Just Write It Yourself

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Two days after the presentation, the work-study placement notice came through. The Department Office sat at the end of the third-floor corridor, with a single window, so the fluorescent lights stayed on even in the afternoon.

Creeeak.

The sound of the copier reached me before anything else as I opened the door. The man seated at the desk in the back lifted his eyes from a stack of papers.

"Jung Woojin, right? Have a seat."

His name was Han Jaemin. Second year of a master's program, twenty-six, unhurried in speech, eyes curving into crescents when he smiled. He walked me through how to divide up the twelve weekly hours, where to log attendance, where the copier paper was kept — and in the gaps between instructions, he tucked in a small fact about himself each time. It was his way of getting friendly. He just didn't rush it.

"We don't usually take freshmen. Oh Sera pushed hard for you."

"……"

"First time I've ever seen Sera recommend anybody."

It was Oh Sera in front of me and Sera behind closed doors. And to me, I remained Jung Woojin the whole time.

"Are you two close?"

"She was my senior in high school. She followed me here, actually."

He said followed me here at the same tempo as someone remarking on the weather, then went back to his papers. He was just as quick when it came to saying people's names.

When you've liked someone for a long time, the beat of their name goes off-rhythm. This man's hadn't gone off.

The first day, I scanned consent forms.

Whirr, clack.

One hundred twenty pages, laid one by one on the glass, the lid closed and opened each time. The same sound rang out a hundred twenty times, and halfway through, my wrist had gone numb. That was around when Sera came through the door.

"Jaemin-ssi, the paperwork from last week—"

She stopped mid-step.

"Is today your first day?"

"Yes."

"That takes forever."

"It's fine."

Sera walked over toward the TA's desk. Papers changed hands, a few words passed between them, none of which I could make out. But the pitch of her voice carried.

Half a tone higher than when she'd spoken to me a moment ago.

Six years, counting back to high school. That side of her hadn't changed; only this side had. What shape that difference would eventually take, I couldn't say yet.

On her way out, Sera tossed a question over her shoulder.

"Did you read this week's paper?"

"Reading it now."

"Good enough."

After the door closed, Jaemin slid a document across to me and said, half to himself:

"Never seen her look after a junior like that, either."

Twice today, this man had said first time I've ever seen. Both times, it had been about Sera.

When I walked into the lecture hall, Haram was already there.

Her laptop stayed shut. She was slumped over the desk with half her face buried in her arms, and when I sat down beside her, she only turned her head.

"I talked to him. Total disaster."

"……"

"I asked if he'd eaten."

She tapped the desk once with a fingertip.

"He said 'yeah' and kept walking. Three seconds. That was it."

She sat up and pulled her hair back into a tie. While tying it, she looked forward and smiled — without a sound.

"Well. You got an answer."

"You call that an answer?"

"You asked. He answered."

Haram flipped her tied hair back over her shoulder and looked at me. The smile was still there at the corner of her mouth, just lifted slightly.

"…Are you comforting me right now?"

I had never seen this girl smile while talking about Dogyeong. Whenever the subject came up, her eyes went red first, and when her eyes went red, my phone rang, and every single time I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠told her he didn't mean it that way.

And then she'd try again. That had been going on for four years.

"Want me to do it for you?"

"…No."

Haram opened her laptop. As the screen lit up, she said:

"If you did it for me, I'd probably just end up asking again."

She'd figured it out on her own.

Three days, because I hadn't done it for her. Shorter than four years.

"But it's weird."

"What is."

"You don't do anything for me anymore."

She lifted only her head, hands still resting on the keyboard.

"So why does it feel like you've given me more than ever?"

Passing in front of the Student Council Hall, I could see through the glass doors on the first floor.

The meeting room door stood open, and Dogyeong sat alone inside. He stayed in front of his laptop for a long stretch, deleted something, sat for another long stretch, deleted again. Three paper cups sat lined up beside him.

He hadn't erased it three times. He'd started over three times. Sitting like that, he'd erase the fourth attempt too.

There was no reason for me to go in, so I was about to walk on when Yuna came toward me from the main gate. Our eyes met first.

