Two Lunchboxes
Seo Yuhan had run away.
To be precise, he simply stopped showing up at the basement training grounds.
On the second day of his self-imposed exile, he was standing in front of a convenience store shelf, pondering a row of triangular kimbap, when a quiet voice spoke from just behind his shoulder.
"The tuna mayo isn't very good."
Yuhan's hand froze in midair.
He turned his head with excruciating slowness.
There stood Cha Seorin, clad in her worn training clothes, a canvas bag containing her wooden sword slung casually across her shoulder.
"…How did you track me down?"
"This is the only convenience store right in front of the Management Bureau."
"And how did you know I was coming to the Bureau?"
"You have mandatory monthly interviews, don't you? Being a Returnee and all."
Yuhan set the triangular kimbap back on the cold shelf with a defeated sigh.
"…You're genuinely terrifying."
Ignoring him entirely, Seorin reached into the refrigerated display and picked up two boxed meals.
"There's spicy stir-fried pork and pork cutlet. Which one do you want?"
"I'm not eating."
"They have bulgogi, too."
"I said I'm not eating."
Seorin turned around and marched straight to the counter. The scanner chimed with two rhythmic beeps.
"That will be twelve thousand won, please."
Yuhan's left eyebrow twitched involuntarily.
…Twelve grand. That's absurdly expensive.
A few minutes later, the two of them were seated beneath a plastic parasol on the convenience store terrace. Yuhan was already shoveling spicy pork into his mouth.
"…Don't get the wrong idea. I had no choice in the matter."
"Of course."
"It'd be a sin to throw out perfectly good food."
"Of course."
"You're smirking right now, aren't you?"
"I'm not smirking."
She was definitely smirking.
Chewing slowly, Yuhan fell into a momentary reverie over the sheer wonder of a microwaved lunchbox, his first in twelve years. The rice was evenly cooked. The meat wasn't raw gristle. And best of all, there wasn't a single speck of sand crunching between his teeth.
"…This really is incredible."
"It's just a convenience store lunchbox."
"No, you don't get it. It's magnificent."
Seorin looked at him with an odd, searching gaze. He did this every now and then—staring in solemn awe at canned coffee from a vending machine, or treating a cheap mass-produced lunchbox as if it were a banquet fit for kings. Almost like someone who had spent decades in a barren hell where such simple comforts didn't exist.
"Mister."
"Yeah."
"Are you not coming to the training grounds tomorrow either?"
"Nope."
"What about the day after that?"
"Nope."
"For the rest of your life?"
"Yup."
Seorin set her plastic chopsticks down on the rim of her container.
"Just tell me what I did wrong."
Yuhan's jaw paused midway through a chew.
"…What?"
"I don't understand what mistake I made that caused you to run away like this."
"..."
"If you're angry with me, I'll apologize. But since I don't even know what I did, I don't know what to apologize for."
Yuhan set his chopsticks down. A chilly late-March breeze swept past the edge of the parasol, rustling the plastic wrappers.
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why—"
"I'm the problem."
Seorin closed her mouth, searching his worn face.
Yuhan used the tip of his utensil to nudge a stray grain of rice around the plastic tray, his gaze distant.
"…I'm someone who shouldn't be teaching anybody."
"Why?"
"Just because."
"There's no such thing as 'just because.'"
"Sure there is."
Yuhan offered a faint smirk, attempting his usual shameless, nonchalant grin, but this time the humor rang hollow and clumsy.
Seorin stared at him for a long, quiet moment. Then, in a soft, careful voice, she asked,
"…Did someone die?"
Yuhan's chopsticks froze completely.
Three seconds stretched out in absolute silence.
His face remained entirely blank, devoid of any twitch or tremor.
And that utter lack of expression was an answer in itself.
Seorin did not press him further. Instead, she quietly snapped the clear lid back onto her container and slipped the untouched pork cutlet into a plastic bag.
"I'll be going now."
"…Sure."
"Still, Mister."
Seorin pushed her chair back and stood up.
"I'm still going to the training ground tomorrow."
"..."
"Even if you aren't there, I'll still go. That's what I've done for the past three years anyway."
She lightly swung the plastic bag in her hand.
"I'm leaving this for you. Eat it for dinner."
"I'm not eating it."
"It'd be a sin to throw out perfectly good food, wouldn't it?"
She tossed his own exact words right back into his face.
Yuhan clamped his mouth shut, thoroughly outmaneuvered.
Seorin took about three steps toward the street before pausing and looking over her shoulder.
"Mister."
"...Now what?"
"Your name."
"..."
"You still haven't told me what your name is."
Yuhan looked down at the plastic bag sitting on the table. A pork cutlet lunchbox, valued at four thousand eight hundred won.
…Good grief.
"Seo Yuhan."
"…Pardon?"
"Seo Yuhan. Yu as in leisurely, Han as in idle."
Yuhan snagged the bag off the table and pushed himself up from the chair.
"My name literally spells out unemployed bum. So don't go getting your hopes up."
A smile broke across Seorin's face—a genuine, unvarnished smile this time.
"Understood, Mister Yuhan."
"…Drop the 'mister.'"
"Yes, Mister Yuhan."
"..."
Late that night, in his six-pyeong semi-basement studio in Jongno, Yuhan heated the cutlet lunchbox in the microwave and chewed thoughtfully.
I shouldn't go back.
I definitely shouldn't go back.
If I go, I'll end up saying something. And if I say one thing, it turns into two, and then—
He snapped the empty plastic lid shut and tossed it toward the trash bin, then collapsed onto his worn thin mattress. Pale streetlight filtered in through the narrow window near the ceiling, cutting a thin stripe across the dim room.
…Still, that right shoulder of hers.
If she keeps swinging like that for another ten days...
The joint is going to tear completely.
Yuhan threw an arm over his eyes, groaning into the quiet darkness.
"…Ah, dammit all."
At five o'clock the following morning, the heavy iron door of the abandoned Section Na training grounds on basement floor 3 squeaked open.
The person who stepped through was not Cha Seorin.
Scratching the back of his neck with rough, aggressive strokes and wearing a scowl of pure, unadulterated irritation, Seo Yuhan walked into the hall.