Kim Seol-ah (2)
After the final bell, I was packing my bag when a voice called out from behind me.
"Hey, Lee Ji-an. Let's walk together."
It was Park So-yeon. Even though she was from the class next door, she was already standing at the back door of our classroom, calling for me.
"Yeah."
From the seat beside mine, Woo Han-gyul hurriedly packed her bag as well. Up ahead, Kim Seol-ah already had her bag slung over her shoulder and was waiting by the door for me.
And so the four of us left through the school gates.
Woo Han-gyul stuck close to my left, and Kim Seol-ah took my right. Park So-yeon trailed about a step behind, walking between me and Han-gyul.
"What's on the lunch menu tomorrow?"
"No idea. I think I saw curry earlier, though."
"Whoa, curry! I love curry."
Han-gyul's voice rang down the alley. The girl who'd been so glum just yesterday was already chattering away again after a single day.
When I'd told her I couldn't eat dinner with them, her cheeks had puffed out for a moment — but she seemed to have forgotten that just as quickly.
We walked for a while until we reached a fork in the road.
Park So-yeon stopped.
"This is me. See you later."
"Okay! See you tomorrow, So-yeon!"
So-yeon gave a light wave of her hand. Then she glanced at me once, opened her mouth as if to say something, and closed it again.
"...I'm going."
And with that she simply turned away. Her steps were unusually fast.
The three of us kept walking. Before long, Mother's house came into view.
"Ji-an. I'll head in, then. Make sure you eat well."
Han-gyul stood in front of the gate, looking up at me.
"Yeah. Go wash your hands and take your medicine."
"Okay. I will."
She answered so readily. As if she hadn't skipped it just yesterday.
Even after answering, she didn't go straight inside. She stood there holding the gate handle, looking at me for a moment.
"...You're really not coming in?"
"Yeah. Not today."
"Okay."
She opened the gate and went inside. The sound of the door closing seemed unusually loud.
From within, Mother's voice faintly drifted out, asking if she'd come home.
I stood in front of that door for a moment.
It was a door I'd opened without a second thought for nearly twenty years. Behind it, Mother would be setting out dinner, Han-gyul would be sprawled in front of the television, and a set of utensils would be waiting at my place.
My feet refused to leave.
Then a hand closed firmly around my wrist.
"What are you doing standing there. Let's go already."
Kim Seol-ah grabbed my wrist and started walking with long, purposeful strides.
"Hey. I'm paying you back for the handkerchief, so quit spacing out."
"You can let go. I'm not going to run off — I'll follow."
"If I let go, you'll just hang around in front of that door again."
I had nothing to say to that.
I had no idea how she'd seen any of it, walking ahead of me with nothing but the back of her head in view.
Seol-ah dragged me out of the alley like that.
"And I'm buying dinner, so I pick the place. No complaints?"
"Yeah."
"Finally, a clean answer."
Only after we'd walked a good while did Seol-ah let go of my hand.
We arrived at a narrow alley.
The paint on the sign had almost completely peeled away. A handwritten menu was taped to the glass door, and even that had faded with age.
It was a shabby little local diner.
I stopped and looked up at the place for a moment.
Seol-ah turned back and narrowed her eyes at me.
"What. Too rich to eat at a dump like this?"
"It's not that."
"Then why are you standing there like a statue."
"...Just. First time coming here."
Seol-ah let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"Whatever. Get in."
She shoved me in the back. The old glass door rattled as it opened.
Stepping inside, I was hit by the smell of old cooking oil and simmering earthenware pots.
A handwritten menu hung on the wall, and a television below it was playing the news.
"Grandma, I'm here!"
Seol-ah called out toward the back without hesitation.
A white-haired grandmother poked her head out from the kitchen. When she saw Seol-ah, her face crumpled into a deep, wrinkled smile.
"Aigoo, Seol-ah, you're here. And you brought a friend today."
"Yes. Please feed him until he's full. He barely eats these days — he's practically half a person."
"Oh my, no wonder his face is so pale. Sit, sit. If he's our Seol-ah's friend, we've got to give him plenty."
I bowed my head on instinct.
"Hello. Thank you for the meal."
Seol-ah sat down in the corner seat with easy familiarity. I took the seat across from her.
The table was so worn its edges had all been rounded smooth, and the chairs creaked with every shift of weight.
It was the complete opposite of the table at my parents' house. That one was wide and new-looking, without a single scratch. And it never made a sound.
This place was old and narrow and creaky. But inside it, there was the sound of people living and moving.
The chop of a cutting board in the kitchen. The clatter of pot lids. The grandmother humming to herself under her breath.
It was the same evening hour, but there was no need to debate which place felt more like a home where people actually lived.
It was still early for dinner, so the restaurant was quiet. We were the only customers — the evening rush hadn't started yet. The only sounds were an old fan turning and the chopping from the kitchen.
"This is my regular spot."
Seol-ah pushed a water glass toward me as she spoke.
"The rice is really good. The side dishes change every day, too. I've been coming here since elementary school."
"I see."
"When I don't want to eat alone, I come here and Grandma talks to me, at least."
She said it casually. I turned those words over in my mind for a moment.
