too long.
“What?”
She nodded at the ceiling.
“The pictures. They always fall at night.”
You scrambled.
“Oh. Uh — portfolio. For this film thing I’m submitting to. Overseas stuff. Big maybe. Probably a no, honestly. But y’know, a guy can dream.”
She didn’t reply right away.
Just stepped a little closer and tilted her head.
“You took all of those?”
You nodded.
“Yeah. Mostly at sundown. I like that time. It makes everything look… nostalgic, even if it just happened five minutes ago.”
She looked at one in particular — a shot of an empty street corner lit by a flickering sign.
“This one looks lonely.”
“That’s my favorite,” you said, then immediately regretted how quickly it came out.
She gave the tiniest smile.
“Figures.”
And just like that, she walked off again. Quiet, back to her room. But this time, her door didn’t close all the way.
It was late afternoon, sunlight dripping in orange through the warped apartment window. You had just stepped out of the bathroom, a towel around your shoulders, hair still damp and smelling faintly like the off-brand citrus shampoo you’ve been using for months.
Your bag was already packed. Camera batteries charged. Tripod sticking awkwardly out the zipper. You moved fast, almost automatically, your thoughts racing faster than your body could keep up.
As you passed her room, you paused.
Hesitated.
Then knocked — softly, with the side of your knuckle, like you were knocking on your own nerves.
“Hey, Haerin.”
Silence.
Then, just to fill it, you kept going:
“Uhhh—I’m heading out. Work stuff. The bathroom’s free now, if you need it.”
Still nothing. You cleared your throat.
“Also, food’s in the fridge. There’s leftover rice and a box of fishballs, unless Garfield found a way to open Tupperware, which wouldn’t surprise me at this point.”
From somewhere inside, a soft shuffle.
“And don’t fall for his doe eyes. He weaponizes them. He’s a manipulator. That’s how he got fat.”
You sighed, adjusting your bag.
“Anyway, I’ll be back late. Gotta shoot a corporate seminar today — nothing fancy. Just middle-aged people pretending they’re excited about pivot tables and synergy. Then a studio gig after that. Might edit on-site if there’s time. Rent’s due next week, and Garfield refuses to get a job.”
Still no answer.
But it felt okay, just saying it.
Like talking to a wall that listened.
You paused again.
“Bye.”
And with that, you left — the door closing behind you with a soft finality, swallowed by the hallway silence.
Twelve hours later.
You came home sore. Eyes strained. Bag heavier than when you left, somehow.
The building hummed with the soft, flickering buzz of broken hallway lights. Your shoulders slumped with the weight of footage you weren’t even proud of, all shot under sterile white conference lights while executives talked about “team culture” and “embracing innovation.”
The fridge was still humming. Garfield meowed like he hadn’t eaten since the Cold War.
You kicked your shoes off, dragging your bag inside, already undoing your tie with one hand—
And froze.
In the shared living space, bathed in soft lamplight, she sat cross-legged on the floor, back straight, hair tied up loosely with a pencil.
She was painting.
Not some grand canvas — just a small wooden board, like the kind you buy for ₱20 at a street stall. Her brush moved slow, gentle, like she wasn’t trying to create art, just to breathe.
It smelled faintly of linseed oil. Music was playing from her phone — something instrumental and slow. You didn’t recognize it, but it made the apartment feel less like a prison, and more like a postcard.
You didn’t say anything.
She didn’t look up.
But there was a second cup of tea on the floor beside her.
Still warm.
THE NEXT DAY
Late afternoon light pooled on the floor like spilled tea.
You stepped out of the bathroom towel-drying your hair, face a little flushed from the steam. Your worn-out polo stuck to your back, and your bag was already pre-packed — overstuffed with a tripod, loose wires, and notebooks with bent corners.
Your camera battery blinked full.
Garfield blinked at you with judgment.
You adjusted your bag, stood in front of her door, and knocked without thinking.
Not loud. Not shy. Just… normal now.
“Hey, Haerin. I’m heading out.”
No answer. But that didn’t matter anymore. You were already talking.
“So, bathroom’s all yours. Shampoo smells like citrus. There’s leftover rice and some vegetables I tried to cook — it’s mid, but edible. I think. Garfield already ate. Or at least, he claims he hasn’t, but I found teeth marks on the fridge handle.”
Still nothing.
You leaned against the doorframe, thinking. Words spilled out like clockwork.
“Got two shoots today. The usual morning slog — corporate stuff, office people doing awkward handshakes and pretending they care. After that, maybe a reshoot for a food vlog ad, if the client actually shows up. Then some quick editing. If I’m lucky, I’ll be home before midnight.”
Still quiet on the other side. But you didn’t mind.
It felt like telling the wall your secrets. Except this wall made tea sometimes and fed your cat.
You smiled a little without realizing.
“Anyway. Don’t wait up or anything. Just… don’t forget to eat. And if Garfield acts cute — don’t. It’s a trap.”
You adjusted your bag again, stepping back.
“Bye.”
And just like that, the doorframe stopped being a conversation point. You walked out into the hallway — headphones in, head down, like you didn’t just narrate your entire life to someone behind a closed door.
Inside Her Room
Haerin sat cross-legged by her bed, brush still in hand, the faint scent of paint lingering like perfume. The cup of tea beside her was still warm.
She didn’t move.
Just looked at the door. The space he left behind.
She didn’t say anything — not because she didn’t want to. But because his voice always filled the silence like he was afraid to leave any gaps. Like silence meant something was missing.
So she listened.
And painted.
Afternoon sunlight leaked through the dusty window like it was trying to escape.
You stepped out of the bathroom with wet hair and your usual frayed polo, a towel slung around your shoulders. Your camera bag sat by the door, already packed — tripod barely zipped in, cables knotted in a way only you understood.