Thump.

The only thing I'd gotten out of living extra years was the head. My body was still twenty, and in front of that face, it pulled this stunt every time.

I kept walking.

"Jung Woojin."

"Yeah."

"…Got a minute?"

We hadn't stood face to face like this since that night. The last thing I'd said to her was not to come over after dark, and since then we'd brushed past each other once in the hallway and exchanged all of three words.

"…Yeah."

Yuna started toward the bench, but I didn't move. Sit down, and this would get long.

Two steps away, she turned back — and only then did I stop where I stood.

"Let's just do it here."

"…Okay. Sure."

She adjusted the strap of her bag. While her hands were busy with it, she was deciding what to say — and even after deciding, it didn't come right away.

"…I know I'm not supposed to ask you things like this."

Her hand wouldn't leave the strap.

"But there's nowhere else to ask. So."

Nowhere else, she'd said. Not no one else.

She'd chosen her words before coming here.

"Dogyeong's been strange lately. Says he's stuck at the Student Council Hall prepping for the event. Even eats his meals there now."

"……"

"And whenever I ask, all he says is that he's fine."

She shifted her bag to the other shoulder.

"But late last night, a message came."

"……"

"Asking why you've been like this lately."

Pressure gathered beneath my sternum.

It wasn't her face that did it. It pressed down because Dogyeong couldn't ask me directly and had asked Yuna instead — and pressed down again because Yuna had carried the question straight back to me.

The three of us never asked each other directly. Until now, I had been the one standing in the middle of all of it.

I shifted my gaze toward the glass doors.

"So."

"Can't you smooth it out with him? You two were never like this before."

A gust of wind passed, lifting the notice taped to the glass door before it settled flat again.

"No."

"…What?"

"Ask him yourself."

"I did ask. And he said he's fine."

"But you're worried right now."

Yuna's hand fell away from the strap.

"Then you just haven't heard the real answer yet."

"……"

"So why come to me?"

Yuna couldn't answer. She had probably never been asked that question in her life.

"You know him better than anyone."

"I do."

"……"

"But not because he tells me things."

"Then how?"

"By watching from right beside him."

Yuna blinked. She was following the conversation without knowing where it was going.

"So watch from beside him too."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ask him. If it doesn't work, ask again. Keep that up, and one day you'll know."

I tilted my head toward the glass doors. Only then did Yuna turn to look.

"…I can't."

"Why not."

"Because he doesn't talk to me like that."

"He talks to me like that."

Only after the words were out did I realize that wasn't comfort. Yuna had realized it first.

"…Right."

"……"

"He talks to you. Just not to me."

Yuna took hold of her bag strap again. This time she didn't adjust it — she just gripped it.

For three years, everything that girl knew about Dogyeong had passed through me first. Now there was no one left to ask, and for the first time, she was in the dark.

"But Woojin."

"Yeah."

"You don't tell me anything anymore either."

When I turned away, I could see through the glass that Dogyeong was getting up inside.

He gathered the three paper cups in one hand, carried them to the trash, and sat back down. The moment he did, his eyes went to the laptop.

If he sat there three more hours, one page would come out of it. A page pointed in the wrong direction — but a page all the same. And once it came out, someone would fix it for him, and that page would disappear.

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rang at night. When I opened the door, Dogyeong stood there holding a convenience store bag — ion drink this time instead of beer, his eyes puffy. I didn't ask what was wrong.

"Asleep?"

"No."

"Can I come in?"

I stepped aside to let him pass, and he stopped mid-way through taking off his shoes. Something brushed by his feet.

"Whoa, what—"

"A cat."

"…Oh, right. Wow, there really is one."

Dogyeong crouched down and reached out a hand. Rainy retreated a step, sniffed the air, then retreated again.

"Not coming, huh."

"He never does."

Dogyeong settled onto the floor and set his laptop bag on his knees, without opening it.

"I have to write the proposal. Wrote it three times, and all three times the senior told me to start over."

"What does he say exactly?"

"That he can't tell what I'm actually trying to do."

