The Line Between Us
The two of them paused on the boundary of that invisible line and slipped into a nearby café. It really was just for a moment. They grabbed two takeaway cups and headed straight back toward the alley. Yet for some reason, Kang Chi-yeol had the strange premonition that this brief stretch of time would linger far longer than it should.
Lee Do-hee took a sip of her Americano as she looked down at the menu mock-up. On the paper, beneath the title Red Flavor, various menu combinations were neatly organized. Kang Chi-yeol tried not to stare too obviously, but his eyes kept drifting over anyway. Noticing this, Do-hee simply held out one of the sheets.
“You can look if you want.”
“Ah, no, that’s all right.”
“It’s fine. It’s not like hiding the menu makes it invisible.”
She had a point, so Kang Chi-yeol gave an awkward little smile. He accepted the paper. The menu was cleaner than he’d expected. She had minimized the text and kept the descriptions concise. Tteokbokki, cheese tteokbokki, fish cake tteokbokki, fried assortment, blood sausage. The items were familiar, yet the layout had no unnecessary flourishes. It felt like only what truly mattered had been left behind. Without realizing it, Kang Chi-yeol nodded.
“It’s neat.”
While straightening the mock-ups, Do-hee asked, “Is it too plain?”
“Not at all. Actually, I think this is better. At the beginning, this level of simplicity catches the eye more easily.”
At that, Do-hee said, very briefly, “That’s a relief.”
It was nothing special, yet the exchange somehow put his mind at ease. Whenever the two of them talked business, they both became far more natural. Perhaps because it was a domain untouched by messy emotions, the space between their words held less unnecessary tension. Kang Chi-yeol found that both comforting and, oddly, a little disappointing. Comforting because it was easy. Disappointing because he didn’t want to explain why he felt disappointed.
When they reached the entrance to the alley, Do-hee suddenly slowed her steps a fraction and asked, “Boss, why did you open a chicken shop?”
The question came so directly that Kang Chi-yeol needed a moment to choose his answer. Why a chicken shop? If someone else asked, he could go on at length. He’d been laid off, scraped together his severance and a loan, wanted to do something under his own name, and chicken had been his favorite food his entire life. But strangely, in front of Lee Do-hee, he didn’t want to say too much. He didn’t want to sound like he was parading his personal narrative.
In the end, he chose the shortest, most honest version.
“Because it’s the thing I’ve liked the longest.”
Do-hee walked a beat in silence after hearing his answer. Then she spoke, very softly but clearly.
“That’s nice.”
That single phrase sank into him with unexpected depth.
“What is?”
When Kang Chi-yeol asked back, Do-hee kept her gaze forward and said, “Starting something with what you’ve liked for a long time.”
It was a very short sentence. Yet within it, Kang Chi-yeol strangely sensed something like quiet loneliness. Starting with what you’ve liked for a long time. To some people that might be the most natural thing in the world, but to others it could sound like a reminder of something they had once let slip away. He didn’t ask any further. It felt like a question he shouldn’t pose.
Instead, Do-hee turned the question back on him. “Boss, aren’t you going to ask why I opened a tteokbokki shop?”
Kang Chi-yeol let out a small laugh. “I wanted to.”
“But?”
“It felt like I’d be prying too much.”
Do-hee let out a short breath of laughter. It was barely audible, yet Kang Chi-yeol didn’t miss it.
“I used to develop menus for other companies.”
“Ah.”
“But at some point, I got tired of things succeeding under someone else’s name.”
The words were plain, yet they lingered strangely. Tired of things succeeding under someone else’s name. Kang Chi-yeol rolled the sentence slowly through his mind. He understood that feeling all too well. The moments at the company when everything he had organized, fixed, and polished ended up listed under someone else’s performance review. It wasn’t grand creation, but the frustration of knowing that “what I did” would never carry his own name. That kind of emotion looked the same no matter the industry.
“I think… I know what you mean,” he said quietly.
Do-hee glanced at him. The look wasn’t particularly long, yet for a moment he felt a silent current of understanding pass between them.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
No more words followed. Strangely, though, the silence didn’t feel like the conversation had ended. The two of them stepped back into the alley. Until a moment ago the noise of the main road had surrounded them, but once they entered the familiar alley the air changed. The smell of a snack shop, the hot scent of ironing from the dry cleaner, the clatter of signs swaying in the wind. And the sound of footsteps walking right beside him.
Kang Chi-yeol suddenly felt a strange reluctance at the thought of this short walk ending. He realized immediately that this was quite a problem.
When they arrived in front of the shops, Do-hee stopped first.
“Thank you. Thanks to you, I got back quickly.”
“Not at all.”
“I bought the coffee, so we’re even. No more debts.”
The remark was both amusing and very much like her. A person who left no lingering favors. Kang Chi-yeol gave a small chuckle.
“You’re very precise about settling accounts.”