Garfield, your emotional support demon, sat on the couch, glaring like you interrupted his nap.
You passed her door and knocked, same as you always did. Automatic now.
“Hey, Haerin.”
No answer. You didn’t need one.
“I’m heading out. Bathroom’s free — also don’t mind the uhh bite mark on the soap, I think Garfield took a bite thinking it was something or idk he’s wierd.”
You shifted your bag, adjusting the weight on your shoulder.
“There’s leftover rice and fish in the fridge. It’s aggressively mid, but edible. Unless Garfield got there first, in which case, it’s probably licked. Or poisoned. Can’t be sure with him.”
Still quiet.
You tapped your fingers on the doorframe like a nervous metronome.
“First shoot’s at some office — corporate stuff. A guy named Mr. Alan wants to ‘capture synergy’ again. Whatever the hell that means.”
“Then food content work. If the client ghosts, I’ll just film Garfield eating noodles and sell it as performance art.”
You glanced at the cat. He sneezed.
“Okay. Bye. Don’t fall for the tail wag. He’s manipulating you.”
And with that, you left.
Eleven Hours Later
You dragged yourself home, one foot at a time. The hallway light flickered as usual. You unlocked the door and pushed it open — expecting darkness, silence, Garfield.
Instead, you smelled food.
Real food. Warm. Seasoned.
On the table: a plate of reheated rice, a perfectly pan-fried egg, some leftover veggies cut too precisely to be your work. There was even a small bowl of soup — hot enough to still steam slightly.
And next to it, a folded note under your water bottle.
You opened it.
Her handwriting was clean. Sharp but gentle.
“Don’t skip dinner. Eat well to sustain your hard work.”
(P.S. Your cat tried to bite me. Again. I still fed him. He doesn’t deserve it.)
– H.
You stood there a long second, the note still in your hand.
Garfield meowed like he cooked it all himself.
You sat down, slowly.
Your stomach was tired, but your chest was something else — like the soft ache of being noticed.
You picked up your spoon.
“You don’t deserve her, you know that?”
Garfield purred, unapologetic.
You took your first bite, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like you weren’t eating alone.
You were on the floor again, half-talking to Garfield like he was licensed to give life advice. He wasn’t. But no one else was awake at this hour.
“She’s nice, right?” you mumbled.
“Like the quiet kind of nice. I think she’s seen a lot but doesn’t make a show of it.”
Garfield yawned mid-meow. Classic.
“I don’t know, man. I just keep thinking about the way she—”
A door creaked.
Your whole body tensed.
You turned like you’d been caught stealing.
Haerin stood in the dim kitchen light, hoodie sleeves past her fingers, hair tied up in a sleepy bun, eyes heavy.
She opened the fridge.
Paused.
Turned to you, deadpan.
“You ate everything again?”
You stood up too quickly.
“Okay. Look. It wasn’t on purpose. I was editing, and the soup was just—there. And you fed Garfield first so technically I was the second victim.”
She just blinked at you.
“That was for tomorrow.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Then tried again:
“Let me make it up to you. Sit. Don’t move. I’ll cook something.”
“You’ll what?”
“I can cook! Sort of. Basic survival cooking. The non-toxic kind.”
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.
“You used a metal spoon in my non-stick pan.”
“I’ve grown since then.”
She leaned against the counter. “This I need to see.”
And just like that, your mouth had committed you to something your hands had no right performing.
You scrambled into the kitchen, fumbling with the rice cooker, then the eggs, then accidentally pulling out frozen lumpia when you were looking for butter.
Garfield watched you with visible shame.
“Do not judge me,” you whispered to him.
You turned to her.
“So! Any dietary restrictions I should know about? Aside from… hating me?”
Haerin, now sitting at the small table, resting her cheek on one hand, simply replied:
“I don’t eat clowns.”
“…Good. That’s my backup job.”
You kept working, poorly, but with effort. Egg fried rice. A slightly burnt egg. Some chopped up greens you think were still good. You didn’t talk much, except to curse under your breath when you almost dropped the pan.
When you finally plated the food — uneven portions, messy edges, but warm — you set it in front of her and held your breath.
She looked at it. Then at you.
“Is this edible?”
“Define edible.”
She took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
“…It’s not bad.”
You blinked.
“Wait, really?”
She nodded once. “Tastes like you cooked it.”
You couldn’t tell if that was an insult or not. But she kept eating.
And she stayed. No retreat to her room. Just soft chewing in the low light, across a tiny table that had never seated two.
You leaned back in your chair, finally exhaling.
Garfield tried to steal a bite.
You smacked his paw away.
“Back off, fatass.”
The sunlight was still gold and sleepy when you stepped out of the bathroom. Hair still damp. Usual thrifted jacket over your wrinkled polo. Your camera bag sat by the door, heavier than usual — stuffed with yesterday’s unedited footage and this morning’s hope that maybe today wouldn’t be a disaster.
Garfield was passed out under the window, belly up, clearly unbothered by the economy.
You walked toward her door without thinking. Like brushing your teeth. Like breathing.
You knocked — gentle, like always.
“Hey, Haerin.”
No answer. You kept going.
“I’m heading out. Bathroom’s free. I restocked the fridge, so there’s rice, eggs, some seaweed packets — and before you ask, yes, I triple-checked the expiration dates. Unlike someone, I’m learning.”
Still no response.
You scratched the back of your neck.
“Today’s lineup: two food stalls to film, one afternoon voiceover gig, and possibly a rushed submission edit if the client decides to be last-minute — which he will. Then I might drop by this studio screening, but only if I don’t crash on the bus first.”
You paused, about to say goodbye…
but the door opened — just a crack.
And there she was.
