★ ﾟ๑ BABY, IM JUST TRYING TO PLAY IT COOL ୧ ⊹ ࣪
SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭ In which two old classmates found themselves meeting again after not seeing each other for six years, or in which fans dig up that iLLIT’s MIMI and Cortis MARTIN were old classmates who were always seen together—especially when former classmates say they had crushes on each other.
──── ᡴꪫ pairings. cortis! martin x illit 6th member! f!reader (named)
mimi = reader ✿ ／ fluff, slight angst
𝑒𝑠𝑡. 000 PRELUDE
.ᐟ.ᐟ ⋆˚꩜｡ masterlist ⋮ next
Mimi never asked to move; she had been plucked from the familiar corridors of Gyeonggi-do Elementary like a flower torn from its soil, replanted in ground that felt too foreign, too strange. One day she was laughing with old classmates beneath the gingko trees, the next she was a stranger beneath fluorescent lights, a sea of unfamiliar eyes fixed upon her.
At the front of the room, her fingers worried the hem of her skirt, knuckles pale, voice trembling like a thin thread ready to snap. She had barely parted her lips to offer her name when—achoo!—a sneeze burst out, loud and ungraceful, breaking the hush like a pebble tossed into still water.
Laughter rippled through the room, sharp and echoing as heat bloomed up Mimi’s neck, staining her cheeks the color of the ribbon knotted in her hair.
The teacher directed her to the empty desk at the back, beside a boy. Mimi walked the timidly trying her best not to trip beneath the floor with all of her new classmates bags are piled, as she didn't make eye contact with her new seat mate and just lowered herself into the chair, and tried to fold her whole self small enough to disappear. Yet she could feel it—glances from the boy at her side, quick as moth wings, retreating before they could be caught.
When she dared to lift her eyes, his gaze met hers like a match striking. He looked away at once, but the tips of his ears betrayed him, reddening under the weight of being seen. Something in that shy surrender loosened the knot in her chest, and before she could stop herself, a tiny smile curved her lips.
“Hello,” she whispered, her voice like a secret tucked between them. “I’m Mimi.”
“I know,” he murmured, eyes trained stubbornly on the board. “You said that earlier.”
Her mouth pinched, both flustered and amused. “Then… what’s your name? We’ll be seatmates until they switch us.”
Only then did he turn fully toward her. His features were not like those she had grown up around—lighter eyes that seemed to hold a glimmer from some faraway sky, a frame already tall for his age—but his smile was soft, warm as late sunlight.
“Martin,” he said at last. Then, almost apologetically, “I don’t really look Korean, do I?”
For the first time that day, laughter rose in her not from others’ cruelty but from her own unguarded delight. “It’s fine. People say my name sounds Japanese, so they think I’m Japanese. Don’t worry.”
Their giggles stitched a fragile thread between them, delicate yet certain. They bent over a textbook together, the words on the page shimmering at the edges, not because of the print but because the moment itself felt larger than it should.
The lesson droned on, the teacher’s chalk rasping rhythmically against the board, white dust floating like faint snow in the stale classroom air. Mimi’s head tilted downward, eyes on her notebook, when she felt it—a brush, barely there, against her elbow.
She blinked, then caught sight of movement. A scrap of paper, torn from the spine of a notebook, slid toward her desk with a shy final push. Martin’s hand vanished in an instant, retreating as though the motion had been an accident. His shoulders stayed rigid, his face angled dutifully toward the board, but there was something too stiff about him, like a statue carved to mimic attention.
Her fingers hovered over the folded edge. For a heartbeat, she simply stared, pulse a flutter against her wrist. Then—quietly, carefully—she drew it beneath the cover of her notebook and opened it with the gentleness one saves for secrets.
The little boxes, so neatly drawn, tugged a laugh from the back of her throat—a laugh she swallowed before it escaped. She pressed her lips together, her pencil trembling faintly as she filled the smallest, most hopeful square. Yes.
Folding it once more, she nudged it across the divide between their desks. Martin’s book was propped open before him, but the pages hadn’t turned in ages. He slipped the note to his lap as though it were contraband, unfolding it with fingers too quick to belong to someone indifferent.
The sight of her checkmark cracked something open in his face—his lips parted, his eyes flickering, as if he hadn’t quite believed she’d choose him. His gaze strayed sideways, drawn against his will.
Mimi was already watching. Her chin tilted just so, her eyes bright with quiet mischief, the corners of her mouth curling in triumph.
His ears flared crimson. He tore his gaze away, clutching the note like it might burn through his palm, before tucking it into his bag with all the care of someone storing away treasure.
Mimi leaned back, warmth spreading through her like sunlight breaking across a cold morning. Her smile lingered—soft, secret, almost dizzying. To anyone else, it was nothing more than a scrap of paper, a passing gesture.
