Siru's Secret

I pushed my PT session up by an hour. It was usually at ten on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, but I needed to wake up my brain after barely sleeping a wink last night before diving into work. I sent Haeun a quick text:

She was always like that.

Five sets of squats. Three sets of deadlifts. While Haeun stood beside me, repeating, "More, two more! Hey, don't let your knees cave in!" the memory of Chaewon's warmth from last night finally slipped from my mind. Sweat poured down. It felt good. My head was clearing.

"Why so early today?"

"Deadline."

"A cover?"

"Has to be done today."

"Then get lost."

"Yeah."

By the time I showered and walked back to the villa, it was nine-thirty. I took the stairs instead of the elevator from the first-floor lobby. At the end of the second-floor hallway, two boxes sat in front of my door. One was an art marker set I'd ordered from an art supply store, and the other was soy sauce from an early-morning delivery. As I scooped up the boxes and headed inside, my toe caught on something. I looked down. A folded note was wedged between the boxes.

I picked up the note. Next to it was a small plastic bag. I must have just missed her on my way to PT. I couldn't tell if I felt relieved or disappointed. Popping a madeleine into my mouth, I walked to the kitchen and brewed some coffee. Breakfast was simple: toast and scrambled eggs. Eating alone took less than fifteen minutes. After washing the dishes, I sat down in my studio. The sketch I'd drawn last night instead of working on my deadline was still open on my tablet—the profile of a sleeping woman. I quickly hid the layer and opened the cover art file. I had to finish it today. I gripped my stylus and got to work.

About two hours passed. Just as I was getting into a deep flow, the doorbell rang.

"Oppa! Oppa, it's Dain!" A high-pitched voice crackled through the intercom. Jeong Dain.

"It's open."

She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt and short shorts, with two hairpins in her hair and a smudge of blue paint on her left cheek.

"Oppa, Oppa, Oppa!"

"Three times is too many. What is it?"

"I just discovered something absolutely mind-blowing!" Dain stood at my studio door, her eyes sparkling. There were only two occasions when her eyes sparkled like this: when she found something delicious, or when she became completely obsessed with something.

"What is it?"

"Come here, look at my phone!" Dain shoved her smartphone right in front of my face. An Instagram feed was open on the screen. It was the account for @siru_illust—my account. The image she had pulled up made my heart stop.

"Look at this illustration." Dain scrolled down. It was an illustration of a cafe interior. Evening light filtered into an old wooden cafe, painted in warm oranges and browns. It wasn't a commission for President Kim, but a personal piece I'd uploaded. "This is Cafe Gyejeol, isn't it?" Dain said.

"...What?"

"Look at the shape of this window. This wooden table. This lighting. It's Seojin Eonni's cafe. One hundred percent."

A cold sweat ran down my spine. She was right. I had used Seojin's Cafe Gyejeol as a reference for that drawing. I'd only meant to capture the atmosphere, but Dain was an art student. She had a sharp eye for composition and spatial structure.

"But this isn't just a simple landscape drawing, is it?" Dain scrolled down again. There were two more drawings of the same cafe from different angles. The window seat. The counter. The small vase next to the espresso machine. "Oppa, these are all Seojin Eonni's cafe. And the spot where a person should be—the area where she brews coffee—is empty. Whether you did it consciously or not, you keep leaving that spot empty. That means you keep thinking about the person who belongs there."

"...What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on, don't try to hide it." Dain stared up at me, her round eyes narrowing like a detective's.

"I stayed up all night digging through the entire Siru archive. Your drawings from the last few months... the colors have changed. Before that, Siru-nim always drew 'solitary spaces.' Empty rooms, closed windows, alleyways at dawn. But recently, it's been cafes, dinner tables, kitchens. Warm lighting. They're spaces meant for someone else. It's proof that someone has entered your life."

"..."

"And you've posted this cafe three times. The same window, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the same table, the same espresso machine. There are so many other places, so why do you keep drawing this one? Eonni invited me over to check it out the other day, so I went. This is definitely the neighbor eonni's shop."

I set my stylus down and pushed my chair back. It was too late to deny it. Dain's eyes were brimming with absolute certainty.

"Oppa, you're interested in Seojin Eonni, aren't you?!" Dain clenched her fists, her face flushing red with excitement. "Right?!"

"...Keep your voice down."

"Is it true?! Really?! You like Seojin Eonni?! Oh my god, this is insane! Seriously insane!" Dain jumped up and down on the spot. Once, twice, three times. Then, unable to contain her overwhelming excitement, she lunged toward me.

"Oppa!" Dain grabbed my arm. She wrapped both of her hands around my left arm and shook it up and down. Because she was short, she ended up practically hanging off me. With every shake, her entire body bumped against my arm.

"Hey, Dain—"

"I've been studying Siru's work for a really long time, you know?! I knew the 'emotion' in your recent drawings had changed! The colors got warmer, and traces of people started appearing in the spaces! I could feel that Siru was looking at someone! And that someone was Seojin Eonni?!" Dain jumped. She had a habit of bouncing when she got excited. The problem was that since she was holding onto my arm, her body pressed flush against me every time she leaped.