Messy hair. Half-asleep. Hoodie hanging off one shoulder.
She blinked up at you like the sun offended her.
Then softly — like it was just air passing through her lips:
“You made too much rice last night.”
You froze, a beat too long.
Then awkwardly:
“…I do everything with dramatic flair. Rice included.”
She nodded, then without looking:
“Don’t forget to eat lunch today.”
You didn’t say anything for a second.
Then you smiled. Tired. Warm.
“Yeah. You too.”
She gently closed the door.
You stood there, brain rebooting.
Garfield stretched from the couch like finally, romantic development.
You rolled your eyes, grabbed your bag, and walked out.
But this time, you walked just a little slower.
The sun was out. The bus came on time. The first client didn’t cancel.
You were suspicious.
Still, for once, things worked. Your footage looked clean straight out of the camera. The lighting hit right. The sound guy didn’t flake. Someone even gave you free taho while you were setting up the tripod.
It was the kind of day that felt like maybe the universe had accidentally forgotten to punish you.
“Morning, guys!” you called as you entered the studio, finger guns out, coffee in hand.
Your co-workers blinked like you’d grown a second head.
“Did he just say morning without cursing?”
“Who are you and what have you done with Y/N?”
You just laughed. “I don’t know, man. I had a good egg last night. Changed my whole aura.”
You crushed two edits before lunch. Sent files ahead of deadline. Even cleaned your own coffee mug — unprecedented behavior.
Someone offered you extra siomai and you didn’t cry over it. Progress.
“We should frame this day,” one of the interns said. “Y/N’s not yelling at his laptop.”
You grinned.
For once, the city noise didn’t bother you. Even the heat felt survivable.
And for the first time in a long time, your chest didn’t feel like it was full of static
The apartment was still.
Not silent, exactly — the TV buzzed with an old romance film, and Garfield occasionally twitched in his sleep — but the kind of stillness that makes you realize how much space one person can leave behind.
Haerin sat curled into the couch cushion, a blanket over her lap and one hand wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug. The screen flickered in front of her, warm tones and teary close-ups.
A love confession was happening. Something poetic.
Music swelling. Slow zoom.
The girl cried.
Haerin just blinked.
She glanced at Garfield, his body a lazy loaf beside her, tail flicking like he had better things to do than comfort someone watching fake love.
“Do people really do that?” she muttered.
The cat didn’t move.
She nudged him gently, finger on his paw. Still nothing.
She poked his belly. Got a single annoyed kick.
She sighed. A little smile tugged at her mouth — the kind that barely reached the eyes.
“He talks to you like you understand him.”
Garfield yawned like he couldn’t be bothered.
“He’s weird,” she added, quieter. “But he made dinner. He didn’t burn it. He didn’t even pretend it wasn’t for me.”
She watched the screen a bit longer. The couple was dancing now, swaying in a room full of fairy lights.
Haerin tilted her head against the couch and whispered,
“…Do you think he likes me?”
Garfield responded by standing up, stretching, and walking away — tail in her face.
She scoffed softly and pulled the blanket higher.
Didn’t answer her own question.
Didn’t need to.
But the living room felt warmer tonight.
Not because of the TV.
But because of the rice and egg still sitting in the kitchen, in a second bowl, with her name written in tiny letters on a sticky note.
Just in case she wanted more.
It was late when you got home — not too late, just past dinner, where the air outside smelled like burnt oil and street food, and the apartment’s hallway buzzed with old fluorescent lighting.
The door creaked open.
“I’m home,” you called halfheartedly, as always, before toeing your shoes off.
Garfield trotted up first, fat and judgy.
But the living room lights were still on. And Haerin was sitting on the floor this time, sketchpad on her knees, her hair loosely tied and strands falling into her eyes.
She didn’t look up when you entered — not immediately.
But her pencil slowed.
“You’re back early,” she said, quietly.
You grinned. Threw your bag onto the couch and pulled out a small brown paper bag.
“Good day,” you replied. “Got all my shots in. Client didn’t cancel. I didn’t die. Thought I’d reward myself.”
You tossed her the bag gently.
She caught it — raised a brow.
“What’s this?”
“Sweet potato balls. The really good kind, from that sketchy cart on 5th. It’s fresh, so… yeah.”
She peeked inside. Her nose twitched slightly. Maybe a ghost of a smile.
“You brought food?”
You shrugged off your jacket, stretching your sore shoulders.
“I figured you were probably bored out of your mind with Garfield. He’s a terrible conversationalist.”
“He said the same about you.”
You snorted.
She took one of the sweet potato balls, bit into it, and paused.
Then, quietly:
“…It’s really good.”
You sat across from her on the floor, watching her sketchpad lazily as she ate another. You didn’t ask what she was drawing. Not yet.
Instead, you leaned your head back against the wall and sighed.
“Man. I’m gonna crash so hard tonight.”
She didn’t say anything right away. Just kept sketching. But then:
“…You look less tired than usual.”
You blinked.
“Wow. A compliment? From the great Kang Haerin?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
You grinned. Reached into the bag and grabbed a ball for yourself.
The two of you sat in silence for a moment — not uncomfortable, not awkward. Just easy.
And then:
“Hey,” she said, eyes still on her paper. “Thanks.”
You looked over. “For what?”
“…For bringing something back. Even if it’s just food.”
Your lips parted.
You didn’t know what to say to that.
So you just nodded.
“Of course. Next time, maybe I’ll bring you something weird. Like a weird keychain or something.”
“Don’t. I hate clutter.”
“…Okay. So a weird pencil it is.”
She rolled her eyes.
But she didn’t stop smiling.
It was early again.