As the hour stretched like the horizon, the class ended. The bell rang, shrill as a bird’s cry, scattering the room into sudden motion. Chairs scraped and clattered, voices rose in a rush, and the classroom spilled itself into the hallway like water breaking through a dam. Pairs and groups formed instantly, swept along by the tide toward the cafeteria, laughter trailing in their wake.
Mimi rose more carefully, as though she didn’t belong to that current—pushing her chair back into place, adjusting the strap of her bag. She moved with a quiet precision that set her apart.
Beside her, Martin lingered, shoulders tense. His usual companion clapped him on the back with an easy grin, already striding toward the door where more boys waited, jostling and calling to each other.
“Let’s go,” his friend urged, halfway gone already.
For a moment, Martin froze—caught between habit and something new. His gaze flickered to Mimi, standing a little apart, and then back to his friend. His lips pressed into a line, his fingers twitching against the desk. And then, with sudden force, he stood—his chair screeching across the floor like a protest.
“Uhh…” His throat bobbed, voice cracking on the word. “You guys—go ahead. I’ll, uh—I’ll eat with Mimi today.”
The declaration tumbled out awkwardly, but the air seemed to catch on it all the same. Mimi’s head snapped up, eyes wide, and she managed only the faintest, startled smile.
His friend paused at the doorway, grin spreading sly and slow. “Yah? Got a crush on her?”
The teasing curled through the room like smoke, and soon the others joined in—hoots, laughter, elbows nudged into ribs as if they had uncovered some scandal worth crowing about.
Mimi’s cheeks burned. She ducked her head, staring hard at the toes of her shoes, wishing she could fold herself small enough to vanish.
But Martin—poor, cornered Martin—went rigid, color flooding his ears and neck. His hands flew up, flustered, his words tripping over themselves in defense. “Yah! I’m not! I just—I just promised her, okay? She’s new!”
The more he denied, the redder his face grew, and the boys only laughed harder. Yet Mimi dared a glance upward, quick and shy, and what she saw made her heart lift—his panicked protests, the way he clutched his bag like a lifeline, and underneath it all, the unmistakable choice he had made.
Heat rose in her cheeks again, but this time it wasn’t shame. She pressed her lips together, trying not to smile too wide, though the warmth in her chest threatened to spill over.
Because even if his words denied it, his actions did not. He had chosen her, plain as sunlight through a window.
The teasing fizzled as Martin’s friends drifted down the hall, their laughter trailing behind them until it thinned into the general noise of lockers slamming and shoes squeaking against linoleum. What remained was quieter, gentler—just the two of them lingering by the door.
Martin shifted from one foot to the other, his fingers hooking at the strap of his bag. He cast her a sheepish glance, half-hidden beneath his lashes. “Sorry,” he muttered, scratching at the back of his neck. “My friends are always like that. They tease about everything.”
Mimi lifted her gaze from the floor, lips curving into a small, uncertain smile. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I get it.”
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked. Shy, clumsy, but warm. Martin straightened, puffing out his chest as if to make himself a little braver, and broke into a grin that was almost boyishly triumphant. “Follow me.”
And so she did.
They walked side by side, their steps echoing down the hallway. At first their voices were low, stilted—testing the waters of this new companionship. But slowly, questions began to tumble out, awkward at first, then easier.
“So… where’d you come from?” Martin asked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.
“Gyeonggi-do,” Mimi answered. “I went to school there before. We moved last week because of my parents’ jobs.” She hesitated, then tilted her head. “Do you… live close by?”
“Yeah, like ten minutes from here.” His voice lifted with a little pride. “I walk most of the time, but sometimes my mom drives me if it rains. Do you take the bus?”
She nodded. “It’s really crowded in the mornings. I almost missed the stop today.”
Martin laughed softly. “I missed mine once and had to run back. My friends never let me forget it.”
“What kind of instrument do you play?” Mimi asked, curiosity sneaking into her voice.
He brightened immediately. “Piano. Well, I’m still learning, but I can play a few songs. Not very good, though.” He paused, eyes flicking to her. “Do you play anything?”
Mimi shook her head. “No. I draw sometimes, but that’s it.”
“Drawing’s cool,” Martin said quickly, earnest. “Better than breaking things, anyway.”
She blinked at him. “Breaking things?”
He pointed toward a door they were passing, his grin sheepish but proud. “That’s the art club. I, uh… broke an easel there once. You know, the wooden stand for paintings? I couldn’t open it right, and my friend tried to help—then it just snapped in half. They made me apologize to the teacher, and I had to clean paintbrushes for a week.”
Mimi’s eyes widened. “You broke the easel?”
“Snapped clean in two,” he said, spreading his hands dramatically.
Her laughter bubbled out, bright and uncontained. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle it, but her eyes sparkled as she tried—and failed—to calm down.