Her sweatshirt was oversized. I had no idea what she was wearing underneath—or rather, knowing Dain, she had probably just thrown it on over nothing. Because of that, the sensation pressing against my arm was incredibly soft. The soft, distinct curves beneath the fabric of her sweatshirt pressed against my arm and pulled away with every bounce.

"Dain, seriously, stop."

"You and Seojin Eonni... making her meals, drawing her. All while acting so casual about it." Dain finally stopped, still clinging to my arm. She was panting from all the jumping, her eyes glistening.

"...But why didn't you tell me?" Dain tilted her head up to look at me. She was incredibly close. I could see my own reflection in her round, wide eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, and her warm breath brushed against me.

"...It wasn't really something to brag about."

"Not something to brag about?! I told you on the very first day we met that I went ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to art school because of Siru-nim! And now that very same Siru is drawing the eonni next door!"

I recalled what Dain had said the day we first met: "I decided to become an illustrator after seeing Siru-nim's work." Back then, I'd brushed it off as mere fan admiration. Hearing it from her mouth now, the words carried a completely different weight.

"...That's why I can't just ignore it." Dain's voice turned serious, the playfulness draining away. In moments like this, she looked even more like a child. "So... is it a secret from Seojin Eonni?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

I sighed and sat back down in my chair. Since Dain hadn't let go of my arm, she naturally ended up standing right beside me.

"Seojin would find it burdensome if she knew. There's nothing defined between us yet, so if she found out I was already capturing her in my illustrations..."

"Ah..."

"I draw to sort out my own feelings. But if the other person sees it, it adds weight to those feelings. I don't want to dump that weight on Seojin. Not yet."

Dain nodded, an expression of understanding washing over her face. As an art student, she understood the sentiment.

"Got it. It's a secret." She raised both hands and mimed sealing her lips. "I won't tell a soul. Promise."

"Thanks."

"But..." Dain crept closer to my side. She squatted down on the floor right next to my studio chair and looked up at me, her eyes sparkling. "Can I watch you work instead?"

"...Right now?"

"Yes! Watching the artist Siru work in real-time... to a fan, this is more precious than a solo exhibition!"

A genuine laugh escaped my lips. "It's just deadline work, so it'll be boring."

"There's no way it'll be boring! Just watching you draw lines is a lesson in itself." Dain rested her chin on the edge of my desk. From the side, I could see the back of her head—her short brown hair, the two hairpins, and her slender neck. The wide neckline of her sweatshirt had slipped slightly, exposing one of her shoulders.

"Then you have to be quiet."

"Yes, sir!" Dain gave a playful salute. And she actually did quiet down. I picked up my stylus and resumed working on the cover art. I began adding highlights to the character's hair—selecting colors, adjusting layers, and drawing lines. Dain watched with bated breath. She truly didn't say a word. It was impressive; this was the first time I'd ever seen her stay silent for more than five minutes. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. The moment I lifted my stylus to check the result, Dain let out a soft gasp of admiration.

"...Wow."

"What?"

"The order you put the highlights in. I always do them at the very end, but you do them in the middle. Why?"

"To make the boundary between the base color and the highlights look more natural, it's better to put them in the middle and then layer over them once more."

"Ah..." Dain pulled out her phone and jotted down a note. She was dead serious. It wasn't just fan adoration anymore; it was the attitude of a dedicated student.

"Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"Can... can you teach me how to draw?" I turned to look at her. Dain was staring up at me with her round eyes, her paint-smudged cheek, and an expression full of sincerity.

"Are you asking me formally?"

"Yeah. Learning at school is great, but I want to learn from Siru-nim—no, from you, Oppa. How to create color palettes and atmospheres. I'm really weak at that."

It was an honest self-assessment. I'd seen Dain's drawings before. Her line work was good, and they had energy. But it was true that her colors lacked depth. With proper guidance, she would improve rapidly.

"...I'll think about it."

"Really?!" Dain looked like she was about to jump again. I held up a hand to stop her. "Don't jump. You've got paint on your hands."

"Ah!" Dain spread her palms. Light blue acrylic paint was smudged along the creases of her hands. She must have run straight over here in the middle of her own work. "Go wash up first."

"Okay!" Dain scurried off to the kitchen to wash her hands, returning while drying them on a towel. In the meantime, I saved the cover art file.

Dain dragged a chair over and placed it right next to mine. Since my desk was narrow, our shoulders practically brushed. A faint scent of acrylic paint mixed with fruity shampoo drifted from her sweatshirt.

"Draw a line."

"Huh?"

"You said you wanted to learn how to handle colors. One line of highlights. A demonstration." Dain's eyes widened. I placed the stylus into her hand. Her hand was small, and since the acrylic paint hadn't washed off completely, a faint blue tint remained under her fingernails. "Right here, at the tip of the hair. Just one line."

Dain raised the stylus and brought it over the tablet. Her hand was trembling. Perhaps drawing a line on an actual Siru file felt too overwhelming, because her hand wavered. "Don't grip the stylus so tightly. Relax your wrist."

"...Like this?"