The kind of early where your brain still runs on fumes and the hallway lights flicker like they’re mourning something. Your damp hair stuck to your neck, and your thrifted jacket hung off your shoulder like it was too tired to hold itself up.
You passed her door like you always did.
Knocked — once, soft.
“Hey, Haerin.”
No answer, but you didn’t expect one. You never did.
“Bathroom’s free. I left you half a boiled egg in the fridge, but only because Garfield tried to eat the other half, oh and there’s frozen sausages on the freezer, figured Garfield wouldn’t want frozen food”
Still no sound from inside.
You rubbed your eyes, continued anyway.
“Today’s schedule’s a mess. First a café shoot downtown, then a studio cleanup at three, and if the sky behaves, I’ll try to catch some sunset footage by the pier. Might be late. Or not. Who knows.”
You shifted your camera bag to the other shoulder. You were about to walk away.
Then paused.
Fingers lingering on the doorframe, you cleared your throat.
“…Uh, want something?”
Silence.
You glanced down at your shoes.
“Like, food or whatever. If I pass by somewhere cheap. Not like a big thing. Just…”
The door creaked slightly open — barely, just enough for her voice to slip through.
“Something warm.”
You blinked.
Smiled a little.
“Okay. Something warm.”
You turned and left — footsteps a bit lighter than they were yesterday.
Garfield sat in the corner, watching like he knew something you didn’t.
And maybe he did.
It started out simple.
You left the shoot with enough time to spare before sunset, camera packed, cables tied, half your mind already planning how to frame the pier when the sky turned orange.
And then you remembered it.
“Something warm.”
Three words. Casual. Innocent.
But now they were lodged in your skull like a siren call.
And you panicked.
What did she mean?
Soup? Tea? Something spicy?
Did she mean comforting warm or temperature warm?
What if she didn’t mean food at all?
Was it code for something deeper?
What if you got it wrong?
You found yourself standing frozen in the middle of a convenience store aisle, staring at rows of microwavable meals like they personally betrayed you.
“Okay. Think.”
You muttered under your breath like a man on the edge.
“She likes fish. She hates clutter. She eats like a bird but cooks like she’s feeding a family of five. What does that mean? What does any of that mean??”
You grabbed a miso soup cup. Put it back.
Grabbed hot tea. Put it back.
Picked up an onigiri. Squished it too hard. Put it back.
Your reflection in the freezer door looked concerned.
Your hand hovered over the heated food display — corndogs? Tamago buns?
No. No. Too weird. Too greasy. Too something.
You sighed. Loudly. Desperately.
A worker looked at you with suspicion.
You whispered, “It’s not for me, it’s for someone warm.”
That didn’t help.
In the end, you walked out with a small paper bag. Inside: one steamed red bean bun. Warm. Soft. Just enough sweetness.
And a packet of ginger tea, just in case.
You had no idea if she’d like it. But it was… gentle. Simple. Not too loud. Like her.
You clutched the bag like it held the meaning of life.
🏠
Scene: Something Small, Something Warm
You came home quiet. Not dramatic. Just a soft “I’m home,” as you slipped off your shoes.
Garfield raised his head, blinked once, and went back to sleep.
You peeked into the living room. Haerin was there, curled in her usual corner, sketchpad balanced on her knees.
She looked up as you stepped in — not surprised. Not waiting. Just aware.
You raised the paper bag.
“It’s probably dumb,” you mumbled. “But you said ‘something warm’ so… yeah.”
She took it, careful and light. Peeked inside.
“…A bun?”
“Red bean.” You scratched the back of your neck. “I panicked, okay?”
She stared at it for a second. Then gave the smallest smile you’d ever seen on her — blink-and-you’d-miss-it soft.
She took a bite.
Paused.
Nodded.
“It’s warm.”
You sat across from her, sinking into the floor like you were suddenly very aware of your entire nervous system.
She kept eating.
You didn’t need a bigger thank you than that.
Later that night, the room was still.
Garfield was curled up in a tight loaf at the end of the couch, tail twitching occasionally as if guarding your weird little world.
Haerin was at the coffee table, her sketchbook laid open in front of her, pencil smudges on her sleeve. You were beside her — hunched, cross-legged — papers splayed out like chaos: your portfolio prints, recommendation letters, school suspension documents (you still kept them, weirdly), and old credential sheets you kept meaning to update.
Your back cracked audibly.
“I think I aged twelve years just now.”
“You’re always hunched. You’re going to become a shrimp by thirty.”
You gasped. “Excuse you, I’ll have you know I’m evolving. Shrimp are sleek. Efficient.”
She kept sketching. But you could tell — from the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth — that she was holding in a smile.
A few minutes passed like that.
Pencil scratches. Paper shuffles.
Soft late-night hum of the city through the window.
Then, without looking up, she held something out to you.
The last bite of the red bean bun.
Still warm from her hand.
“You panicked over this, right?” she asked casually.
You looked at it. Blinked.
“…Kinda.”
“Then you should get to eat some of it too.”
You hesitated — not because of the food, but because of the moment.
You took the bite. Didn’t even pretend not to care.
Chewed slowly, letting the sweetness melt on your tongue.
“It’s better when you share it,” you said.
“It always is,” she replied.
That made you look at her.
But she was back to sketching already.
You chewed the last bite of the red bean bun, nodding in approval.
“Okay, you were right. It’s better when you share it.”
“Obviously.” Haerin said, brushing away a few eraser crumbs. “Warm food’s like a secret. Tastes better when someone else knows it too.”
You stared at her, blinking.
“…That was deep.”
“I have my moments.” She shrugged, still focused on her sketchbook.
You leaned back, stretching your spine with a groan, arms reaching overhead until your fingers brushed the low-hung photos above you — old film shots clipped onto a clothesline, swaying gently under the breeze of the electric fan.
