Won Seo-jin (1)

The door opened slowly.

My heart was in my throat. I couldn't decide whether to stand and greet her or stay seated; my hips lifted halfway off the chair, then dropped back down before I could make up my mind.

The person who walked in was a girl I didn't recognize. That was my first thought. She must have the wrong room.

The girl standing in the doorway had bright blonde hair, bleached to a stark yellow from root to tip — I couldn't guess how many times it had been through the process. Her uniform had been taken in until it fit close to her body, and her face was thick with boredom. She wasn't anyone I knew. Not among any of the faces I could recall.

I hurriedly flipped open the file on my desk, checking the ID photo on the first page against the face in the doorway. The Won Seo-jin in the photograph had brown hair and glasses — exactly as I remembered her. There wasn't a single overlapping feature with the blonde standing in front of me.

So it really was some other girl who'd wandered in by mistake. I was just about to settle on that conclusion.

"Um. This is the counseling room, as of today. I have a session coming up, so I think you may need to step out..."

She froze before I could even finish. I saw her grip tighten on the doorknob, saw her start to take a step back behind the half-open door and then stop.

A few seconds of silence passed.

"...What."

That was the first word out of her mouth.

"Sian. Is that you?"

The moment I heard that voice, something clicked into place. The familiar accent. The familiar way of talking. Even the particular rhythm she used when she said my name. It was a voice that hadn't changed a bit in two years.

"...Won Seo-jin?"

"Yeah. It's me."

Won Seo-jin answered shortly, then turned her head and muttered something under her breath. Of all people. That's what it sounded like to me.

No way.

The blonde in front of me, the ID photo, and the face in my memory tangled together for a long moment, then slowly overlapped into one. It was Won Seo-jin. It really was. If it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hadn't been for the voice, I never would have recognized her.

The Won Seo-jin I remembered didn't look like this.

First, the glasses. Those huge glasses that used to cover half her face were gone. She used to complain they were dorky, but I'd always thought they suited her — they were kind of cute. She'd clung to them even during PE, insisting she couldn't see a thing without them. She must have switched to contacts.

Then there was the hair. I remembered how carefully she used to maintain that light brown — how it would catch the light and shimmer whenever she sat by the classroom window. That hair was now a blonde so bleached that every last bit of color had been stripped out of it.

And the uniform. She'd been so self-conscious about showing her figure that she used to wear everything a size too big. That same girl was now standing there in a uniform taken in at every seam that would allow it.

Sensing my gaze, Won Seo-jin angled her body away.

Could a person change this much in two years? No — I knew people could change. I'd gotten taller myself, and my voice had dropped. But this didn't feel like growing up. It felt like falling apart. The glasses, the brown hair, the baggy uniform — all of it was gone. Only the voice was the same.

"Wait, you go to this school?"

Won Seo-jin was the first to recover.

"Huh? Yeah. Class 7."

"...I'm in Class 4. Didn't know. Never even seen you."

"Same. How did we go a whole month without running into each other?"

"The classes are split by gender. You'd have to actually have a reason to run into each other."

She had a point. I'd never had any reason to go down the girls' hallway in the first place.

"You're the same."

Won Seo-jin glanced at me, then immediately looked away toward the window.

"Same hair. Same clueless look on your face."

"Clueless is a bit much, don't you think?"

"It's a compliment. These days, not changing is the harder thing."

It didn't sound much like a compliment. You're the one who changed way too much. The words rose all the way to my throat, but I swallowed them. Something told me this wasn't the moment to ask.

Won Seo-jin closed the door, came in, and sat in the chair across from me. As she walked over, I caught her hand giving a little tug at the hem of her shortened skirt — a motion she didn't even seem aware of.

The way she sat was unfamiliar. The girl who used to keep her spine perfectly straight now slouched into the backrest like she was throwing her whole body at it. Arms crossed, legs crossed. Everything about the posture screamed that she wanted this over with as fast as possible.

I wondered if I should offer her something, but there wasn't even a bottle of water in the counseling room. Grand opening, day one, and I'd already failed at hospitality.

"So why are you here?"

"I somehow ended up as a peer counselor. Today's my first day."

"Hmph."

Won Seo-jin looked at me for a moment, then let out a short, dry laugh.

"That's convenient."

My heart did a strange little skip. That's convenient. It sounded like she was glad — like she was relieved that the old friend she hadn't seen in two years happened to be the counselor.