“It’s easier that way.”
“That’s true.”
Do-hee gave a tiny nod, then turned toward her own storefront. At that moment, without any real thought—or perhaps after thinking far too much—Kang Chi-yeol added one more sentence.
“But.”
Do-hee looked back.
“I’m… fine with owing you a little.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Kang Chi-yeol genuinely wanted to punch himself. What was that supposed to mean? He hadn’t even considered how it might sound, yet here he was blurting it out. Fortunately or unfortunately, Do-hee took it in a completely different sense.
She answered with simple clarity. “I’m not.”
It was less cold than it was definitive. Kang Chi-yeol smiled awkwardly.
“Ah, I see.”
“Yes.”
With that, Do-hee turned away. In that instant, Kang Chi-yeol learned something once again. Lee Do-hee was not so cold that she made people feel humiliated, but she also never left things ambiguously open. And strangely, that fact stayed with him even more.
All afternoon he worked harder than usual. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he pretended to work harder. In reality, his mind kept replaying their recent conversation on loop.
Starting with what you’ve liked for a long time.
I got tired of things succeeding under someone else’s name.
I’m not.
The conversation itself had been short, but within it lay the clear texture of the person named Lee Do-hee. And Kang Chi-yeol was the kind of man who tended to remember such textures for a long time.
When Jo A-ra stopped by in the evening, he had already done far too much thinking. She took one look at his face and said, “Something happened again, didn’t it?”
“Why do you always sound so certain?”
“Boss, your face is basically a public document at this point.”
Kang Chi-yeol sighed and set down his coffee cup. “I went to the print shop.”
“With who?”
“What do you mean, with who? With the owner next door.”
A-ra immediately pulled up a chair and sat down. “Whoa.”
“Why are you saying ‘whoa’ again?”
“No, at this rate we’re basically in the early chapters of a romance drama.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“So? What happened?”
Kang Chi-yeol hadn’t particularly wanted to talk about it, but for some reason he always ended up telling A-ra everything. The print shop, the coffee, the menu mock-up, the conversation about why she opened a tteokbokki shop, and even the mortifying final exchange about settling accounts. By the time he finished, even he found the story ridiculous. He sounded like he was giving a play-by-play of a blind date.
A-ra listened, laughing several times and nodding with an oddly thoughtful expression at others. In the end she summarized it like this.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“You probably shouldn’t fall for her.”
Kang Chi-yeol froze as if he’d been slapped square in the face.
“Who said I was falling for her?”
“Not yet, I guess.”
“It’s not even ‘not yet.’”
“But it seems like it would be a bad idea.”
The words were both cheeky and painfully accurate. It did seem like a bad idea to fall for her. Because Lee Do-hee was clearly someone who drew firm lines, didn’t seem the type to open her heart easily, and above all, both of them were just starting their businesses. This relationship was structured from the beginning to invite misunderstandings, entanglements, and complications.
Yet Kang Chi-yeol couldn’t immediately agree with her. Because he still refused to admit that he might actually like her. Right now it was simply that she occupied his thoughts. She was pretty, competent, spoke precisely, and had looked at his chicken with genuine appreciation, so she stayed in his memory. It was still too early to label it anything more.
At the same time, Kang Chi-yeol knew one thing. The human heart is usually already quite far along by the time you tell yourself it’s “still early.”
“It’s just…” He searched for the right words and finally settled on the most honest ones. “I’m curious about her.”
Jo A-ra didn’t laugh playfully at the answer. Instead she nodded slowly.
“That’s the most dangerous part.”
Kang Chi-yeol lowered his head and smiled. She’s right.
The emotion of liking someone is often realized surprisingly late. What arrives first is always curiosity. Why does that person act like that? What flavor do they prefer? Why did they say it that way? Why did they smile like that? Once that curiosity piles up, at some point liking and caring become impossible to separate. And right now, Kang Chi-yeol was clearly standing somewhere near the entrance to that path.
That night, after closing the shop and returning home, he opened his notebook. Next to the open-preparation checklist, in an empty space, he unconsciously left a note about the day.
Lee Do-hee
Short-spoken even when in a rush at the print shop
Menu board is neat
Dislikes success under someone else’s name
Precise about settling accounts
Uncomfortable with owing favors
And beneath that, in very small letters, he added one more line.
Which makes me even more curious
Kang Chi-yeol set down his pen and stared at the sentence for a long time. He wondered if he should erase it, but once again he couldn’t bring himself to. Because people usually pretend not to notice even when they’re the first to recognize their own true feelings.
He closed the notebook and muttered very quietly, “Small favors are the real problem…”
The words weren’t blaming anyone, nor were they resenting the situation. They were simply the grumbling of a man who was slow to acknowledge how his own heart worked. And Kang Chi-yeol only half-understood, for now, that those small favors might one day lead to much larger misunderstandings.