Martin’s grin widened at the sound, his cheeks pink but glowing. “It wasn’t funny then,” he insisted, though the twinkle in his eyes betrayed him. “Everyone stared like I’d destroyed a national treasure.”
“You kind of did,” Mimi teased, her laughter softening into a smile.
And with that, the weight between them seemed to lift. Their conversation drifted from little mishaps to favorite foods, to whether they liked recess better than class, to who had the scarier homeroom teacher. Their words tangled with their laughter, the edges of shyness wearing down with every step.
By the time the cafeteria doors swung open, it felt less like a beginning and more like a continuation—like they had simply picked up an old friendship left waiting for them all along.
The cafeteria was already alive when they stepped inside, a hive of voices rising and falling over the clatter of trays and the squeak of rubber shoes on polished tiles. The air smelled of rice, broth, and fried batter, a mixture both comforting and overwhelming. Lines snaked along the counters, clusters of friends waved each other over, and every table seemed to vibrate with chatter.
Mimi slowed, gripping her tray with two hands, her shoulders shrinking beneath the noise. She took her place at the end of the line, eyes flicking uncertainly from one direction to another. A heartbeat later, Martin shuffled in behind her, close enough for his tray to graze hers.
Clink.
She turned, startled, and found him staring at her in mock offense. “Yah,” he whispered, widening his eyes dramatically, “you’re trying to start a tray fight?”
A laugh slipped from her before she could stop it, soft but bright. She pressed her hand against her mouth, cheeks warm. “You were standing too close!”
“Was not,” Martin muttered, lips twitching. Still, when the line edged forward, he didn’t step back. Their trays bumped again—once, twice—and though Mimi pretended to scowl, the corners of her mouth betrayed her. Sometimes the collision was accident, sometimes it was deliberate, his shoulder tilting just enough to hear her laughter again.
By the time they reached the counter, their conversation had frayed into little bursts of chatter.
“Do you like kimchi?” Martin asked, pointing at one of the trays of side dishes.
Mimi wrinkled her nose. “A little. Not too spicy.”
“I’ll eat yours if you don’t want it,” he said with solemn pride.
She giggled, sliding her tray along. “Do you always eat so much?”
“Of course. Look at me—I’m growing. My mom says if I keep it up, I’ll be taller than my dad soon.” He straightened, puffing out his chest, and then faltered when her eyes sparkled at him. “What about you? What’s your favorite food?”
“Egg rolls,” Mimi answered instantly.
Martin gasped in mock horror. “Egg rolls? Out of all the food in the world?”
“They’re good!” she insisted, laughter bubbling. “Crispy on the outside, soft inside. Perfect.”
“I’ll allow it,” he said grandly, as though he were the judge of all meals.
When the trays were full, Mimi lingered again, standing at the edge of the bustling room with a look that betrayed her unease. “I… don’t know where to sit,” she admitted, her voice so low it nearly drowned in the noise.
Martin tapped his tray against hers one last time, grin wide and certain. “Don’t worry. Sit with me.”
And so they did.
And they do.
yes.
They found a corner table, half-hidden from the rowdy center of the cafeteria, where the noise dulled into background hum. Their trays crowded together, bowls steaming, spoons clinking faintly as they picked through their food. Conversation unraveled more easily now, threads of laughter and questions weaving between bites.
“Do you like drawing in class?” Mimi asked, spoon hovering halfway.
“Sometimes,” Martin admitted, scratching his head. “But I’m better at making paper airplanes than art.”
She laughed. “Paper airplanes aren’t art?”
“They are if you fold them right,” he said firmly. “Mine can fly all the way across the classroom.”
Mimi leaned in, curious. “You’ll have to show me.”
“I will.” He paused, eyes shining with a boy’s stubborn pride. “But only if you promise not to tell the teacher.”
Her hand lifted in mock solemnity, palm open. “I promise.”
Martin grinned, satisfied, and for a moment they both bent over their trays, chewing quietly. Yet every so often their gazes flicked up, meeting halfway, and then darting away again just as quick.
The cafeteria roared around them—laughter, footsteps, shouts across tables—but in their corner, the world felt smaller, softer. Every clumsy word, every shy glance, every small burst of laughter stacked itself into something fragile and new.
Neither of them could have named it yet. But both of them knew they wanted it to last.
As months bled into years, Mimi and Martin became inseparable. Even when the teacher reshuffled the seating chart and they were no longer desk-mates, it hardly mattered.
During breaks they found each other in the courtyard or the library; at lunch they squeezed into the same corner of a table, surrounded by friends but always side by side.
After the final bell, their paths aligned as if by instinct—walking home together beneath the fading sun, stopping at the corner market for tteokbokki or cold drinks, splitting the food with chopsticks dipped into the same paper cup. It became such a rhythm that no one questioned it anymore. Of course Martin and Mimi were together.
They learned each other’s lives through small, ordinary threads.
