Words Only a Non-Adult Could Say
I woke up to find it already evening. I rubbed my eyes without thinking.
Muk Ha-neul's voice reached me. "Sleep well?"
"Mmm..."
Maybe because I had just woken up, my words came out slurred. Hearing her chuckle softly made me feel annoyed for some reason.
"What time is it?"
"Almost 7."
"Feels like I've been sleeping more since this change."
"Yeah, I get that."
"But why're you still here?"
"Can't just leave without a care, right?"
I snorted and sat up on the sofa, stretching my arms wide. "Ahhh."
A weird noise escaped my mouth. My mood soured even more.
"Since you're already here, wanna grab dinner together?"
"No food at home. I'm having porridge. My stomach's wrecked from that jjajangmyeon yesterday. There's fried rice in the fridge if you want."
"Not really in the mood for day-old fried rice from the fridge."
"Just go home then."
"That's mean."
I said that, but I had no real intention of sending Muk Ha-neul away like that. I did plan on having porridge, but it felt wrong to let a guest leave without offering anything.
"Can't you make something?"
"I can't cook."
Cooking was women's work. With that firm belief, I'd never cooked anything in my life. Sure, boiling ramen or frying an egg was simple enough. But anything elaborate enough to call "cooking"? Never done it, never planned to. Besides, with no ingredients at home, it was impossible anyway.
"But you're a girl now, sunbae."
I grabbed a cushion from the sofa and chucked it at Muk Ha-neul.
"Fine, delivery then? But you said you can't eat much right now. Order enough for delivery and it'll just go to waste, more food trash."
"So what? Want some of my porridge?"
"I'll head out now. We ate lunch together, so this is plenty."
Plenty of what? Muk Ha-neul, who had stirred up such a ripple in my heart, left my place like that. 'I'll text you often,' she said with a bright smile as she went. Was it petty of me to feel a twinge of anger at that grin?
I'd spent the whole day feeling tormented by her. I sorted all the clothes she'd brought and stashed them in the closet. It was a small closet, but my new tiny outfits fit just fine.
From now on, it'd just be me for a while. My remaining contacts were basically Kang Hwa-won, Seo Jae-a, Professor Seo, and the orphanage director. Hwa-won hadn't reached out at all, and Jae-a and I had agreed to video call. The other two were too busy to contact me first.
I wasn't feeling lonely or anything. This was my chance to catch up on backlog reading and prep my next work during the downtime.
I heated up the porridge and ate it. Thankfully, it wasn't the bland hospital slop—it was from a franchise porridge chain, so it wasn't that awful.
After eating, I checked my smartphone. Several texts waited. Muk Ha-neul's "Made it home safe" (ignored). And messages from Seo Jae-a.
Even after all that, he still seemed uneasy. It wasn't anything weird, really. I'd definitely been a bit jarred, though.
I kept typing.
I hesitated a bit before asking. In writer circles, prying into earnings was pretty rude, and I knew it well. But I had no clue what making money in webnovels really meant, and for tutoring, I needed some idea. So I asked—and immediately regretted it.
Now it was my turn to go silent. Not for long, but my brain was half-fried already. 30 million won?
An insane amount. Even as a full-time novelist hitting moderate bestsellers, I never made that per work. Way less, actually. Novelists aren't exactly rolling in it. I'd answered Professor Seo's summons partly because I needed cash. A big chunk of my earnings went to donations for House of Love, so I couldn't splurge personally.
But a high school sophomore—second year—had made 30 million? Unbelievable. I didn't want to believe it. Hell, I was even a little jealous. But Jae-a had no reason to lie, so it must be true.
I typed sincerely.
Sure, I had plenty to teach. Making money wasn't everything in writing, and I was confident I wrote better than this high schooler. But with his success already, what if my guidance led him astray? Literary fiction was the "proper" path over webnovels, obviously. But webnovels paid better. I'd known that intellectually, but Jae-a's earnings drove it home.
To survive, you need money. Literary fiction doesn't pay enough—it's art for art's sake, not survival. But was that what Jae-a wanted? Webnovels chase fun and cash. Entertainment. If I taught him and twisted his style, he might end up writing neither fish nor fowl, rejected by both worlds. A gray man no one wants. That scared me.
This should make him back off. It was the right call, the correct choice. Even if not the "good" one.
But Jae-a surprised me.
Literary authors hid to write webnovels. Genre writers challenged the lit scene. Some succeeded, as Jae-a said. But more failed, and even successes didn't dominate.
But Jae-a was still a kid. Just entering high school sophomore year. If a child has dreams and wants to challenge something, telling them "It won't work, be realistic"—that's what a grown-up does. A mature adult.
But I'd always hated and rejected becoming an adult. And now, even my appearance wasn't adult. So acting a bit childish wasn't so strange.
Yeah, you can. I'll help. That's what an immature adult does.
My cool moment shattered with Jae-a's honest confession. Tch.