"Since we know each other, this'll go faster."

See? That's what she meant.

"No Issues. Counseling not needed. Write that and let me go."

"...What?"

That was not what she meant.

"You just need something written on the paperwork, right? If you put down that there's no problem, it's easier for you and easier for me. Win-win, isn't it?"

"Hold on. What are you—"

"You're annoyed having to deal with me anyway."

I was speechless. I'd never said I was annoyed. I'd never even thought it. But Won Seo-jin wasn't waiting for my answer. She'd already decided on her own. And the entire time she said it, she never once looked at me.

I cleared my throat and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠squeezed out the most counselor-like voice I could manage.

"So. Um. How's school been lately?"

An open-ended question — the kind you can't answer with a yes or no. Straight from the review I'd just done.

"Ha. That was a textbook question just now, wasn't it."

"...Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah. Super obvious."

Won Seo-jin let out an irritated sigh and turned her face toward the window.

"You don't have to do that. I didn't come here because I wanted counseling. They told me to pick — take the disciplinary action, or go to counseling. That's why I'm here."

Disciplinary action. The word snagged heavily in my ear. The Won Seo-jin I knew and the phrase "disciplinary action" were a combination that didn't belong in the same sentence. What on earth had happened? I swallowed the question that had risen all the way to my throat.

My mind started racing. Rapport. Up until a moment ago, I'd been pinning my hopes on that word. Since we already knew each other, I'd save time getting her to open up. I'd be starting from a better position than anyone else.

The rapport was definitely still there. Two years of absence hadn't mattered — the informal speech came naturally, and the conversation flowed like water. The problem was that the rapport was currently being used to skip the counseling session entirely. She was right that things would go faster because we knew each other. The problem was that they were going in the exact opposite direction.

Honestly, I wavered a little. Two words — No Issues — and today gets easier. Maybe she was right, and this was the way to save time for both of us. But something snagged before that calculation could go through. Won Seo-jin's words and her actions kept not lining up.

She wore a face that said everything in the world was a hassle, but she'd frozen when she saw me in the doorway. She'd muttered of all people. She'd avoided my eyes the entire conversation, and she'd unconsciously tugged down the hem of her skirt. Someone who was genuinely bored with everything in the world didn't do those things.

If it wasn't that she was bored — if she was covering something else with boredom — then my assumption that this would be some minor worry had already been wrong from the moment the words "disciplinary action" came out. ...No. Don't jump to conclusions. I'd been taught not to start with judgments.

"What are you staring at."

Won Seo-jin propped her chin on her hand.

"Just write that there's no problem already. Then we both save time. Isn't that better?"

Her fingertips tapped the blank record sheet tucked into the file. My first counseling session of my life was being asked to end before it had even started.

No Issues. Two words, and it would be over. Pick up the pen, write them down, smile at each other and part ways, and the rest of the day gets easy. But the hand that reached for the pen wouldn't move.

As I lowered my eyes, old scenes started surfacing in my mind, one after another.

So the Won Seo-jin I remembered was a girl who was sincere about everything. A single test sheet, a single presentation, a single line of notes. She never half-assed anything, to the point that just watching her was exhausting. Even the way she complained her glasses were dorky while still taking such careful care of her hair — all of it was an extension of that sincerity.

And that girl was sitting in front of me right now. Asking me to write that there was no problem. Asking if I wasn't annoyed having to deal with her. Wearing a face that said everything in the world was trivial.

Where had all that sincerity gone? Or had it never gone anywhere at all — was it still sitting there, right underneath that bored face?

If she'd been a stranger, maybe I would have written it. Maybe I would have let her convince me it was just a matter of filling out paperwork. Because I wouldn't have known what kind of eyes that girl used ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to live with, and I wouldn't have known that the way she looked now was strange.

But I knew. I knew the face she used to make over a single test question. I knew she was the kind of girl who showed you what sincerity looked like with her whole body.

Since we know each other, this'll go faster, Won Seo-jin had said. She was right. Because we knew each other, those two words — No Issues — simply would not go down on the page.

I took my hand off the pen I'd been reaching for. And I closed the record sheet.

It was a job I'd somehow ended up with. A job I'd accepted because I'd been swayed by the student-record perks, the counseling room, the get-out-of-jail-free card. But in this moment, none of those petty things even crossed my mind.

I lifted my head and looked Won Seo-jin straight in the eyes.

Let's do this.

Properly.