Martin knew which apartment door was hers, Mimi knew his by heart. Sometimes they would stop by—just for a forgotten notebook or a glass of water—but ended up lingering until someone’s parent called them in for dinner.
Their families grew used to the sight, offering a spare chair at the table, inviting one or the other to stay for a meal before running back out to play.
It was a friendship stitched together by the everyday—shared food, shared laughter, and the quiet certainty that wherever one was, the other would not be far behind.
Sometimes, when Mimi lingered too long at Martin’s house, staying through dinner, he would insist on walking her home. He trailed beside her with a kind of quiet protectiveness unusual for their age.
Afterward, when he was out of earshot, his parents would exchange knowing glances across the table. His father, stacking plates, leaned toward his wife with a chuckle. “That boy’s got a crush.” His father eyed the door before grabbing the plates from his wife's hands. His sister, arms crossed, only rolled her eyes. “Dad, it’s obvious. He just wouldn’t believe me if I told him.”
Mimi’s parents noticed too—her father most of all. Whenever Martin came by, the man would linger in the living room, remote in hand, his gaze narrowing just enough to make the boy straighten his back and bow a little deeper than necessary.
“Appa, stop hogging the TV, let us play,” Mimi would whine, tugging the remote away as if to scatter the weight of her father’s stare. Martin would only laugh nervously and follow her toward the corner of the room.
And of course, their friends knew. How could they not? It was obvious in the way Martin always saved her a seat, or how Mimi split her snacks with him first before offering them around. Soon it became a running joke, a chorus passed between their classmates.
“Yah, Martin-ah, walking her home again?”
“Mimi, don’t forget your boyfriend.”
The words never failed to spark laughter. Martin would scowl, ears red, snapping, “Yah, it’s not like that!” while Mimi buried her face in her hands, smiling despite herself. The more they denied it, the funnier it became, until the teasing itself became part of the rhythm of their friendship.
Yet sometimes—after the laughter had faded and the chatter moved on—the words lingered, heavier than they should.
What if it wasn’t just a joke?
Was it really a joke?
There always came a season, in every classroom, that defined the year. Sometimes it was the math contest that had everyone drilling equations until their hands cramped, sometimes the field day that left the hallways echoing with cheers long after the races had ended. For Martin and Mimi’s class, that year belonged wholly to the school play.
Posters went up on the bulletin boards of the school, rehearsals crept into every free period, and whispers of who would get which role filled the room long before the teacher had even explained the script. And for their class—already in the habit of turning Martin and Mimi into a running joke—there was only one obvious suggestion.
“Seonsaengnim!” someone blurted out before the cast list was even mentioned, “Let Martin and Mimi play the couple! They’re dating anyway!”
The classroom erupted—desks rattling under pounding fists, laughter spilling from every corner. Some kids nearly fell out of their chairs, pointing and howling as if the idea itself were the year’s greatest comedy.
Martin shot up so red it looked like the tips of his ears might combust. “Y-yah! We’re not dating!” he stammered, voice cracking. Mimi buried her face in her hands, shaking with a tiny, helpless laugh that only made the room louder.
Their teacher, instead of rescuing them, fanned the flames. “Ahh, so our class already has a couple?” she teased, smiling as she tapped her clipboard. “Shall I write their names down together, then?”
The teasing rolled on and on, louder and wilder the more they tried to deny it. But when the laughter finally quieted and the roles were handed out, Martin found himself staring down at a script that listed him as the lead—and Mimi, somehow, right beside him.
And maybe the class wasn’t entirely wrong, judging by the way they avoided each other’s eyes but couldn’t quite hide their smiles when they stood side by side.
Rehearsals were chaos in the best possible way. Martin and Mimi could barely get through a line without the room exploding into giggles. No matter how much their teacher tried to maintain order, every classmate considered themselves a self-appointed director, leaping in with unsolicited advice.
“Aigo, andwe! Not like that,” one of the bossy kids barked, stomping forward with all the solemn authority of Broadway itself. “You have to hold her close—like this.”
Before Martin could protest, his hands were seized and gently placed over Mimi’s. Another pair of hands shoved them closer until their shoulders brushed.
The two of them froze instantly. Mimi’s face burned as she tried not to meet Martin’s wide-eyed stare. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but only managed a strangled laugh.
The classroom erupted again. “Wahhh, look at them blush!” “Yah, they’re really dating!”
Even the teacher didn’t bother stopping them, hiding her smile behind the script instead.
And so rehearsals went on: lines forgotten, cues missed, Mimi and Martin stumbling over words while the whole class cheered them on, as though the love story belonged not to the play’s script but to the two of them.
The school had chosen Romeo and Juliet for that year’s grand performance—but with a twist. Verona was traded for old Joseon, gowns and doublets replaced by flowing hanbok, and the Montagues and Capulets reimagined as rival yangban families whose feud spanned generations.
