Things That Can't Be Hidden (1)

After finishing our quiet meal, she burrowed back under the blanket. The egg on her plate was scraped clean, and only crumbs remained from the toast—she'd eaten well enough. But the second she got up from the table, she dove back onto the sofa and pulled the covers over her head so fast it was like an illusion that she'd been sitting across from me just moments ago, munching away. Only the crown of her head poked out. She didn't even show her face; just the tips of her hair stuck up above the blanket. It would've been cute if she were any ordinary girl, but to me, it wasn't—not even close. Last night's memories were still too vivid for that.

Just... leave her be. Waiting for her to pull herself together on her own. No idea when that would happen, but keeping at it—that was the best comfort I could offer. I tossed the plates, cup, and chopsticks into the sink, then headed to my room to grab my work laptop. I set it on the table and powered it up; the familiar boot sound chimed. For most people, it was already time to be at the office, crammed into the subway and hunched over a desk. But for a self-proclaimed remote forex trader like me, anywhere the laptop was on was my workplace. Living room, café, even the bathroom—as long as there was internet, it was my office.

I pulled up the charts and started clicking the mouse. The keyboard clacks echoed rhythmically through the quiet living room. A faint movement came from the sofa. Her head, buried under the blanket, bobbed slightly now and then. Reacting to the typing? Or just shifting position? The crown rose and fell a few times before slowly tilting sideways. Must've been drowsy from the food. The blanket's steady rise and fall quieted, leaving only her faint breathing.

She's asleep... time for me to work. I muttered to myself and refocused on the charts. The dollar-yen rate had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠moved quite a bit overnight. Christmas holidays meant thin volume but big swings—tricky spot for a position. Experience told me to sit tight, so I just watched the flow without jumping in. Time flew as I rolled the mouse, jotted notes, and tabbed through news. The living room stayed hushed. Keyboard taps and her breaths—two rhythms sharing the space. I sank into the quiet, immersed in work.

Then.

"Cough."

A sound from the sofa. I didn't think much of it at first—probably just an itch in her throat mid-sleep. I kept my eyes on the charts. Then again. Cough-cough. Closer together. One became two, two became three, and soon it wouldn't stop. Eventually, it turned into choking gasps, her body curling up with the effort.

I pulled my hands from the laptop.

Alright... back to normal, huh. Even on a warm rainy day, it was still winter. No way someone who'd walked barefoot in a soaked shirt through a downpour wouldn't catch a cold. Last night, adrenaline or tension must've held her together, but food and sleep loosened it all, and her immunity crashed.

I closed the laptop and approached the sofa. The blanket, rhythmic just before, now writhed differently. Feverish, she squirmed inside like a butterfly desperate to escape its cocoon—restless, nothing like the earlier peace.

"If you've got a cold, say something. Say it."

I spat it out as dryly as I could, grabbed the edges of her bundled blanket, and lifted. Lighter than expected. Subtract the blanket, and her body weight was barely there—something I'd noticed hugging her waist last night, but this was extreme. I figured she'd flinch or resist, but nothing. Just limp in her huddled pose. Fever must be brutal.

Part of me wanted to press my hand to her forehead, check the heat, see if it was hospital-level. But touching her now might stress her out on top of the pain, so I held back. Thinking back to how she'd tested me this morning, this felt right. Arms around her blanketed form, I carried her through the living room to my bedroom and laid her gently on the bed. Pulled the covers to her chin, stepped back, and looked down. Her exposed face burned red. Lips cracked and dry, sweat beading on her forehead. Last night she'd been deathly pale; now she blazed crimson.

I left the room, grabbed spare clothes from the living room closet—the smallest loungewear I had, folded neatly—plus a towel. Filled a cup with water in the kitchen and returned. Set the clothes, towel, and cup side by side on the bedside table.

"Wipe yourself down at least. Change if the sweat's bad... I'll grab meds, so stay put and rest. No funny business."

