□ ■ □
There was still overti left, but the atmosphere at work was ice cold. So tense that even the sound of moving a chair or opening a door felt forbidden. One small noise, and you'd be everyone’s punching bag—literally the target for soone’s bottled-up anger.
The head writer and PD had a huge blowout. I was curious what started it, but I couldn’t ask Shim Won-jun. He’d already taken the first hit trying to break them up.
The head writer had glared at him and shouted, “Do I look easy to you?”—spitting out barbed insults like, “Were you raised like this?”, “What’s wrong with your character?”, “You’ve got no manners,” and more. Shim Won-jun’s face grew darker with each word. After being chewed out, he quietly slipped away, grabbed his coat and cigarette pack, and disappeared.
I put on my coat and picked up the script. Then I headed toward the door he’d exited through. I needed to escape.
Script in hand, I ducked into a café near the office. While scanning the nu at the counter, my eyes stopped on plain yogurt smoothie. It was Seon-jae’s favorite. He’d even posted a photo of himself drinking it on Instagram.
Co to think of it, this café was the sa brand as the one in his photo. I didn’t need to think twice.
“One plain yogurt smoothie, please.”
On a day with a wind chill of minus 20 degrees.
I sucked the smoothie through the straw. As soon as I pulled the straw out of my mouth, my head throbbed and my teeth ached. I couldn’t help but frown and shudder.
I set the cup down and opened the script. Thanks to that damn fight between the PD and writer, I’d been suddenly dumped with a random task: drafting descriptive blurbs for the cast.
As I skimd the script, I couldn’t help muttering, “Are you kidding ?”
Resting my chin on one hand, I spun the pen in the other. The cast specs were detailed—one cast mber was 188cm tall. Damn, how tall is that even?
That made think of Seon-jae, standing beside . I rembered how I had to tilt my head up just to see his face. He was really tall, too.
Trying to co up with subtitle text sohow led down the rabbit hole of thinking about Seon-jae. His height, his clothes, that expressionless face, the way only one side of his cheek dimpled when he smiled...
Eventually, my thoughts drifted to his feelings—ones I couldn’t see.
Six years ago, I’d suddenly appeared and shouted that I liked him. Then I’d gone cold for years, and now suddenly I acted familiar again. How must that look to Seon-jae? How would he see ?
I kept spinning the pen in my hand and started scribbling Seon-jae’s na in my notebook.
[Seon-jae. Ryu Seon-jae. If I were Seon-jae—]
I left a long ellipsis after his na. If I were Seon-jae... No thoughts followed. I couldn’t imagine it.
What if it were ? I couldn’t find the answer. Too much ti had passed for to even begin to guess.
“So frustrating.”
A short, painful sigh escaped my lips.
With my chin still propped up, I exhaled deeply and then slumped forward, arms stretched across the table. I stared at the writing in my notebook, eyes fluttering heavier and heavier like I was lifting weights.
Heavy. It’s heavy.
And then, my eyes shut.
I ca to when my phone vibrated. Shim Won-jun’s na was on the screen.
Rubbing my eyes, I answered.
“Yes, speaking.”
—Did you leave your bag behind when you went ho?
“Huh? Oh, I haven’t gone ho yet.”
—That explains it. Your bag’s still there, but everyone keeps saying you already left. It’s late. You should clock out soon.
“Oh, right. Are you still at the office?”
—Just stepped out. Where are you? Want to bring your bag?
“No, it’s fine. I have to stop by the office anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
—Okay. Thanks for today. See you.
I hung up and set my phone on the table. My body ached from sleeping hunched over.
I stretched both arms high above my head. That’s when I noticed sothing on the table that wasn’t mine—a pair of gloves.
I lowered my arms and picked them up. A simple pair of navy knit gloves, unpatterned.
Did soone forget them? But why leave them here, on my table?
Sothing about it didn’t sit right. I frowned and set them back down.
As I slipped my phone into my pocket and gathered my things, my eyes landed on my notebook.
There was writing in a different handwriting than mine. I pulled the notebook closer and looked at the words:
[Seon-jae. Ryu Seon-jae. If I were Seon-jae... I wouldn’t be able to hate you. Wear the gloves.]
My chest gave a jolt. My eyes widened.
I snapped my head up and looked around. Through the large glass window, there was only darkness outside. Inside, the café was empty except for .
I looked back down at the notebook.
That handwriting—how could I not recognize it?
Seon-jae had been here.
□ ■ □
I clocked out and checked the ti. 9:20 p.m.
With a drawn-out sigh, I mumbled an exhausted “Ugh...” as I stepped into the elevator.