And, as though fate itself had a sense of humor, the roles of Romeo and Juliet landed squarely on Martin and Mimi.
The day of the first costume rehearsal, the entire class howled with laughter as Martin stumbled out of the dressing room, sleeves of his jeogori dangling past his hands, the brim of his gat slipping comically low over his forehead. Mimi wasn’t any better, shuffling across the stage with her long chima threatening to trip her at every step, her cheeks aflame before she even spoke a line.
Their classmates were merciless.
As always.
“Aigo, look at them! Real husband and wife already!” one boy shouted, earning a chorus of howls that rattled the auditorium.
During the balcony scene, Mimi was supposed to lean gracefully against the wooden rail, sighing her lines in practiced tragedy. But the second Martin walked onstage—his sword clattering against the floor with a sharp clang—the audience of classmates erupted into fresh laughter.
“Hold her hand properly!”
“Yah, Martin, you’re supposed to look at her, not the ground!”
The teacher, barely hiding her amusement, only added fuel to the fire. “Aigoo, such a natural couple. Don’t they look good together?”
Mimi ducked her head, pretending to study her script, while Martin spluttered red-faced denials that fooled no one.
Rehearsals became less about the play and more about the spectacle of watching the two leads stumble through every interaction. Their classmates fanned the flames shamelessly—fixing Martin’s stance, nudging Mimi closer, or gasping dramatically at every near-touch as if the stage itself were a wedding hall. Some even cupped their hands to their mouths, making exaggerated smooching noises the moment Martin dared glance Mimi’s way.
Still—between the chaos, between the relentless teasing—there were moments when the room grew unexpectedly quiet.
Like when Mimi’s voice softened on the balcony, her words floating into the hush: “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” And Martin, despite trembling at the edges of his line, lifted his gaze to meet hers, just for a breath too long.
Or when their hands brushed by accident during a blocking correction, and instead of laughter, a hush rippled through the class, as if they had glimpsed something they weren’t meant to.
Because beneath the teasing, beneath the chorus of laughter and fake kisses from the sidelines, everyone could see it—the sparks of something tender, unspoken, growing between the two who had been side by side all along.
By the time middle school rolled in, not much had changed—at least, not between Mimi and Martin. The uniforms were new, the hallways wider, the teachers sterner, but when the final bell rang, there they were. Side by side, weaving through the crowd as if the noise never touched them.
At lunch, they were almost impossible to separate. Even when their circles of friends pulled them toward different ends of the cafeteria, their trays always found their way back beside each other’s.
If Mimi forgot her chopsticks, Martin would wordlessly pass her his extra pair. If Martin forgot his milk carton, Mimi would nudge hers across the table with a grin.
Their classmates noticed.
Everyone noticed.
“Seriously, you guys aren’t tired of each other yet?” one boy teased, sliding onto the bench with his tray.
Mimi rolled her eyes. “We’re just friends.”
Martin, already sipping his soup, muttered, “Exactly.” But the tips of his ears betrayed him—flushed crimson against his hairline.
And then there were the group projects. Teachers had long since stopped trying to separate them. If Mimi’s name was written under Group 3, Martin’s would inevitably appear beside it. If Martin was chosen to carry the banner for sports day, Mimi was right there at the other end of the pole. It became an unspoken rule: where there was one, there was the other.
After school, their habits stayed the same. They’d stop by the corner market, split a paper cup of spicy tteokbokki, or argue over who got the bigger half of a soda bottle.
Mimi’s parents had grown used to Martin’s sneakers by the door, and Martin’s dad had long since given up pretending not to smirk whenever Mimi appeared with her sketchbook tucked under her arm.
But middle school brought a different kind of teasing—less playful, more pointed.
“Are you two really not dating?” a classmate asked one day, cornering them after gym. “You walk home together every day!”
Martin nearly dropped his gym bag. “We live in the same direction!”
Mimi laughed, brushing it off with ease, but on the walk home that afternoon, their laughter came slower. When their eyes met, something heavier hung between them—a quiet, unspoken question neither of them was ready to answer.
And still, as they reached her apartment steps, Martin mumbled, “Text me when you’re inside.”
She smiled, the same as always. “Always.”
And he, the same as always, added, “Oh, but ask your mom first. I forgot—you don’t even have a phone.”
She kicked at his shin for that, and he yelped, laughing as he jogged backward, waving goodbye.
It happened over something small.
It always does.
A couple friendly fight.
Mimi had been spending more time with a new group of girls in class—loud, fun, a little bossy. They liked teasing her, borrowing her pens, dragging her to the snack stand after school. Martin didn’t mind at first. He’d even wave patiently when she showed up late to their walk home.
But one afternoon, as he lingered by the gates, bag slung over his shoulder, he saw her laughing with one of the older boys on the basketball team. The boy bent to hand Mimi her dropped notebook, and for some reason Martin couldn’t name, something twisted inside him.
