Chapter 16: Coming to My Senses (4)
We'd safely finished breakfast, so it was time to tackle the next task. I picked up the medicine packet I'd left on one side of the table and carefully tore open the bag labeled for morning doses. She took the pills from my hand without any fuss and tossed them into her mouth. She gulped down the water from the cup with audible swallows, then suddenly opened her mouth wide right in front of me.
"Ah~"
"...Are you messing around?"
Her childish action caught me off guard, raising my voice a bit. She flinched as if expecting a flick on the forehead, immediately covering her head with both hands and bowing it low. Looking down at her huddled crown, I felt less exasperated and more amused, almost laughing at the absurdity.
"Pfft… What are you doing? Showing me you took your medicine properly by opening your mouth?"
"Uh… Yeah…."
"Hey, this is medicine to make your body better. It's like you think I'm force-feeding you poison or something."
The more I thought about it, the funnier it got. Her little mouth opening with an "ah" like I took my medicine, check please. Those small actions were oddly funny and, honestly, pretty cute.
"Now that you've taken your meds, just sit quietly on the sofa and watch TV or something. Or help me with the laundry."
"I'll help…. Let me help…."
Even offering to do chores, she sought my permission first—timid, pitiable. But if she moved around with me, even for mundane housework, maybe those vicious thoughts gnawing at her mind would ease a little. Running the washer, folding laundry—ordinary, productive daily life. Chatting idly amid it all might slowly melt the awkward distance between us, bringing back some old comfort.
Thinking that, I headed first to the utility room with the washer. She toddled after me like a duckling chasing its mother.
As soon as we reached the door, the washer's low hum stopped with a cheerful chime. I bent down, opened the door, and started pulling out clumps of wet laundry, tossing them into the basket.
Fresh from the rinse, the clothes released a fragrant burst of fabric softener and that crisp, cool scent of damp cotton straight to my nose.
While I roughly transferred the bigger items to the basket, she stood behind me, fidgeting with just her fingertips, watching silently. Soon, I fished out the last of my underwear and socks from the drum, flung them atop the pile, and shut the door.
"Alright, let's take it out."
As I lifted the basket, I glanced at her face. She was staring intently into it, where my clothes and her thin garments tangled together, soaked and heavy.
That intimate mix of our laundry, boundaries blurred. Her pale cheeks flushed a faint red, subtler than before.
"What? Like a pubescent kid grossed out that our clothes are mixed up?"
I hoisted the basket with a grin, but her shoulders twitched. My lighthearted tease, meant to ease the mood, must've landed like serious criticism to her fragile state.
She shook her head frantically, gazing up at me with those heartbreaking, teary eyes.
Hah… She can't even take a joke yet.
I swallowed a small sigh, adjusted the basket, and spoke softly. "Come on. Let's go hang them up."
"Okay…."
Carrying her meek reply, we headed to the balcony where the drying rack stood. Morning sun poured through the living room window, flooding the space. The narrow balcony felt like a cozy greenhouse, warm enough to mock the winter chill.
"Perfect drying weather."
I set the basket down and unfolded the rack's arms. Grabbing wet clothes at random, I started draping them over the bars.
But she, who'd been watching from behind, suddenly stepped up beside me.
"Me… I'll… do it."
Her voice crept out softly, but the final words held an odd firmness.
What's this? Even if it's my clothes I lent her, maybe she wants to sort and hang her own?
I set down the wet towel and stepped back. Watching her, her actions defied my guess.
She removed everything I'd haphazardly hung, stuffing it back into the basket. Then, starting with socks and underwear—the smaller stuff—she lined them up neatly on the inner bars.
Next, she pulled out the oversized shirts and my tees I'd lent her, snapping them sharply in the air to shake out wrinkles. Pants too—she aligned the seams perfectly, without a single crease.
No wasted motion as the fabric smoothed and settled under her fingers.
Ah… It wasn't about our clothes mixing. She just couldn't stand how sloppily I was hanging them.
A guy from the fashion industry—instinctively rejecting my crumpled mess. Even depression couldn't kill that occupational habit.
"As expected from someone in that line of work. Nimble hands, huh? Impressive."
Folding laundry neatly wasn't world-shaking, but I tossed in some exaggerated praise to boost her spirits.
Her hands paused mid-snap on a wet shirt. Head bowed, she flashed the faintest smile—just a whisper, visible only up close. Then, as if scared I'd notice, she whipped her head away.
Cute.
How many times had that thought crossed my mind already? I couldn't count. But denying the adorableness of her flushed cheeks hiding from the sun? Impossible.