Leaning against the ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ wall, I watched the floor numbers descend. I pulled the gloves from my pocket.
I’d thought soone had left them behind by accident... but Seon-jae left them for ?
Shoulders sagging, I stepped off the elevator as the doors opened.
The mont I stepped outside, the wind hit like a blade.
The news hadn’t lied—tonight’s cold could cut skin.
My cheeks instantly stung, and my shoulders shot up.
I looked down at my red, frozen hands and slowly slipped them into the gloves Seon-jae had given .
They reached past my wrists, but my fingertips stuck out about a joint's length.
Didn’t seem like they were made for won.
I spread my palm and brought it to my nose. I thought I caught a whiff of Seon-jae’s scent—the one from his scarf.
I wrinkled my nose, sniffed, then quickly straightened my expression. I felt like a dog.
No one was watching, but I still looked around, embarrassed, before starting to walk.
My eyes kept drifting back to my hands.
Or rather—to the gloves. The ones Seon-jae had left.
So... were these his gloves?
I couldn’t stop the smile that spread slowly across my face.
Before I knew it, I let out a quiet puff of laughter and covered my face with my hands, grinning as I cupped my cheeks.
Ryu Seon-jae—said he hated , but then he left gloves?
I waited for the bus at the stop.
The wind was brutal, my face frozen like it’d shatter with a punch—but my heart felt warm.
I fiddled with the fingertip of one glove and pulled out my phone, wondering if I should at least say thanks.
I bit the index finger of the right glove and pulled it off.
I turned on the screen, opened the cara app, and took a photo focused on my gloved hand. I sent it to Seon-jae.
[Thank you.]
After sending the ssage, I slipped the glove back on.
Even that short mont had made my right hand completely frozen.
As I swung my legs back and forth like I was splashing in water, a reply ca from Seon-jae.
I hurried to take off the glove again.
[Sure. But why are you only wearing one?]
How’d he notice that?
I checked the photo I’d sent.
There it was—one glove, on my lap.
What an eye.
[I took it off to send you the ssage.]
The bus slowly pulled into the stop.
I stood and boarded the bus.
It was late, so there were plenty of empty seats.
I sat down, slipped the glove I’d taken off into my pocket—then felt my phone buzz again.
[That glove’s touchscreen compatible.]
...Ah.
Embarrassed, I muttered, “Touchscreen. Right,” and rubbed my cold cheek.
The hand that touched it was warm.
Thanks to Seon-jae.
□ ◆ □
Because he lost a bet in a ga of ladders, Seon-jae had to pick up the tab and stepped into the café, card in hand.
That’s when he saw soone curled up in the corner.
Through the loose strands of ssy hair, he could make out a cheek pressed against the table.
After ordering five drinks and paying, he took the vibrating pager and sat in the far corner.
Even though he pulled out his chair loudly, the person didn’t stir—fast asleep.
He turned his body toward her and rested his chin on his hand.
His gaze lingered on her peaceful face.
After a while, he reached out to brush her hair aside.
The sensation of it against his fingers was unfamiliar—strange.
Papers and a notebook were spread across the table, and only a puffy coat lay draped over the chair.
A drink, barely touched, caught his eye.
Her outstretched arm, if moved even slightly, could easily knock it over.
So he gently moved the cup out of the way.
“You’re sleeping like a rock.”
Inside the café, soft pop music played.
Im Sol was utterly quiet.
Had he ever looked this closely at her for this long?
The thought brought back mories of an old music room.
He lowered his hand from his chin, folded his arms on the table, and leaned forward.
His face was now level with hers.
“Kim Chun-baek.”
He whispered softly.
The heavy lids on her eyes didn’t twitch.
The strand of hair he had brushed back fell again, covering her face.
Sothing subtle passed over his expression.
“I like seeing you often.”
He sat there quietly for a while, then straightened up.
He looked from her sleeping face to the notebook.
His na was scribbled there like a doodle.
He reached out and turned the notebook slightly toward him.
[Seon-jae. Ryu Seon-jae. If I were Seon-jae...]
The handwriting was just like the letters that used to fill his desk drawer long ago.
A faint smile spread across his face.
Even though there wasn’t much written, it moved him.
Even when they weren’t together, she’d thought of him.
Even though she’d acted like she didn’t want to see him, had avoided him...
A pen had rolled onto the table.
He picked it up, held it for a mont, then hesitated.
Finally, he added sothing to the sentence after the ellipsis.
The pager buzzed.
He set the pen down and stood.
Then he noticed her small hand.
He pulled out the gloves from his pocket and placed them on the table.
