I Let It Slip

Sera was standing in front of the banner near the entrance, the supply checklist in her hand — she'd come straight from the office, by the look of it.

"Did someone move this?"

The kid next to the ladder turned around. "Oh, yes. It wasn't very visible over there."

"Who told you to move it?"

"...Sorry?"

"I said, who told you to move it?"

"...I just did it myself."

Sera wrote something on her checklist, folded it without waiting for a further answer, and came over. "Jung Woojin."

"Yes?"

"Your eyes are red."

My hand rose to my face of its own accord, tracing the spot where my glasses used to sit before dropping away. "...Ah."

"First time with contacts?"

"Since the day before yesterday."

"Well, that's why they're red."

She fished a small case out of her pocket and held it out. My fingers slipped on the lid trying to open it, and when I tipped my head back to drop a drop in, my eye flinched shut before I could stop it.

Both tries ran down my cheek instead.

"Come here."

I took a step, and that one step turned out to be closer than I'd expected. She took the case from my hand. "Look up. Up, not down."

One hand came up. Her thumb ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pressed just beneath my eyebrow and pushed the eyelid open — her fingers were cold.

"Hold still."

I stopped breathing entirely, because I couldn't figure out where I was supposed to exhale. My fingers curled in on themselves without my permission.

Tip.

One drop went in, and my vision bloomed. Through the blur I could see her face, close — but she wasn't looking at my eye. She was looking at her own fingertips.

"Don't blink."

"...Okay."

"One more."

Her hand moved to the other side, fingers brushing my temple — a place they had no reason to touch. They touched it anyway.

The second one took longer.

Sera was the one who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stepped back first, and as she did she twisted the lid closed twice. A lid that closes in one turn.

"Thank you."

"Mm."

"Stay out of the way a little today."

"I will."

She unfolded the checklist again — not at the crease she'd made earlier.

While Haram was moving the paper cups over by the water purifier, I went out alone to pick up the name tags. At the reception desk, a long table had been set up to the right of the Small Auditorium entrance with two people seated behind it.

It was the desk where they checked names off the roster and handed out tags — and one of the two was the person who'd been holding the yellow umbrella.

A line had formed, so their head stayed down over the name list. The staff badge pinned to the left side of the vest was big enough to read from here, too.

If I read what was written there, I'd know the name. I let my gaze drop toward the roster instead, and pretended to reread Group 3's section, which had already been checked off.

"Oh."

When the head came up, our eyes met.

"So that was you."

"...Yeah."

"You cut your hair."

"...Yeah."

"Your forehead's showing now."

It was said while flipping the page of the roster, so they weren't even looking at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me. I stood there wondering what I was supposed to say to that, and only then did the head lift again.

"You haven't gotten your name tag yet, right?"

Fingers ran down the list, plucked one out, and held it toward me. Jung Woojin, it read — and the handwriting was not printed.

"Did you write these yourself?"

"Eighty of them."

"......"

"But I laughed a little when I wrote yours."

"Why?"

"You're the one who told me what you named your cat, remember."

I took the tag and pinned it to my vest. While I was fumbling with it, this person was already calling up the next name in line.

The name badge was still on the left side of the chest. I could read it from here, too.

I turned around without reading it.

The event started in the afternoon and ran about two hours. Department head's greeting, freshman introductions, club promotions — it moved from one item to the next without a hitch, and Dogyeong emceed the whole thing.

There wasn't a single snag.

He called names without looking at the list, landed the laughs exactly where laughs belonged, and when the crowd started to glaze over he pulled the next segment forward. When the microphone howled with feedback, he caught it with a joke and rolled right past it — and that's not the kind of thing you can prepare for.

This kid becomes a different person the moment he stands in front of people.

Building the cue sheet, setting the order, timing who came out when — that used to be my job. Today, Dogyeong had built it.

The person making it had changed.

Over those two hours, things went off-script in three places, and all three times Dogyeong papered over it on the fly. What's strangest of all about today is that it was somehow more fun than when the cue sheet ran perfectly.

The final segment was the freshman talent show, and nobody would go up.

"Really? Nobody at all?"

When the seats fell silent, Dogyeong came down the aisle with the mic. He never picked just anyone at moments like this. He picked whoever could make people laugh.

"Group 3."

Down in Group 3, Haram covered her face with both hands.

"Anyone in Group 3 who can sing?"

"Jung Woojin!"

Someone behind me called my name, and a few people laughed along. It was not a name that belonged in that slot, and yet there it was.

Dogyeong paused half a beat with the mic in hand — then swung it somewhere else.

"This guy can't sing."

The seats laughed.

The fact that I can't sing is not something Dogyeong actually knows. He's never heard me once, so he couldn't know.

"Other groups, then! Come on, nobody?"

After the event ended, we carried the rental equipment back for return.

Out the back of the Small Auditorium there's a staircase, and at the bottom of it, a loading area. The setup called for two people, one speaker each, carried down together. Dogyeong carried both alone.

"Hey, that thing's heavy."