So when she finally ran up, breathless and smiling like nothing had happened, his words came sharper than he meant.
"You’re late. Again.”
Mimi blinked. “Sorry, they were showing me something in the gym.”
“With him?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Her smile faltered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Martin muttered, eyes fixed on the pavement. “It’s just… you’ve been with them a lot. You forget we were supposed to walk together.”
Her sneakers scuffed against the ground as she slowed. “I’m allowed to have other friends, Martin.”
“I know that,” he snapped too quickly, too defensively. “Forget it.”
They walked in silence after that. For the first time in years, their steps didn’t match. She went inside without their usual wave; he didn’t wait for her text that never came.
The next day was just as tense. They avoided each other’s eyes in class, passed notes to other friends instead. The whispers around them grew louder.
Did they fight?
Are they not walking home together today?
It only lasted two days, but to them it felt like forever.
On the third afternoon, Martin set a carton of strawberry milk on Mimi’s desk during break, his eyes still lowered. “Sorry. I was being stupid.”
She stared at it, then nudged it back toward him. “You were.” But after a beat, her grin returned—small, teasing, forgiving. “I forgive you.”
When the bell rang, their steps fell back into rhythm as if nothing had changed—except maybe it had. Just enough for both of them to realize how much it hurt when the other wasn’t there.
And their fight always lead to normal.
Everything turn to the way it was.
Until it didn't anymore.
When Mimi told Martin first, it wasn’t in a loud or dramatic way—it was quiet. Maybe after walking home together, just before she went inside, she mumbled, “Martin… we’re moving. To another district.”
For a second, he just froze, tray of after-school snacks still in his hand. He tried to play it off like, “Ah… really? That’s… that’s far?” But it slipped into his voice—something heavy, disappointed.
After that, he couldn’t look at her the same. Not because he was angry at her, but because the thought of her leaving stung too much. At school, he avoided sitting next to her during breaks, joined his friends a little faster, didn’t pass her notes anymore. Mimi noticed, of course—she noticed everything. But she didn’t push, because she felt guilty.
It turned into this unspoken wall between them. A week where their classmates whispered, “Eh? Are Mimi and Martin fighting? They’re always together though.” Some even teased them more—thinking it was some couple quarrel—but this time, neither laughed.
For Mimi, the worst part wasn’t that he was upset—it was that he was the first person she wanted to tell. And instead of comfort, she felt like she’d broken something.
Mimi had been carrying it for weeks, the words pressing against her throat whenever she saw Martin waiting at the gate or when her friends tugged her toward their usual corner of the cafeteria. She hated how heavy it felt, like a secret too sharp to hold.
So one ordinary lunchtime, with trays and chopsticks clattering around them, she finally let it slip.
“I’m…” She tried to say it casually, like it wasn’t shattering something. “I’m moving soon. To another school.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Chopsticks hovered in mid-air, bites of tteokbokki half-raised, jaws still. The silence stretched before erupting all at once.
“EH?! NO WAY!”
“You can’t, Mimi!”
“Transfer? Where? When?”
Hands tugged at her sleeves, voices overlapped in a chorus of disbelief. One girl leaned close, pleading, “Just tell your parents you don’t want to go! Stay here!” Another crossed her arms, frowning stubbornly, “If you leave, who’s going to help me with math?”
Mimi laughed weakly, the sound cracking at the edges, guilt twisting in her stomach. She wanted to tell them she’d tried, that it wasn’t her choice, that her parents’ jobs had already decided for her—but the words tangled in her throat.
Amid the noise, a pair of her friends grew quiet. They glanced at each other, their voices dropping low enough for Mimi to catch it anyway.
“…So that’s why Martin’s been ignoring her.”
The words landed like a pebble in a still pond—small, but the ripples spread quick. One by one, the laughter dimmed, the protests faltered, and the teasing that had been a constant hum for years… stopped. In its place, a silence threaded through the group, heavier than all the noise that came before.
Because now it made sense.
The awkward air, the way Martin’s jokes had grown thinner, how he laughed a little too loudly with his friends these days. The pieces fit.
Mimi’s chopsticks slipped from her hand, clattering against the tray. She dared a glance across the cafeteria.
There he was.
Martin, at his usual table, surrounded by his usual group. On the surface, nothing had changed—he was smiling, laughing at something one of the boys said.
But Mimi knew him too well.
So, so.. well.
The laughter was a fraction too late, the smile a little stiff, his eyes never quite meeting anyone’s.
It hit her then, sharper than anything. Her friends didn’t want her to go. And Martin—Martin was already grieving her in silence.
The ache swelled in her chest until she had to drop her gaze, pretending to pick at her food. But no matter how hard she tried to swallow it down, it lingered there, an emptiness she couldn’t quite name yet, except for the way it hurt.
Until the next day.