“You know,” you murmured, “most nights I’m dead tired. But this? This is actually… not so bad.”
“Working?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
“Existing,” you said, too quickly.
There was a pause — not heavy, but definite.
Then she nodded, slow. Understanding.
“…I used to think I’d be painting in some seaside city by now.”
That caught your attention.
“You mean like, as a career?”
She gave a short breath — not quite a laugh.
“I had this image. Me. Watercolor skies. Selling prints. Small apartment with windows that faced the ocean.”
She looked down at her drawing.
“But now I make greeting cards about ‘faith’ and ‘healing’ for people I’ve never met. And they barely let me pick the font.”
You sat there, quiet, letting the silence settle between you like a blanket.
Then:
“What would you name your seaside gallery?”
She blinked. “…What?”
“You said you imagined it. So what would the sign outside say?”
She hesitated. Then tilted her head, thoughtful.
“…Maybe something like ‘Canvas Drift.’ Or ‘Low Tide Color.’ I don’t know.”
“Mmm. Sounds like a sad indie band.”
“Exactly.” she smiled.
You shuffled through your portfolio mess until you found one of your favorite shots — a long exposure of the harbor, city lights melting into water.
You handed it to her.
“Put this on your gallery wall then. In your pretend one.”
She took it carefully, holding the edges like it might smudge.
“…You printed this on real paper.”
“Of course I did. I’m dramatic like that.”
She smiled — real this time, lazy and soft — and slid it under the edge of her sketchpad like it belonged there.
Then she looked at you.
“What about you? What did you think you’d be doing by now?”
You chewed your lip.
“I thought I’d be filming weird art house stuff with no budget and too much emotion. You know, handheld shaky shots and cryptic narration about grief and fruit.”
She laughed under her breath. “That tracks.”
“And maybe working in some film collective where everyone smells like cigarettes and regret. But at least it’d be mine.”
You scratched your neck.
“…Now I spend half my time cutting promo reels for fish balls and mall grand openings. Not bad gigs. But not exactly soul-feeding.”
She didn’t say anything — just leaned a little closer, elbow brushing yours.
“Maybe you’ll still get there,” she said softly.
You looked at her.
“Maybe we both will.”
A quiet settled again. But this one was warm. Mutual. Like shared weight.
Outside, the city buzzed low and far away.
Inside, only your small desk lamp lit the room. Garfield snored softly nearby.
Haerin glanced at your unfinished papers. You reached over and gently tugged the edge of her sketchbook.
“Draw me again.”
“What, right now?”
“Yeah. Like this. Late night. Barely human. Peak shrimp form.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.
“…Fine. Sit still. But don’t make weird faces.”
You immediately contorted your expression like a cartoon villain.
“Y/N.”
“Okay, okay!”
She started sketching again — this time slower, looser. You watched her hand move, watched her brows furrow in quiet concentration.
And for a moment — just a brief, wordless moment — you thought:
If this was every night, I wouldn’t mind.
THE NEXT MORNING
You emerged from your room still half-asleep, rubbing your eyes and dragging your feet in socks that Garfield probably kneaded into submission during the night. You stretched, yawned, and instinctively checked the coffee pot.
But when you glanced toward Haerin’s door, you paused.
It was open.
Weird.
You squinted into the living room — and there she was. Dressed. Not just dressed, but put together. Hair tied in a soft twist, clean-cut blouse tucked into slacks, her lips with the faintest touch of something rose-colored.
You blinked, more awake now.
“…Where are you going?” you asked, voice still hoarse from sleep.
She looked up from lacing her shoes. Cool, casual, but her fingers fumbled slightly.
“Interview,” she said, brushing dust off her pants. “There’s this art studio near the riverside. They’re hiring.”
Your eyebrows shot up.
“Wait, that’s great. Like actually.”
“Yeah. I mean… maybe. They said I could bring my portfolio. It’s not formal-formal, but still.”
You nodded. She grabbed her bag. You noticed the rolled-up sketchpad peeking from the side.
You hesitated.
“…Want me to drop you off?”
She turned slowly. Blinking.
“Don’t you use public transport?”
You scratched your head. “Yeah. But I have a car.”
“…You have a ca—”
“In the garage,” you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My dad passed it on to me. It’s rare. Like, artifact rare. I barely use it. Used to bring it to car shows and stuff back then.”
She stared.
You shrugged, walking to the fridge for cold water.
“Doesn’t really benefit me anymore. I mean, maybe my ego. But I outgrew that — mostly.”
She tilted her head, still frozen mid-shoe tie.
“…You’re weird.”
“I’m layered.” You smirked. “Like a sad parfait.”
She looked away — but not fast enough to hide the faint smile forming on her lips.
You walked over, opened the freezer, pulled out a leftover steamed bun and tossed it her way. She caught it with both hands.
“Eat. Can’t impress a studio on an empty stomach.”
She looked at the bun. Then at you.
“You’re actually driving?”
“Yup. Just let me tame my hair and threaten Garfield to not destroy the couch while we’re gone.”
She waited at the door, still quiet, still thinking — maybe about the surprise of it all.
You, disappearing behind the bathroom door, said just loud enough to carry:
“…You look like someone who gets hired.”
And on the other side, Haerin stood still for just a second longer than needed.
Then whispered, barely audible:
“Thanks.”
The car purred when it started.
Not growled. Not wheezed. Just that soft, dignified hum of something old and carefully loved.
The inside smelled like worn leather and faded pine air freshener, maybe a hint of camera dust. The seats creaked slightly when she climbed in — unfamiliar to her, but not uncomfortable. You adjusted the rearview mirror, popped on your scratched-up sunglasses like this wasn’t a big deal.
“…You really have a car.”