He unzipped the bag halfway, then zipped it shut again.

"…Can't you just take one look for me?"

I unzipped it the rest of the way, drew out the laptop, and held out my hand. He passed it over, and I opened the file.

Dogyeong said nothing while I read the first page. Three lines stating the event's purpose, a single table for the budget, a schedule tacked on below. The table and the schedule were fine — Dogyeong was good at that kind of thing.

The problem was the first three lines.

"Here."

I turned the screen toward him and pointed at the opening paragraph.

"What's wrong with it?"

"You wrote, 'An event to help freshmen settle into the department and get close with their seniors.'"

"…Yeah. Because that's the purpose."

"Last year's proposal said the same thing. So did the year ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠before that."

His head drifted toward the screen, then came back.

"Then what am I supposed to write?"

"Write what went wrong last year."

"……"

"You need that before you can show what you'll do differently this year. Right now, you've written the same thing three different ways."

For a long while, there was no answer.

"…And how would I know what went wrong last year?"

"I don't know either."

"Then why does he tell me to write it?"

"Because you can find out. The people who ran it last year are still on campus."

His eyes dropped from the screen.

"…Hey."

"Yeah."

"Where did you learn this stuff?"

"Didn't learn it anywhere."

"Then how do you know?"

When the purpose is wrong, everything beneath it comes loose. And when things come loose, people start fixing the easiest parts first — which was how that table got rewritten three times.

I'd seen it the moment I opened page one. Whether any of this was difficult, I'd never once stopped to consider.

"It just stands out."

Dogyeong's hand stopped at the edge of the laptop.

"You don't see it?"

The answer came late.

"…Hey. If I could see it, why would I have written the thing three times?"

I handed the laptop back. Dogyeong took it, set it on his knees, and stared at the screen for a long time, the cursor blinking steadily at the end of the first paragraph.

"Asking around about that will take a while."

"It will."

"It's due tomorrow."

"……"

"Then can't you at least write something that sounds plausible?"

The ion drink bottle tipped halfway over on the floor before Dogyeong's hand caught it again.

"He'll see through plausible. He's already read three of them."

Dogyeong shut his mouth. There was nothing to argue with — but his face wasn't the face of someone who knew that.

"…Then what do I do?"

"Ask today. The people who ran it last year are still here."

"It's eleven at night."

"Then ask tomorrow morning and write at lunch. The deadline's in the evening."

"……"

"And besides — it's yours to write."

The sound of the laptop closing.

"You've really changed."

"You've told me that one before."

"…Have I?"

He slid the laptop into his bag and pulled the zipper up.

Zzzzip.

It caught once in the middle, and he forced it along.

"Hey, Woojin. Why did asking you for things get so hard?"

It hadn't gotten hard. It had always been hard — it only ever looked easy because I'd gone and made it that way.

"No idea."

"……"

"Lot of firsts for me lately, too."

Dogyeong got to his feet. While he put his shoes on in the entryway, Rainy came and settled beside his foot, sniffed, then bumped his head against the shoe.

"Whoa. I think this guy likes me."

"……"

"What's his name?"

I'd been about to say I hadn't named him yet, and stopped myself.

Dogyeong stood waiting with one shoe on, and Rainy was still pressed against the toe of the other.

"Rainy."

"…Rainy?"

"I brought him home on a rainy day."

For the first time today, I saw him smile.

"Kind of half-assed, honestly. But very you."

The door closed, and the sound of him going down the stairs stopped one floor below, then resumed a long while later. Whether he'd actually go ask tomorrow morning, I couldn't say. If he didn't, he'd write something plausible instead and get it sent back a fourth time.

That part wasn't mine to carry.

Rainy came over and sat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by my feet, and I picked up my phone.

A little while later, one more message came.

I sat at my desk and opened my manuscript.

The cursor sat five sentences down, and today, my hands rose to the keys the moment I sat.

Three sentences knitted together into one paragraph. Reading it back, it sounded like a story about Dogyeong — but it was really about me.

Rainy sat a little apart from my feet.

"Rainy."

He didn't come over.

But when I called, he did look at me.