"More. Just use the tips of your fingers." I reached out and wrapped my hand over her fingers, gently loosening her grip. My hand briefly overlapped hers. Her fingers were small and warm.

"...Ah," Dain let out a soft gasp. She didn't pull away. Together, we drew a line. My hand guided hers, tracing a single, smooth curve. Her shoulder pressed against mine. In that tiny space between us, I could hear her soft breathing. "Like this." I let go. Dain stopped the stylus, staring at the line she had just drawn. She let out a shaky breath.

"...Your hand is really warm, Oppa," Dain murmured softly. Gone was her usual hyperactive energy. Her profile was flushed red—a fleeting slip from professional mode into something deeply personal.

"Focus on the stylus."

"...Okay." Dain drew another line. This time, her hand trembled less, and she executed it beautifully. Her expression looked as though a single demonstration had taught her more than a three-hour university lecture. I took the stylus back and moved on to the next step. Dain rested her chin on the desk, watching the screen. Her hair fell to one side, exposing the nape of her neck. The wide collar of her sweatshirt slipped again, revealing her shoulder and the delicate line of her collarbone. Fuck. I forced my eyes back to the screen.

"Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"Your drawings feel like they're talking to lonely people." I kept drawing without pausing.

"...What are you talking about?"

"You don't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠say things like 'it's okay,' ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but it feels like you're just quietly sitting beside them. I like that." Her words struck my heart from an entirely unexpected angle. I had just drawn. Alone, in an empty room, I had simply poured out my shattered heart. Yet, that very act had become someone else's dream.

"You're overestimating me."

"No, I'm not." Dain shook her head firmly.

"..." I had nothing to say.

"Oh, but Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask for one more favor?"

"What is it?" Dain clasped her hands together in a begging gesture. "Can you give me Siru-nim's autograph?"

"...?"

"I have the exhibition catalog for the Empty Room series." Dain's eyes sparkled with pure fan adoration.

"...Go bring it."

"Really?! I'll be right back!" Dain bolted toward the front door, running out in her slippers. Slam. The front door shut. I could hear her footsteps thudding down the stairs all the way to room 101. I leaned against the kitchen counter and laughed, utterly dumbfounded.

Less than a minute later, the doorbell rang again. "I'm back!" Dain returned, clutching the catalog. It was an A4-sized exhibition catalog, its cover slightly worn—proof of how many times she had flipped through it. With trembling hands, Dain opened the book. "Here, this page. Empty Room #3. This is my absolute favorite." I looked at the drawing. An empty studio apartment. Afternoon light filtered in at an angle through the window, casting a long shadow across the floor. There was no one there. Me, three years ago. Me, right after that woman had left.

"...On this page?"

"Yes!" I grabbed a pen and wrote Siru on the catalog. Next to it, I quickly sketched a tiny illustration—a single chair sitting in an empty room. Dain watched, holding her breath.

"Wow..."

"Done."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Dain hugged the catalog to her chest like a sacred treasure, her eyes glistening. "Thank you, Oppa," she said softly, her voice filled with genuine emotion now that the excitement had settled.

"But seriously, you can't tell anyone."

"I know, I promised." Dain held out her pinky. I stared at it blankly for a moment before hooking my pinky with hers. Her finger was small and warm. "And a stamp." Dain pressed her thumb against mine. It was childish, but it made me smile. "I'll head out now. I shouldn't disrupt your work."

"...You're surprisingly considerate."

"What do you mean 'surprisingly'? I've always been considerate!" Clutching the catalog, Dain walked to the entryway and slipped her feet into her slippers. She turned back. "Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"I really, truly want to learn how to draw from you."

"Alright." Dain beamed, her smile as bright as a sunrise. The door clicked shut.

I walked back to my studio, sat in my chair, and stared at the tablet. ...She had been a fan. Since high school. She had gone to art school because of my drawings. She said they felt like they were talking to lonely people. A strange sensation bloomed in my chest. It felt warm. The realization that I had influenced someone... that the drawings I'd made when I was at my absolute lowest had become a young girl's dream. Fuck, I shouldn't be feeling like this. Dain was twenty-two. Five years younger than me. She was a fan. A neighbor. An art student who was as pure as a child, bursting with hyperactive energy, running around with paint on her cheeks. I shouldn't be harboring strange feelings toward her. ...But what was that sensation when she clung to my arm earlier? I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on work. I picked up my stylus and drew a line. Dain's voice echoed in my head. "Oppa, you were drawing Seojin Eonni?!" "It feels like you're talking to lonely people."

I finished the cover illustration and sent the email to President Kim. Sent. Done. Leaning back in my chair, I stared at the ceiling. A fan. A student. A neighbor. Twenty-two years old. ...What exactly was this becoming? No answer came. Instead, the sensation of Dain's fingers still lingered on the hand that had held the stylus. Small and warm. The warmth of her shoulder brushing against mine, too. It had only been a brief moment, but it kept coming back to me. What a strange sentiment.

"Haaah." Exhaling a long sigh, I opened a new canvas. I began to draw the back of a petite girl. Short hair with two hairpins. An oversized sweatshirt. Standing in front of a canvas with a brush in her hand. I didn't give it a title. There was no need.