As he turned to go, he thought: If it were Sol, she’d probably just leave them behind.
So he picked up the pen again and added a note: Wear the gloves.
He picked up the carrier bag and nudged the glass door open with his shoulder.
He glanced back toward the corner.
She was still in the sa position as when he ca in.
The sight made him smile for no reason.
And then, he left the café.
□ ■ □
“You’ve gotta be kidding —today’s the shoot and this is happening?”
PD Kim Myeong-hyeok shouted, his voice echoing.
Shim Won-jun scratched his head with an awkward expression.
Today’s guest was a writer who had recently published an essay collection. They’d requested copies from the publisher to use as props. The publisher had agreed, with notice of the shoot date, and promised the books would arrive by yesterday at the latest. But even now, with the set already being prepped, the shipnt was nowhere to be seen.
“Seriously, how much would it cost to send a courier instead of using regular shipping?”
Kim Myeong-hyeok huffed, blowing air to lift his bangs out of frustration.
“Hey, rookie.”
“Yes, sir!”
I had been listening from one side of the set and quickly ran over.
PD Kim Myeong-hyeok, sleeves rolled up in agitation, pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed a card.
“Go to the bookstore and buy twenty copies. If they don’t have that many, grab however many they’ve got.”
“Understood. I’ll head out now.”
I took the card and rushed out. Twenty books—definitely not light.
Why take it out on Shim Won-jun and then send to buy the books?
Frowning, I opened my phone’s map app and searched for the closest bookstore.
As soon as I walked in, I headed straight to the search kiosk, typed the title, and printed the shelf location. But when I got there, dread hit . The book was newly published, and it looked like the publisher had gone all-in on promotions. About forty neatly stacked copies were displayed.
“Twenty copies...”
I crouched down to count them. It was too many to carry by hand, so I paid and asked the staff to bundle them.
While waiting near the checkout, soone rushed through the store, moving quickly between shelves.
Tall. Striking hair color. Stood out imdiately.
Baek In-hyeok?
“Custor, your order is ready.”
I turned toward the voice, eyes still trailing after Baek In-hyeok.
The twenty books were tightly bundled between two thick sheets of cardboard.
I bowed slightly in thanks and accepted them. The mont the staff let go—
“Urgh.”
My back tensed.
So damn heavy.
I wanted to take another glance to confirm if it was really Baek In-hyeok, but I had no room for distractions. Gritting my teeth, I left the bookstore.
□ ■ □
On my way to work, I brought in the mail and went up to the office. I sorted the envelopes by the printed nas—mine was among them. Surprised to see mail addressed to at work, I checked the label, but there was no sender or recipient address—just my na, written in two characters.
Didn’t look like it ca through the post office, either.
What the hell was this?
I sat down and carefully slit the envelope open with a box cutter. Inside was a single, wireless-bound book.
Bright yellow cover.
Title: I Really Hate You.
My head tilted instinctively.
I flipped it around, inspected the spine, even shook it a little—maybe there was a note hidden in the flyleaf or between the pages like I used to do for Seon-jae.
Nothing fell out.
Even the flyleaf was blank.
I frowned as I held the book.
This felt... familiar.
This was exactly what I used to do.
I examined the envelope again.
“Im Sol,” scrawled in thick black marker.
My na—but definitely not Seon-jae’s handwriting.
□ ■ □
On the subway, I opened the book and started reading.
Despite the title—I Really Hate You—the contents were ironically about love.
It wasn’t Seon-jae’s handwriting, but the delivery thod was eerily similar to how I used to give him books.
So this is what it felt like—receiving a strangely titled book without explanation.
Guilt stirred in my chest.
I closed the book.
I rubbed my thumb over the cover, then pulled out my phone.
I opened my chat with Seon-jae and bit my lower lip.
Gnawing softly, I hesitated.
Should I ssage him? We’d exchanged a few already.
If I kept it short, maybe it wouldn’t be weird...
[Did you drop off a book in the company mail slot?]
As soon as it sent, I regretted it.
I’d assud Seon-jae knew where I worked.
That felt absurd in hindsight.
[No.]
His reply was short.
Too short.
It made my regret even stronger.
Im Sol, seriously... you got all giddy because he gave you gloves.
Now that he said no, there was nothing else to add.
I stared at his response, trying to think of a decent way to end the conversation.
Do I explain that soone dropped off an anonymous book?
Or just go with sothing short and sweet—Oh, okay. Got it. Bye.
I ntally drafted a few versions.
Just as my thumb hovered over the screen, ready to send sothing, a new ssage ca in.
[Heading ho?]
My heart ached, inexplicably.
The subway rattled as it picked up speed.