You glanced at her with a grin. “Told you.”
“It’s… older than I expected.”
“It’s a classic.” You ran a hand along the dashboard. “This thing saw more sunsets than I did at 16.”
You didn’t say it, but she could tell — the car mattered to you.
It wasn’t shiny or fancy. But it was kept. A relic of someone’s past version of you. A timeline you never really talk about.
The two of you drove through the morning haze, city blurring past the windows. She fiddled with the cassette player on the dash.
“Wait — this works?”
You smirked. “Only plays sad folk rock and 80s ballads. Choose your poison.”
She pressed play. A grainy track rolled in — jangly guitar, raw voice, the kind of music that sounded like longing in a bottle.
You glanced at her. She didn’t change it.
The car rolled past slow markets, sleepy streets, early joggers. You didn’t talk much, but the silence was warm. Familiar.
And just as you pulled up in front of the studio — an old three-story building with cracked windows and bright paint — someone whistled.
A guy from inside, probably another artist, leaned halfway out of the entrance door.
“Yo!” he shouted, gesturing at the car. “That a 1985 Celeste? Holy shit, I haven’t seen one in years.”
You blinked, sheepish.
“Yeah. Got it from my dad. She’s temperamental but loyal.”
The guy grinned. “Man, I used to see this at meets. You take her to shows?”
You scratched your neck. “I used to. Kinda grew out of the scene.”
“Shame! That thing’s a gem.”
Haerin watched the exchange silently, eyes flicking between you and the stranger.
You finally stepped out and circled to her side, opening the door like it was no big deal — but there was something about the way you did it. Quiet. Soft.
“Here,” you said. “Go knock ‘em out.”
She stepped out slowly, bag over her shoulder, sketchpad tight to her chest.
The guy at the door nodded at her too. “You riding with this cool guy? Damn, you’re in good hands.”
You looked at her, chuckling a little. “Don’t let that raise your expectations.”
She met your eyes.
There was something unreadable in hers.
“…You’re full of surprises.” she said softly.
You shrugged.
“Only the weird kind.”
She paused at the door. “If I get the job… you’ll drive me again?”
You raised a brow. “If I get paid this week, I’ll throw in coffee.”
She smiled — barely, but it showed.
Then she walked through the door, and you watched it shut behind her like you’d just sent something important into orbit
Haerin came home a little later than expected.
You heard the front door creak open as you were half-dozing on the couch, Garfield sprawled across your chest like he paid rent. You sat up, blinked, and watched her step in — a little slower than usual, not dragging her feet, but not floating either.
She set her bag down without a word. Head lowered. Sketchpad still zipped shut.
You didn’t ask.
You didn’t need to.
You stood up, grabbed your jacket, and gestured toward the door.
“Let’s go.”
She looked at you, confused. “Where?”
“Ramen.” You tossed her your spare hoodie. “The one with the old man who yells when the broth’s too cold.”
“…You don’t have money.”
“I don’t have a lot of money,” you corrected. “But I’ve got enough for noodles. Come on.”
The shop was tucked behind a convenience store, barely wide enough to fit a dozen people. The sign out front had lost two of its letters, so it just said “_men Sho.” But you’d been going there since college — back when your nights ended with rejection emails and shaky shoulders.
The old man behind the counter didn’t greet you. He just grunted, nodded once, and pointed to the same corner seat you always took.
You both sat down. Elbow to elbow.
“Two miso, extra egg,” you told him.
Haerin said nothing, still picking at the edge of a paper napkin.
You watched her for a bit, then finally said:
“They didn’t see it?”
She didn’t look at you.
“They said I was technically good. But my style didn’t match their brand.”
You nodded.
“Translation: ‘we don’t know how to market sincerity.’”
That made her huff. Barely a laugh, but real.
“They asked me if I could draw things more ‘inspirational.’ I asked what they meant, and they showed me a canvas with a bird and the quote ‘Let Go and Let God.’”
You physically winced.
“Oof. That’s a crime.”
“They said my colors were too muted. That the sadness was too heavy.”
The ramen arrived, piping hot, steam curling up into her face. She blinked through it, almost dazed.
“…But sadness is color,” she said softly.
You didn’t say anything.
You just slid her bowl closer.
“Eat. Sadness or not, we don’t waste noodles here.”
The old man muttered something in the back about the eggs being “overboiled again.” Someone at the far end slurped like it was a sport.
Haerin took a bite.
She closed her eyes for half a second longer than she meant to.
“…This is good.”
“Of course it is. This place doesn’t lie.”
She glanced at you. You were already halfway through your bowl like you hadn’t eaten in days.
“You always do this?”
“What? Eat?”
“Take people here when things go wrong.”
You shook your head.
“Nah. Just the ones who don’t pretend they’re fine.”
She looked down again. The steam softened her features, made her seem a little less armored.
She whispered:
“…I really wanted it.”
You nodded.
“Then be sad. But not hungry.”
You both kept eating.
Outside, the neon sign flickered.
Inside, the sadness lingered, but it didn’t suffocate.
Not when there was broth. And steam. And the quiet comfort of someone who didn’t try to fix it — just stayed
The walk back from the ramen shop was quieter than usual — the kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, just… settled.
The night air was crisp, and the steam from the shop still clung faintly to your clothes. Haerin’s hair fluttered a little in the breeze, hands tucked into her sleeves, shoulders finally a little less heavy.
You both stepped into the apartment like it was routine now — shoes off, Garfield meowing like he hadn’t been fed in centuries.
“Drama queen,” you muttered, scratching his chin as you dropped your keys.
She headed toward her room, but you stopped her halfway.
“Wait.”
She turned. A little curious. A little tired.
You reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out two things.
One was a small envelope — not sealed, just folded — with something a little stiff inside.
