Chapter 9: The First Step Toward Change (1)
Late lunchtime. As I opened the front door and took the plastic bag from the delivery guy, the oily, mouthwatering aroma of Chinese food flooded our narrow entryway. Just like old times, that spicy-sweet scent made saliva pool in my mouth on reflex.
I set the bag on the table and called out to her. She shuffled out listlessly, sank into the chair across from me, and hung her head so low I couldn't even hear her breathing. Despite the tantalizing smell assaulting my nostrils, her hands stayed primly folded in her lap.
In the end, unpacking fell to me. Not that I minded her sitting idle. There was no way she had the confidence to rip open the bag or pop those plastic lids herself right now. I silently untied the knots and lifted each lid one by one: milky-white jjambbong broth, fried rice glistening with oil, and golden-fried tangsuyuk. I pulled out the separate sauce containers and two sets of disposable chopsticks, arranging everything properly. It was our familiar lineup—the same weekend staple we'd order while sprawled on the sofa with the TV droning in the background. The smell alone nearly conjured echoes of our old raucous laughter, but she kept her gaze glued to the floor, shoulders rigid with tension, as if she wouldn't budge until I spoke first.
A sigh welled up in my throat, but I swallowed it hard. If I let it out, she'd go pale and start apologizing. I forced my voice casual and even, just like before. "All unpacked. Let's eat."
"Y-yeah…"
Her hands sprang into action the second I spoke. She grabbed her chopsticks, plunged them straight into the jjambbong, scooped up a huge clump of noodles, and shoved them into her mouth. Hot broth splattered, but she didn't care—two chews, three, inhaling them nonstop. It looked voracious at first, but something felt off. Not like the night she'd crawled in here and scarfed down ramen straight from the pot like a starving animal driven by pure instinct. No, this was different. She was eating because I'd told her to. Swallowing without chewing, burning her mouth be damned, like some obsessive proving her own worth.
So now she'll do anything I say, huh.
Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe she just wanted to wolf it down and dive back under the safety of the blankets. Either way, watching her stuff her face like that choked me up worse than her. I stood, filled an empty cup with cold water, slid it toward her, and muttered softly, "Slow down. I'm not gonna take it away."
Her shoulders froze mid-vacuum-suck on those noodles. Chopsticks hovering, she looked up, cheeks bulging with half-chewed strands, eyes locking onto mine. Then fat teardrops plummeted from them. No warning, no sobs or shudders—just silent tears streaming down her face. They gathered at her chin, dripped onto the dangling noodles, and plopped into the broth.
Plop.
The small, sharp sound cut through the quiet table. But I said nothing. Any comfort or fluster from me would just make her more self-conscious. Instead, I picked up my chopsticks, snagged a piece of tangsuyuk, dunked it deep in sauce, and chewed slowly. Crispy batter yielding to sweet-tangy bliss—same as always.
As I ate on steadily, she resumed chewing through her tears, slower this time. Savoring each bite, swallowing, then trembling hands lifting more noodles. The tears kept falling, but her pace had normalized.
I shoveled a big spoonful of fried rice into my mouth. A huge plate of tangsuyuk sat between us, cooling untouched—no one reaching for the prime cuts like we used to, when chopsticks would clash amid curses and laughter.
I swallowed, then stretched for the crispiest, biggest piece. Placed it quietly on her empty side plate as she munched tear-streaked noodles. Her eyes snapped to it; her jaw locked mid-chew. She stared at the greasy fritter for a long beat, then whipped her head up, red swollen eyes glaring at me.
"You… are you pitying me? Or… or do you wanna try it once? What the hell do you want…?"
Her voice, thick with moisture, hit the table like a slap. I set down my chopsticks and met her gaze. "What the hell are you talking about?"
My tone was dry, but inside? Pity? Only a psychopath wouldn't feel it for a buddy who'd woken up a woman, shivering in the corner. And yeah, that perfect face and body stirred something primal—but reason crushed it flat. What she needed wasn't a horny beast's lust or cheap sympathy. First, stuff her gut with greasy comfort and steady her shattered mind.
I stared her down coolly. "If you're gonna spout nonsense, finish eating first."
Yeah, total bullshit from her. I'd never pull the trash she'd feared. Her pupils quivered at my bluntness.
"Why… why are you…?"
She couldn't even swallow before the choked sobs erupted. Hands gripping the table, head bowed, tears pouring endlessly. Shoulders heaving in silence around the food in her mouth. I pulled three tissues from the box and slid them beside her plate. "Chew first, then talk. You'll choke."
Her shoulders jerked at my gruff tone—no warmth there. She glanced at the tissues, snatched them with shaky hands, and clamped them over her tear-snot mess while resuming her chew. Gulping back cries like a kid mid-tantrum pacified with candy. Adorably pathetic, but no laugh from me. This wasn't a tantrum.
What I could offer wasn't grand salvation—just tissues and water. But I hoped she'd get this much.
"And what I want? Water."
I pointed at the pitcher. She stared, then grasped it with both trembling hands, tilting it carefully toward my cup. Water trickled in a thin stream. Her chest squished uncomfortably against the table edge, but she focused solely on not spilling, measuring the level with intense eyes. It felt bitter, watching my friend play maid. But nothing else was safe to task her with yet—dishes would shatter and drop her; groceries would freeze her at the door; choices would derail her.
Pouring done, she set it down and looked up expectantly. I nodded at her jjambbong. "Now eat. We've got time, and plenty to do. Clothes to buy, hospital to check out."
"Y-yeah… right?"
She reached for the jjambbong again—not cramming, but delicately picking up three or four strands, blowing gently, and slipping them in. Relieved, I dug into my cooling fried rice, mashing the clumped grains with my spoon. Still tasty despite the chill—always a bit salty here.
Between bites, I kept sliding tangsuyuk pieces onto her plate. First one sat ignored; second she nibbled; by the third, her eyes flicked to it preemptively.
Lunch had its hiccups—tears, outbursts, pity accusations—not smooth. But compared to yesterday, it brimmed with life. Facing someone over a meal was huge for her. Good enough.
Done eating, I transferred the leftover tangsuyuk to another plate for later snacking. As I grabbed the empty fried rice container, she eyed me hesitantly, then lifted her half-full jjambbong. Guess her tiny frame came with a shrunken stomach.
We headed to the sink side by side. I glanced in hers—noodles half-gone. I dumped mine first and stepped aside; she approached cautiously. I lightly took her container and tossed it for her. Not fearing a drop like last night—just instinct.
"Next time, red broth like you like. Or whatever."
She looked up. "Thanks…"
"No big deal."
Short exchange, barely ten words total, but it carried weight. No mumble or knee-jerk sorry—just straight thanks from her eyes, heartfelt for the first time since arriving.
I rinsed the dishes roughly, fighting a smile, while she stood beside me—not fleeing—listening to the water splash. Dishes stacked, plastic rustled behind me. She was bagging the empties unprompted. No orders given.
This level of help is fine.
Not overdoing a full kitchen scrub or obsessing over usefulness—just assisting quietly. Perfect.
Her bare feet padded on the tiles, stopping beside me. I handed her a rinsed container wordlessly. She took it carefully, bagged it, returned. Again. Like fetch—me tossing, her retrieving. Trash, not a ball; friend, not a pup. But close enough.
Last one handed off, I glanced back. Gripping the bag mouth, her face had shifted subtly. Those gray eyes, vacant before, flickered with faint focus—like a screen powering on.
I shut off the tap, wiped my hands on a towel. "Good job."
That was it. Too curt for praise, too light for judgment—but enough. She clutched the bag, looked up, and nodded faintly. No words.