[Yeah. What about you?]
[I’m at my mom’s restaurant.]
He was at Ryu Geun-deok Gamjatang.
mories from that place stirred.
A lot had happened there.
I’d accidentally walked off with their apron.
Seon-jae had dragged there the day he randomly showed up outside school.
It was where I got the call from the pocket watch owner.
That ti I drank alone and thanked his mom for giving birth to him—
That belonged to another world now.
I typed: Yeah.
Then paused, wondering what to add.
[Sorry about when I just stuffed letters in your desk before. And for giving you that book through soone else.]
Maybe that book—its strange delivery—gave the courage to say this.
As a ti traveler, I’d never really considered how uncomfortable I might have made Seon-jae.
[I’m sorry too.]
I froze.
I stared at his ssage, stunned.
What would Seon-jae have to be sorry for?
I ntally reviewed recent events.
I couldn’t think of anything.
Was he just being polite?
The subway pulled into a station, and bright fluorescent lights flickered past the windows.
□ ■ □
After getting off, I walked up the station steps toward the exit.
I glanced up—wet stairs.
Snow.
Big, fluttery snowflakes falling from the sky.
“It’s snowing hard.”
I stood outside the station and looked up at the sky.
Held out my hand.
A snowflake landed on my palm and lted instantly.
It left a faint damp spot where it had hit.
I stared blankly at that small, transparent trace—sohow, it made feel hollow.
Like it had vanished. Or hidden its real form.
I trudged ho.
At the door, I brushed the snow off my shoulders and head, stomped my shoes twice to shake off the buildup on the soles, and stepped inside.
I didn’t even turn on the living room lights—just headed straight to my room.
The hallway sensor light dimly lit the way.
I tossed my bag down, shrugged off my coat, and draped it over a chair.
As I sat on the floor to pull off my socks, I noticed the corner of a book sticking out of my bag.
I crawled over on my knees and pulled it out.
I brushed the cover with my palm, then stood to examine the bookshelf.
No space. Every shelf was cramd.
I ran my fingers along the book spines, hesitating in front of my old college textbooks.
Now that I had a job, I wouldn’t need them anymore.
I pulled them all out.
Then I started clearing out books I’d never reread—novels, poetry collections.
That’s when I found a book I didn’t recognize.
Did I buy this?
The title was Affectionate Terms.
It looked untouched—no creases on the spine, no signs of wear.
“Author: Lee Eun-gyu.”
When I opened it, I found handwriting scrawled on the inside cover in black pen.
The penmanship was awful. I grimaced before I even read the note.
This isn’t my handwriting.
The note said:
[What do you call the things that exist one mont and vanish the next? I liked that line, so I bought this. Even if I’m not with you now, I hoped there might be a day I suddenly am. I want to understand you.]
My heart pounded.
That ssy handwriting—I recognized it.
I’d seen it before—scrawled in old textbooks.
Embroidered on the back of a gym uniform.
I flipped through the book, looking for the publication date.
A piece of paper fell out.
I bent down to pick it up.
It was folded in half.
When I opened it, I saw rushed handwriting.
A date—with oversized dots separating year, month, and day.
I had written that.
The page was rough on one edge, like it’d been torn from a diary.
March of my nineteenth year.
A ti when I hadn’t yet t Seon-jae.
[I feel like I’m not myself anymore. No matter how hard I try, I can’t rember what happened.
That girl keeps calling my na, talking about things I don’t recall.
I keep apologizing, saying I really don’t know her.
She looks so angry, exhaling sharp breaths—
But I know those eyes. That deep sadness in her pupils. That endless, falling sorrow.
She said she’d never co again.
But today, we t on the overpass.
I panicked and ran—and tripped.
If she hadn’t caught my wrist... or if she’d let go...
Maybe I would’ve broken a leg.
We tumbled down the stairs together.
In her arms, I felt the pounding of her heart.
Her voice was warm when she asked if I was okay.
If she were a stranger playing tricks, she couldn’t have looked at like that.
I started crying, and with scraped-up hands, she wiped my tears.
She said, “I won’t co find you again. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
She said it with a face that looked like it would cry, too.
Who left this trace behind?
Who was inside then?
Why can’t I rember any of it?]
My heart was thudding.
A diary entry from a day I didn’t rember—written by my past self.
It felt strange.
“I waited for you, even though I didn’t know when we’d et.”
That’s what Seon-jae said.
So that’s what he ant.
I turned to the window.
Snow was falling, turning the world white.
Was this how Seon-jae felt, too?
Scared? Sad?
The snow, slowly drifting down, was painfully beautiful.
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