The other?
A tiny keychain.
Just a clear acrylic rectangle. Inside, a mini version of one of her paintings — the one with the girl walking through fog, umbrella bent backward by the wind. Soft colors. Heavy sky.
You held it up sheepishly.
“I know you don’t like clutter,” you said, “but… hey.”
She stared.
You scratched your neck. “The print shop by my work owed me a favor. So I reprinted your sketch. On matte archival. Framed it. It’s in the envelope.”
You handed it to her — cheap plastic frame and all.
“Figured… if that studio can’t see the worth in your work, I’ll show you someone does. Even if it’s just me.”
She didn’t speak.
Not right away.
She just looked down at the keychain in her hand — thumb brushing over the tiny image like it was something fragile, and maybe it was.
Then she looked back up at you.
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“…Thank you.”
You shrugged, trying not to make it a big deal.
“Hang it on your bag. Or don’t. Just… it’s yours.”
There was a pause.
Then she stepped closer — not a hug, not quite — just near enough that you could feel the warmth between you.
“I think I’ll keep it.”
You nodded, quietly relieved.
She smiled — soft, tired, but real.
And then, as she walked to her room, she called over her shoulder:
“Hey Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not that weird.”
You blinked.
Grinned.
“…That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
She closed the door behind her.
And for a second, the hallway felt like a lighter place.
It was morning.
Soft, honey-colored light filtered through the cracked blinds, catching the corner of the cheap coffee table and the ceiling clothesline full of photo prints. Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked at absolutely nothing.
Inside, you were crouched in front of Garfield’s bowl, pouring kibble like you were performing a sacred ritual.
Garfield glared at you.
“Don’t give me that look,” you muttered. “I always feed you. You’re not dying.”
He yawned, tail flicking with the laziness of someone who knew you’d give him chicken scraps later anyway.
You sat back on your heels and sighed.
“…She kept the keychain.”
Garfield blinked.
“Like actually clipped it to her bag. Left it swinging there like it’s no big deal. Like she didn’t know I was going to see it and short-circuit internally.”
No response. Garfield began to eat with the determined crunch of someone ignoring your emotional turmoil.
You ran a hand through your hair, eyes still half on the door she’d just walked out of.
“She even wore that muted green coat today. The one that looks like moss and sun and… I don’t know. A painting you’d stare at for way too long in a cold museum.”
A pause.
Garfield licked his paw.
“…I think I’m doomed.”
You flopped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“She didn’t even have to say anything. Just walked past, bag swinging, that dumb little keychain hitting her side like it belongs there. Like I belong there. Which I don’t. Probably.”
Garfield jumped onto your chest.
“Ow—dude, personal space—”
He settled in anyway. A loaf of judgment.
“…But she smiled.” You said it so quietly you barely heard yourself.
“She looked back, and she smiled. And I know I joke, and I ramble, and I offer buns like a nervous idiot, but that smile—”
You sighed again.
“I’d make her ramen every day if she smiled like that.”
Garfield blinked, unimpressed.
“…You’re right. I need help.”
You reached over, grabbed your camera bag from the floor, and started sorting your film rolls like that would distract you.
It didn’t.
Because in your head, she was still there. Bag over her shoulder. Keychain swinging. That look in her eyes — like you weren’t just weird, but wonderful.
And that?
That scared the hell out of you.
But it also made the room feel just a little less lonely.
You were sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by scattered photo prints, rolls of undeveloped film, and Garfield curled in your lap like a lumpy orange secret.
“Okay, this one’s overexposed, but it feels like heartbreak, right?” you were mumbling to yourself, flipping through stacks. “This one looks like a bad indie poster, but maybe in a good way? And this… okay, why is Garfield in half my test shots?”
You didn’t notice the door open.
You didn’t hear the quiet steps.
Not until a voice spoke from just behind you:
“…Are you always like this when I’m not home?”
You practically jumped, knocking over your lens cap and two prints.
“I—Haerin—! What the hell, you’re a ghost??”
She was still in her coat, scarf barely unwound. Her hair was slightly windblown. You looked up at her, face burning, trying to hide the way your hand trembled just a little.
She raised an eyebrow.
“You talk to your cat. You talk to your photos. You talk to your rice cooker.”
“It beeps back,” you muttered, recovering. “It’s called companionship.”
She smiled faintly, then sat down on the floor next to you, knees folded beneath her.
“Can I see?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Your prints. The ones you’re mumbling about like they owe you rent.”
You hesitated — then slowly handed her the top stack.
She held them carefully, her fingertips brushing the edges, her expression unreadable.
Photo after photo passed through her hands. Train windows. Crowded alleyways. Kids playing on rooftops. The one of the empty bench with a broken umbrella. The shot of her — blurred, laughing, not knowing you were taking it.
She paused at that one.
“…You took this?”
You scratched the back of your neck. “Accidentally. Sort of. I was testing the shutter speed and…”
You trailed off.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Then placed it aside.
“They’re beautiful.”
You looked at her.
And she was looking at you.
Something unsaid, unformed, hung in the air.
Then she smiled, soft and sure.
“You make sadness look like a memory.”
You didn’t respond. Just… breathed.
And for a second, it was quiet.
Not empty.
Full.
☕
Scene 2: Just Friends, Right?
Haerin sat in the tiny café across from her best friend, Yoona — a girl with bleached hair and paint-stained knuckles, sipping iced coffee like it was oxygen.
“Okay,” Yoona said, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve been zoning out for ten minutes straight and only stirred your drink. Spill.”
Haerin blinked.
“Huh?”
“Don’t play dumb. You look like you’ve been kissed in a dream. Or hit by a truck. Which one is it?”
Haerin stirred the straw once more. Ice clinked.