I wasn't expecting a reply. She couldn't anyway, and even if she could, it'd just be "sorry." I glanced at her damp hair spilling from the blanket, then shut the door.

Slipped on sneakers at the entrance, grabbed my keys. Cold air hit my face as I opened the door; rain stopped, but the sky scowled. Winter scent rose from the wet asphalt as I descended the stairs.

The nearest pharmacy was closed. Christmas the day after—figures. Another two blocks away, but same story. I turned to the nearby convenience store instead. Warm air and that store smell rushed out with the auto-door. Found fever meds and cold pills quick in the OTC aisle; instant porridges sat next to the cup ramen. Grabbed abalone and veggie ones. No clue her taste, but spicy's out for the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sick.

At checkout, sliding my card, something on the glass caught my eye in the periphery. Convenience store windows are plastered with ads—carrier plans, delivery discounts, stuff I'd ignore. But one poster stood out amid the flashy colors: plain white A4, government logo top, bold red seal beside it.

How big a social issue was TS disease to plaster this on a convenience store window? It hit home—yesterday it was someone else's problem; now she was coughing on my sofa. Couldn't look away. Paid up and stepped closer to read.

Guidance on admin procedures post-onset, medical support lists, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠psych counseling links... Skimming, my eyes snagged on the bottom.

Complete mutation. Grim term. Meant fingerprints, irises—all gone, no way to prove who you are. But the content was textbook bureaucracy: family or acquaintance vouching gets you a temp ID, admin help for full recovery later. Standard state spiel.

Phew... tell her and she'll be happy? Nah. No way. She's barely holding her changed body together, buried in blankets—telling her the state's got her ID won't cheer her. Recovery talk comes after she can stand and say her name. Not now, feverish and hacking.

Yeah. Later for that. Maybe she'll step up herself. Han Junseo was proud once. She's rock bottom now, but she'll rise. For now, just a nasty flu flattening her at my place.

Yeah. Pathetic punk laid up with a brutal flu at my house. That eased me. She'd always roamed, hating "stuffy" homes. Friday nights, showing up unannounced: "Crashing here," claiming the sofa. This time, just a longer squat. That's all.

Bag in hand, I stepped out. Rain gone, but wind bit. Thin sunlight pierced clouds over damp asphalt. Sparse post-Christmas streets, just occasional cars breaking the silence. I quickened my pace—delaying meds meant higher fever.

Back home, door open—something off. She stood in the living room center. Should've been bedridden, but here she was, changed into the clothes I'd left, soaked in sweat. The clinging loungewear echoed last night's drenched entrance, but thankfully not rain this time.

She stared straight at me. Our eyes met—hers from the living room, mine at the entrance—and she dropped her head, scurried to the bathroom. Tat-tat-tat, door slammed.

Not a puppy... Sneaking glances at the owner before darting in. Sick and still minding manners.

I glanced at the bathroom, shook my head. Her business. Bag in hand, I opened my bedroom door—and froze. Smell was different. Not my usual guy-alone room: bland mix of detergent and dust. Something else permeated. Hard to pin— not perfume, not body wash. The scent of a woman's room. Air's texture shifted, nothing sweet or flowery, just... different.

Of course—she'd sweated it out on my bed. Brain knew that, but the scent nudged buried feelings. Yeah, she was a woman. No matter Han Junseo, my friend— this was her scent. Fragile, homeless; kicked out now, truly nowhere. Heart skipped, but passed quick. Then pity hit late. Not lust—sympathy. Poor thing. Must protect. Her hacking through fever. Thoughts filled my head; the wobble settled.

I exhaled, rational again. Pulled fever meds and cold pills from the bag, set on bedside table. Porridges later—tuck bag under. Water cup lukewarm; grabbed it for fresh.

Bed's rumpled blanket held her shape. Dented where she'd curled, long hairs on pillow. Left them, exited as toilet flushed. Refilled cup in kitchen, waited in hall. Door opens, tell her back to bed. Simple.