The stairwell smelled faintly of dust and cardboard tape, the scrape of furniture echoing like a slow drumbeat down the hall. Martin had climbed those steps a hundred times before—always with laughter bubbling at his lips, arms full of snacks for Mimi. But this time his hands were empty, fists curled tight at his sides as though clenching could keep him steady.
The door to her family’s apartment stood propped open. He froze at the sight: her father and brother maneuvering a cabinet through the narrow frame, her mother apologizing breathlessly between hurried directions.
“Oh, Martin—wait just a moment, I’ll call Mimi. Sorry for the mess.”
He shook his head quickly, voice lower than usual, almost hoarse. “It’s fine, eomonim.”
And then she appeared.
Mimi, hair slightly mussed, drowning in her oversized sweater, clutching her plushies to her chest like a shield. Her eyes widened when she saw him. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nervous, hesitant, stepping closer.
“Hi.”
For a moment, he just looked at her—the girl who had walked with him through crowded hallways, who sat beside him at lunch, who split tteokbokki and sodas with him after school. And now here she was, framed by half-sealed boxes, like a picture already fading at the edges.
His throat tightened. “Can we talk… outside?”
She nodded, setting the plushies gently onto a nearby box, as though they too needed to be handled with care. The hallway fell quiet for a beat as she slipped past the shuffle of her family, her shoulder brushing the doorway before she joined him.
Martin shoved his hands into his pockets, ears burning red. The air between them felt heavy, suspended, neither one brave enough to start. Because starting meant saying aloud what had already been written in the dust and cardboard: goodbye.
The playground was nearly empty, washed in the faint orange of the setting sun. The metal bars and swings stretched long shadows across the gravel, and the old seesaw creaked beneath their weight. Neither of them moved. They just sat there—feet planted, shoulders barely touching—holding onto a silence that felt heavier than words.
Martin’s voice broke first, low and uneven. “How long have your parents planned this?”
Mimi didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed on the dirt patch beneath her sneakers, as if she could dig a hole in the ground with her stare. “…For a month.”
He let out a sharp breath, something between a scoff and disbelief. “Oh.”
The word was small, but it seemed to echo around them, swallowed by the stillness. A cicada buzzed somewhere close, the sound stringing between them like a taut wire ready to snap.
“At first,” Mimi whispered, her voice trembling at the edges, “I didn’t want to go. I begged them—I said I like it here, that I have my friends, I have you here…” Her feet stilled, no longer nudging the seesaw into motion. “But they said no. It’s because of another job site again.”
Martin’s fingers curled tightly around the wooden edge of the seesaw until his knuckles whitened. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “And I was the first to know.”
She hesitated before answering, her voice soft but steady. “You’re my best friend.”
The words hung between them like a fragile thread. When she finally turned to look at him, her chest clenched. His eyes were glassy, his lips pressed into a thin line—but the tears had already begun to spill.
“Yah…” Mimi leaned toward him, panicked, her hands twitching in her lap. “Why are you crying?”
He bit down hard, shaking his head even as his shoulders trembled. His voice came out raw, breaking on every word. “Because you’re going away. And I’m—” He choked, dragging the heel of his palm across his face. “I’m sorry for not talking to you for a week.” Her throat burned, guilt rising sharp and hot. She reached out, hesitant at first, brushing his sleeve before gripping it tight.
Martin hunched forward on the seesaw, sniffles breaking through his words. “I’m not angry, Mimi. I was just… so upset I couldn’t stop it. Because if you go, then what happens to us? What if we don’t talk anymore? What if you…” His voice cracked completely. “…forget me?” His head bowed, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t want to forget you. I don’t want to lose you.”
That broke something in her. She couldn’t sit still anymore. Sliding off her side of the seesaw, her sneakers crunched softly against the gravel as she came to stand in front of him. Her hands rose instinctively, cupping his damp face, her thumbs brushing clumsily at tears that wouldn’t stop. “Yah,” she whispered, her voice as shaky as her hands. “Don’t cry like this. Please. You’re my best friend. How could I ever forget you?” Her own tears blurred her vision, falling as quickly as she wiped his. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry…”
Martin lifted his head then, eyes red, lips trembling. For a long second, they just stared at each other, both broken open in ways they’d never been before. And then, with a suddenness born of desperation, he surged forward, arms wrapping tight around her waist. His forehead pressed into her shoulder, his taller frame folding into her like he was trying to make himself small enough to stay.
Mimi froze only a heartbeat before clutching the back of his shirt, burying her face in his hair. The two of them cried together in that embrace, the sound muffled by sweaters and the weight of goodbye. “I’m sorry,” Martin kept repeating, his words damp and muffled against her shoulder. “I’m sorry too,” she whispered back, holding him tighter, as though letting go would make the distance between them real too soon.