She looked away.
“…Neither.”
Yoona tilted her head. “But?”
A beat.
Haerin stared out the window. Soft light filtered through. She held her drink tight.
Then — so quietly she nearly said it to herself:
“…I think I like my roommate.”
Yoona froze.
Then leaned forward like she’d just been handed the plot twist of the century.
“The film boy? The one with the weird cat and the sad-boy camera?”
Haerin almost laughed. Almost.
“…Yeah.”
“Since when?”
Haerin shrugged.
“Since he made ramen after I failed that job. Since he framed my art like it mattered. Since he started leaving orange candies by my sketchbook ‘cause he knows I hate sour ones.”
Yoona smirked.
“That’s not ‘I like him.’ That’s ‘I’m cooked.’”
Haerin sipped her drink.
Didn’t deny it.
“…He talks to his cat, Yoona.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.”
A soft smile. One she didn’t try to hide.
It started with a photo.
You were clicking through shots near the window, camera poised at the perfect golden hour, and caught her pouring tea in the kitchen. The steam curled around her hair, lit like some kind of halo, and when you lowered the camera and said, “You look good in steam,” she rolled her eyes and told you to shut up.
But she was smiling.
The rain was worse that week. She curled up on the couch with Garfield — who, of course, decided her sketchbook was the perfect bed — and you came home soaked to the bone, your shoes squeaking with every step. She didn’t even look up before tossing you a towel.
You mumbled thanks.
She said, “You sound like a wet sock.”
You said, “You’re meaner than you look.”
She didn’t deny it.
One night, you were hanging up your photo prints together, using the clothesline that crisscrossed the living room like some low-budget gallery. One print slipped. You both reached out. Your fingers brushed.
Neither of you moved.
She looked up. Her hair falling in her face. Her eyes not letting go.
You looked away.
But your hand stayed close.
Another night, dinner. Quiet. Shared noodles. She told you about a dream where she was underwater, painting clouds on the ocean floor. You told her about the one where Garfield ran for mayor.
She didn’t even blink.
“I’d vote for him,” she said.
You made coffee at midnight because your brain wouldn’t shut up. She wandered into the kitchen half-asleep, hair a tangled mess, sleeves over her hands.
“Why are you awake?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“Because you draw like thunder,” you replied, handing her a cup.
She took it wordlessly. Warm hands. Quiet steam.
“You’re not funny,” she mumbled.
“But you’re still smiling.”
She didn’t deny that either.
Another time, she fell asleep on the couch with a pencil still between her fingers. Garfield lay on her lap like he’d been guarding her. You carefully scooped him up and got clawed for your efforts, but it was worth it. You draped a blanket over her and turned off the lamp. For a long moment, you just watched the way her chest rose and fell. The way she breathed like she’d never been afraid of anything.
You whispered, “You’re ridiculous.”
She didn’t hear.
But maybe she would’ve smiled if she did.
The nights kept stacking. One after the other. Quiet moments that didn’t scream love, but whispered it. A sideways glance. Her sketch of your hands. Your camera pointed at her shoes because she said she hated her face in pictures.
One night on the rooftop, she asked, “If this whole city burned down tomorrow, what would you save?”
You didn’t hesitate.
“You.”
She didn’t say anything.
Just stood up.
And walked inside.
The apartment was dim and quiet. Just the soft buzz of the kitchen light, the occasional creak from the window, and Garfield’s soft snore curled beneath the couch.
You were sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, laptop open in front of you but untouched. Across from you, Haerin sat cross-legged with her sketchbook, a blanket half-draped over her shoulders. You’d both been talking — not about anything important. Movies. Bad food. The time you mistook a director for a janitor and tried to offer him a mop.
She laughed, covering her mouth.
Then it went quiet again.
Comfortably so.
You looked at her.
She was tracing something on the page. Something that looked a lot like your hands.
You said it without thinking:
“I like this.”
She looked up. “Hm?”
“This. Us. Just… talking like this.”
Her eyes lingered on you for a beat too long.
“Me too.”
You scratched the back of your neck, suddenly aware of how close your knees were.
“You’re easy to talk to.”
She smiled.
“You’re easier when you’re not rambling.”
You smirked. “That’s unfair. My rambling’s part of my charm.”
She was quiet again — but her smile didn’t fade.
You shifted, eyes falling to the way her pencil kept moving, slow and absentminded.
“Do you ever get scared you’re not doing enough?”
She looked up. “All the time.”
“Like…” you exhaled, head leaning back against the wall. “Like you’re always one mistake away from ruining everything. Or falling behind. Or being forgotten completely.”
Her pencil stopped.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I think about that too much.”
You didn’t mean for the next words to come out.
But they did.
“You’re the only thing in my life lately that doesn’t make me feel like that.”
She blinked. A little stunned.
Then:
“…Why me?”
You let the silence stretch.
Then turned your head, finally meeting her eyes.
“Because when I’m with you, I stop feeling like I have to prove something. Or run. Or pretend I’m not scared all the time.”
She didn’t look away.
Didn’t fidget.
Just listened.
And then, in the gentlest voice:
“I think I love you.”
Your heart paused — but your hands didn’t shake.
You looked at her, and she wasn’t panicking. She wasn’t backing away from what she said.
She just looked like someone who’d been holding it in too long and finally found space to say it.
“…You think?” you whispered.
A small laugh. A breath.
“I know,” she admitted. “But I’m terrified. Because I don’t know what to do with it.”
You leaned forward just slightly, enough that your knees brushed.
“You don’t have to know.”
She looked down.
“I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t,” you said. “If you let me stay, I’ll show you how to be loved without needing to figure it all out.”
She bit her lip.
“And what about you?”
You smiled.
“I already do.”