"I'm fine."

One slung over his shoulder, the other gripped by the handle. From the top of the stairs, his posture was already tilting.

Screech.

The strap on his shoulder slid off over the vest, and about three steps down, the handle side went first.

Thud.

The crack of plastic against concrete carried all the way inside the auditorium.

The speaker lay sprawled three steps below.

The front grille was caved in, and a split ran along the side. Dogyeong stood in front of it, the remaining speaker still hanging off his shoulder.

The back door of the auditorium opened and half a dozen people came out. Their steps slowed as they emerged, and after a look down the stairs, not one of them descended. One ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠senior came down, though, and tried to stand the speaker upright. The moment it stood, something inside it went rolling around.

Clatter.

"How much was this thing to rent?"

"...I don't know."

"Somebody heard it."

On these stairs, back then, we heard it together.

Dogyeong said it was fine, but he didn't let go — and so, when it fell, neither of us knew whose hands it had slipped out of.

It was about three seconds after the sound. I dropped it, I said first.

Dogyeong said nothing that day. I had spoken first, so there was nothing left for him to say.

We split the penalty. Dogyeong offered to pay half, I told him not to bother, and in the end he made me take half of it anyway. Which meant that, from Dogyeong's side of things, it became something we'd paid for together.

Today, I was ten steps behind.

My feet started forward before I knew it — and stopped after a single step.

If I go over there, what am I even going to do?

Dogyeong dropped it.

"I let it slip."

Dogyeong said.

Nobody looked at me.

...Huh.

So they don't need me.

The senior looked at Dogyeong. "You carried it alone?"

"...Yes."

"Why alone?"

"I wanted to finish faster."

It probably wasn't a lie. Only, nobody had ever taught Dogyeong that saying that line in that spot just gets you scolded harder — because all this time, I'd been taking the scolding in his place.

The rest went faster than I expected. The senior called the rental company; the estimate would come next week; whether it came out of the student council budget or out of someone's pocket would be settled in a meeting. Dogyeong said he understood.

Even after everyone had drifted away, Dogyeong stayed where he was. The remaining speaker was still on his shoulder, and I didn't turn to go until I'd watched him put that down too.

Everything put down.

Yuna was standing at the top of the stairs. I couldn't tell since when. It might have been from the moment the speaker fell, or from before that. Yuna was looking at me.

Not at Dogyeong.

"Jung Woojin."

"Yeah."

"...You just now. You were going to leave."

"Yeah."

"Then why'd you stop?"

"There wasn't any need for me."

Yuna came down two steps.

"......"

"Dogyeong's handling it, isn't he?"

Yuna gripped the railing, and then said nothing for a while.

"...He's not the kind of kid who can do that."

"He did today. He wrote the planning proposal alone, too."

The moment I said it, I realized Yuna didn't know that part. All Yuna knew was that Dogyeong had been floundering over the proposal.

"...Alone?"

"Yeah."

"......"

"You didn't know?"

Yuna's hand came off the railing.

"When you asked me, you said you couldn't write it."

"That was before. He wrote it after that."

"...Who taught him?"

"......"

"It was you, wasn't it."

I didn't answer.

I knew that silence was an answer in itself. I didn't answer anyway.

Yuna went up two steps, then came back down.

"Jung Woojin."

"Yeah."

"You know I'm scared right now?"

"......"

"I thought you were angry. Angry, I can wait out — that wears off eventually."

Down at the bottom of the stairs came the sound of a truck door slamming shut.

"But if it's not anger, then it means you're just never coming back."

On the way back, I took the long way around the rear gate. Straight out the main gate is the short route; around the back gate is more than double the distance. Today, the longer walk felt better.

I laid out, in order, the things Dogyeong had done today. Going to find last year's coordinator. Writing the first line over again. Emceeing. Carrying both speakers alone. Saying I let it slip.

The last two sat right next to each other.

Because he carried it alone, he was able to say it alone.

When I got back to my room, Rainy was asleep at the foot of the bed. Same spot as always, same posture too.

I sat down at the desk and opened the manuscript. The three paragraphs were still there, untouched. When I'd written them, I'd read them back and believed every word.

Reading it again today, it was only half true.

Yes, things had become difficult. But it wasn't only about relationships. Dogyeong had done something difficult all by himself today.

As much as I had done for him things that took ten minutes, that kid had never once done a ten-minute job on his own.

I put the cursor on that paragraph, stared at it for a long while, and deleted it.

The part about the phone call home, and the part about how he'd never once said he was struggling — those I left alone. They weren't about Dogyeong.

I set the cursor at the end of what remained, ready to write again, and not a single line came.

I took my hands off the keyboard.

At the foot of the bed, Rainy woke and came over. She put her front paws up on my knee to climb, slipped, and tried again.

Thump.

She made it up on the second try.

Her weight settled in, and my hand went to her back without my telling it to. I drew my palm slowly down along her fur.

I said you did well once today. It was to Dogyeong.

As for writing those words for my own share — I still don't have a single line of that.