When I don't want to eat alone. The way she said it so matter-of-factly somehow stuck with me more than if she'd made a big deal of it.
Before long, the grandmother came out carrying a tray.
"Here you go — two set meals. Careful, it's hot."
Steaming soup, rice, and an assortment of side dishes filled the table one after another. Seasoned greens, kimchi, rolled omelet — all of them simple, humble things.
"Eat plenty. Growing students need to eat well."
She set a piece of kimchi on top of my rice with her chopsticks and went back to the kitchen.
Seol-ah picked up her chopsticks. I took hold of my spoon.
For a while we just ate. The sound of rice being scooped, the fan turning, the clatter from the kitchen filled the space between us.
Then Seol-ah set her chopsticks down with a sharp tap.
"Hey."
"Yeah."
"What's with you today."
I froze with my spoon still in hand.
"What do you mean."
"Don't play dumb. You've been out of it since this morning. In the cafeteria you just kept fiddling with someone else's rice bowl. Didn't even touch your own. If I hadn't kicked you, you'd still be sitting there like that."
Her voice was even. But her eyes never left me.
"I'm asking if something's going on."
"...It's nothing."
"Does 'nothing' look like that face?"
I had no answer.
I could have just said I was fine. That was what I'd always done. Whenever anyone asked if something was wrong, saying no had always been enough to end it.
But this girl wouldn't back down.
"I'm in the same class as you."
Seol-ah crossed her arms and leaned back against her chair.
"I see everything you do, every day, right next to you. You get Han-gyul her water, you get her her medicine. The second she drops something, you're the first one to notice. You pretend you're not smiling, but you end up listening to everything she says."
She paused mid-sentence and tapped her water glass with her fingers.
"But these past few days have been weird. Even when she's chattering right next to you, you keep looking somewhere else. If your eyes are about to meet, you look away first. And even then, your hand still goes to her rice bowl."
I couldn't say a word.
Nothing came to mind to refute her. Because every single thing she'd said was true.
And then, suddenly, I thought of that rainy park a few days ago.
There had been a girl curled up on a bench under a streetlamp, crying. Getting soaked by the rain without even thinking to take cover.
I hadn't asked her why she was crying.
I'd figured she wouldn't answer honestly even if I did. That kind of thing didn't get fixed by someone poking at it from the side. You needed time to swallow it alone, to let it settle on your own.
So I'd pushed the umbrella toward her and said just one thing.
"You'll catch a cold."
Then I'd stepped back into the rain, saying I'd give her space. Telling myself that was what was best for her.
But she was the one who'd grabbed me then, too.
"It's your umbrella. Why are you leaving it."
That one line had kept me there in the end, and we'd stood in the rain together under the umbrella. That night, without me asking a single question, she'd poured out everything on her own.
Looking back, I never asked her anything that day, right to the end.
And now this girl was asking me head-on.
She was asking even though she already knew. Sitting here across from me, already guessing everything, and still insisting on hearing it from my own mouth.
That was the difference between her and me.
I never set foot in other people's hearts. I handed over an umbrella and tried to walk away. That was how I'd lived the seventeen years since I was reborn.
I'd gotten Han-gyul her medicine and pulled the blanket over her, but I'd never once asked what she was actually thinking.
I'd thought that was consideration.
...Maybe I was just scared.
Come to think of it, both that day and today — she was the one who'd held me back.
"Do I look stupid to you."
Seol-ah took her hand off the water glass and looked straight at me.
There was nowhere to hide from those eyes.
"You like Woo Han-gyul."
The restaurant went quiet.
The sound of the fan turning seemed unusually loud. The news that had been playing on the television faded into the distance.
I didn't know what to say, so I just stared down at my water glass.
A droplet of condensation was slowly sliding down the glass.
I had no urge to deny it. No desire to, either.
I'd known for a long time how I felt about her. And I was the one who'd decided, just a few days ago, to put an end to it myself.
But I'd never said the words out loud. Not once.
Not to Mother. Not to Park So-yeon. In twenty years of carrying it in my heart, I'd never spoken those words to anyone. Not saying them didn't make them go away — and still, I'd always kept them locked inside.
And this girl had set them out on the table like it was nothing.
"...Yeah."
That single syllable left my mouth.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. That's right."
Once I'd said it, my throat felt strangely hot.
"I like her. I have for a long time."
It was the first time I'd ever said it out loud.
It had taken twenty years to get those words out. And once they were out, it was nothing special. Just a handful of syllables.
"...If you already knew, why did you ask."
"Because you saying it and me guessing it aren't the same thing."
Seol-ah quietly pushed the soup bowl toward me.
"It's getting cold. Talk while you eat."
I looked down at the soup bowl for a moment.
Steam was still rising slowly from the broth.
I lifted my spoon and took a sip. The heat slid down my throat.
Strangely, once that heat went down, everything I'd been holding back seemed to come undone with it.
I felt a sudden, foolish urge to pour it all out — the way Seol-ah had that day.
"...I don't even know where to start."
"Anywhere."
Seol-ah set down her chopsticks and looked at me.
"I'll listen to all of it today."