So I played assistant, handing her clothes from the basket one by one, until we'd finished our first joint laundry session unscathed.
As the balcony brimmed with clothes basking peacefully in the fluffy sunlight, she suddenly slipped into the master bathroom. Long minutes passed with no sign of her emerging.
What's up? Not washing, not using the toilet.
Our place had two bathrooms: the main one off the living room and a small one attached to my bedroom. Her staying put didn't inconvenience me.
But this was taking too long. No water running, no flush. A strange unease prickled my spine.
I crept to the master bathroom door, ear pressed close. Dead silence beyond—not even breathing.
With reason returning, maybe the backlash of depression and self-loathing had her collapsed inside, lost in dark thoughts?
"Hey. What're you doing? I'm coming in."
I might catch her mid-toilet—disaster. Or sobbing quietly, making her shrink further. But delicacy could wait.
I flung the door open.
Bang.
"Ah…."
Thankfully, no huddled crying on the cold tiles, no one on the throne. Lifting my gaze, I saw her back, standing at the sink.
Just… the issue of her holding scissors from who-knows-where.
She stared into the mirror, one hand clutching her long hair down to her waist, the other gripping sharp blades.
One scenario.
She was gonna… cut her hair.
Plenty made her look feminine now: her shrunken height, those massive breasts no baggy clothes could hide. Unchangeable physical shifts.
But that swaying long hair? A few snips, and she could reclaim control.
Gazing into the mirror's stranger, searching for traces of old Han Junseo? I understood that desperation, but my mouth moved on its own.
"Too bad… I like long hair."
Ah.
Silence stretched. My unfiltered true feeling slipped out in honest regret. Short hair might suit her too, but chopping such fine locks felt wasteful.
Plus, if she cuts it here, I'm stuck cleaning the mess everywhere.
Yeah. That was my excuse—too lazy for the cleanup. But instead of that practical line, my selfish preference blurted first.
I braced for tears or her crumbling from resurfaced trauma.
But her mirror-met eyes delivered the unexpected.
"If… you want…."
Scissors trembling in her grip, she murmured creepily low.
Me again. My permission, my will, my taste. If I wanted it, her appearance didn't matter?
That's… a bit much.
At least to me. Her unconditional deference felt precarious. For my comfort—and to help her stand on her own—I needed to draw a line now.
"Don't use me as an excuse. Decide for yourself."
I spoke flatly, as usual. "If you really want to cut it, I'll grab newspaper to spread out. Cut or don't—your call."
She turned, scissors in hand, staring up at me with wavering eyes, scanning my face long and hard. Then she bowed her head, quietly set the scissors on the sink, and stood frozen, facing away.
"Ah. I'll move."
I stepped back; she shuffled out to the living room, long hair veiling her face, shoulders hunched.
Her deflated back tugged at me a little… but good call intervening. At least I'd blocked her first self-destructive step.
It starts with hair, but who knows what comes next?
Yeah. I just dodged cleanup, but ended up saving her hair—and my friend. Rationalized, I grabbed the scissors and followed.
Expecting her to burrow into my bed like last night, cocooned in blankets, I was wrong. She clutched only her cherished quilt and returned to the living room sofa, wrapping herself tight and settling in.
"Huh… Cold?"
"Yeah… A little…."
Her muffled reply seeped from the quilt. Not illness—just chilly. After meds cooled her feverish body, her temperature dropped too, like yesterday.
I silently cranked up the boiler controller on the wall, grabbed the remote, and flicked on the TV. Variety show chatter and laughter filled the room. She pulled the quilt to her chin, staring blankly at the screen.
She's… trying her best not to dwell on dark thoughts too.
I wasn't some pro therapist or shrink, so I couldn't hide my clumsy care perfectly. She was sharp enough to sense how tensely I fussed over her.
That realization eased my heart a bit. No need to brag childishly I'm doing all this for you—she got it.
But flip side… she might feel massive debt to me.
Knowing I tiptoed around her, tending every detail. That explained her rigid, soldier-stiff posture on the sofa at dawn, eyeing me guiltily. Crushing apology and obligation.
Still, with rationality back post-meds… she's appreciating my awkward efforts.
Lost in that, had I stared too intently? Her porcelain cheek flushed crimson in seconds.
Sensing my gaze, she startled, yanked the quilt over her head—leaving just a peephole for her eyes—and vanished inside.
We're such amateurs.
Too shy to voice true feelings, too unskilled to mend wounds like pros. Clumsy distance and caution somehow felt… not so bad. I swallowed a smile, turning back to the TV.