By the time Mimi finally let go, her sweater was damp from both their tears. Martin had gone quiet, his arms still heavy around her waist as if he didn’t quite trust himself to release her first. When she finally eased back, she gave him one last shaky smile, her lashes clumped with saltwater, and whispered, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The walk home felt heavier than her footsteps. Her chest ached with every breath, her eyes swollen and stinging from crying too long. When she slipped back into the apartment, she clutched her plushie to her chest like a fragile shield. Her brother was half-sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling without much care. He glanced up at the sight of her blotchy face—and smirked. “Aigoo…” he drawled, laying it on thick, “did you break up with him?”
Heat shot up Mimi’s neck, her ears glowing red. “SHUT UP!” she barked, stomping past him, her cheeks still damp. Her brother burst into loud, unrestrained laughter, snatching up a pillow and tossing it in her direction. “So you admit it!” he called, triumphant.
“NO, I DON’T!” she shouted back, her voice cracking as she slammed her bedroom door shut.
But even with the barrier of wood between them, his laughter still filtered through the walls. And in the safety of her room, cheeks burning, Mimi buried her face into her pillow—where, despite herself, a muffled laugh slipped out too.
The next morning, the hallways of Mimi’s apartment smelled faintly of dust and tape. Boxes were stacked like uneven towers, and the sharp scrape of furniture legs against the floor echoed through the narrow space. The movers moved briskly, her parents hurried between rooms, and through it all, Martin showed up one last time.
He didn’t knock. He never really had to. Instead, he slipped inside, rolling up his sleeves without a word, and bent to lift a stack of books heavier than they looked. He carried them out to the truck, weaving through the clutter with an ease that made it seem as though he’d lived there, too.
Her brother was halfway down the hall, wrestling with a cabinet almost too wide to fit. He caught sight of Martin stepping in to help and smirked. “You don’t even live here,” he teased, breathless, “why are you working harder than me?”
Martin only grinned sheepishly, adjusting his grip as they maneuvered the cabinet together. The jab was light, harmless—but when the furniture was finally set down, her brother gave him a quick, lopsided grin. A nod. Something that looked suspiciously like approval.
Her father emerged from the kitchen then, arms full of dishes wrapped in old newspaper. He paused for a moment, watching Martin quietly set another box by the door. Sweat clung to the boy’s temples, his shirt collar tugged askew from all the lifting. And though her father didn’t say much—didn’t have to—he stepped forward and gave Martin a firm pat on the back. The weight of it said everything: I see you. Thank you.
Martin bowed, ears burning red, and slipped back toward Mimi’s room. She was standing there amid the half-empty shelves, hugging her plushies so tight they looked as though they might burst, her eyes following him with a trembling kind of silence.
Time felt like it ran too quickly after that. Before long, the last box had been carried out, and the movers were slamming the truck doors shut. Her mother’s voice cut through the chaos, calling for her to come down, sharper this time, urgent.
But Mimi lingered by the curb.
Martin stood awkwardly in front of her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, scuffing at the gravel with the toe of his shoe. For a moment, neither spoke. The air felt swollen with everything they couldn’t quite say. And then—without warning—Mimi stepped forward and threw her arms around him.
He froze only for a heartbeat before his arms closed around her, tighter than he meant to, like he was trying to pin her in place so she wouldn’t slip away. His chin pressed against her hair, and when he spoke, his voice came muffled, wavering between playfulness and something far heavier. “Yah… before you go, at least bargain with your mom to buy you a phone. Then we can talk every day. No excuses.”
A laugh tumbled out of her, broken by tears. She pulled back just enough to see his face, her eyes shining. “Promise we’ll stay close?”
“I promise,” he said, steady this time, and he smiled that boyish smile she had grown up with—the one she’d memorized without even realizing it.
Her mom’s voice called again, urgent. Mimi reluctantly slipped from his arms and climbed into the back seat of the car, pressing her palms against the glass as if she could stretch the moment a little longer. Martin lifted his hand high, waving with all the stubbornness of someone who didn’t want to let go.
She kept her gaze on him until the car turned the corner, until the sight of him blurred into the distance. And even then, Martin stayed rooted on the sidewalk, staring at the empty stretch of road, clutching the space she had just left behind as if holding it tight might somehow bring her back.
But promises are fragile things—especially the kind whispered between children, who believe forever is something they can hold in their hands like candy wrappers or paper cranes.
At first, they tried. Letters with messy handwriting and doodles of inside jokes found their way into envelopes, postmarked with the effort of missing each other. But weeks stretched into months, and then into years. The letters slowed, then stopped. Calls that once filled the quiet of their evenings grew fewer, then faded altogether.
By the time Martin turned twelve, silence had settled in the spaces where laughter used to live. The secrets they once carried, the small rituals of shared snacks and long walks home—one by one, they unraveled, slipping into memory.
And just like that, the promise made beneath the fading sun of their last day together—so fierce, so certain—was broken.
Not by choice.
Not by betrayal.
But by time itself.
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