Midnight Ramen
It was Sunday night and my deadline was tomorrow. I had been sitting in front of my tablet for eight straight hours. My back was stiff, my eyes were dry, and my wrists ached. I was at the final coloring stage of the cover illustration. Once I incorporated all the publisher’s revision requests, I would be deep into the early morning hours. I checked the clock. Eleven forty. I had turned off the living-room lights. Isolating myself from the world while I drew was my standard deadline routine. This was my third cup of coffee. Another would burn my stomach, but skipping it would leave me drowsy. A perfect dilemma. I set the pen down and stretched. My neck cracked loudly. I stood, opened the studio window, and let the night air pour in. It was a spring night, cool and refreshing. The light was still on in Room 101 downstairs. Dain must have been working late too. As a fine-arts student, her assignment deadlines were probably around the same time. I closed the window and returned to my seat. I picked up the pen and continued layering color. The texture of the character’s hair. One strand at a time, building depth. The work was tedious, but rushing it would make the whole piece look cheap. Midnight passed. One o’clock. Close to two, the doorbell rang.
At this hour? I opened the door and found Dain standing there.
“Oppa!” Her voice was bright, as if she had no idea it was two in the morning. Or maybe she knew and simply didn’t care. Her outfit caught my eye. An oversized white sweatshirt. The problem was what lay beneath it—very short shorts. The sweatshirt almost completely covered them, so at first glance it looked as if she wore nothing else. Her bare legs glowed under the entryway light, pale and slender. I quickly lifted my gaze to her face.
“Dain, what are you doing here at this time of night?”
“I’m pulling an all-nighter too! My assignment’s due tomorrow!” She lifted both hands. Three packs of ramen in her right, two eggs in her left. “I saw your studio light on from the first floor, so I knew you’d be up. Let’s eat together~”
“How did you know I was still working?”
“I saw it from downstairs. Your studio light was on.”
Before I could invite her in, Dain shuffled inside, slippers dragging.
“Can I boil the ramen? Wait—no, you do it, Oppa. Everything you cook tastes amazing.”
I had missed my chance to refuse. She was already in the kitchen, setting the ramen on the table. She kicked off her slippers and squatted on the floor.
“Why aren’t you sitting in a chair?”
“Sitting on the floor at night is the real way to eat ramen.” She said it as if it were obvious. “Ramen eaten in a chair isn’t ramen at all.”
I couldn’t follow the logic, yet somehow it didn’t feel wrong.
“This is the first time I’ve ever made ramen for you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is.” Dain paused. I had only ever made her doenjang stew or egg rolls. Even though she had told me at our first meeting that cup ramen was her staple, I had never actually cooked her any.
“Oppa, since this is my first time tasting yours, can I be a little picky?”
“Go ahead.”
“I like it spicy. Use all the soup powder.”
“Got it.”
“And leave the noodles slightly underdone. Turn the heat off thirty seconds before the package time.”
“Okay.”
“Last thing. Don’t break the yolks. Soft-boiled.”
“Understood.”
Dain giggled, delighted that every request had been accepted. I took out a pot, added water, and set it on the stove. Two packs of ramen. Two eggs. Dain sat on the floor hugging her knees, the hem of her shorts just visible beneath the sweatshirt. The pale skin of her thighs showed. I watched the water boil, added the noodles and soup base, then cracked the eggs in one by one once the noodles loosened. I covered the pot for a minute, stirred once, gave it thirty more seconds, and killed the flame. Instead of moving to the table, I carried the entire pot to the floor and sat beside her. I set two pairs of chopsticks and spoons between us.
“We’re sharing one pot?”
“Obviously.” Dain picked up her chopsticks. “Late-night ramen only tastes right straight from the pot.”
She was right. That was the only way. She lifted a bundle of noodles first, blew on them, and slurped. Broth splattered. “Ouch, it’s hot.” A drop of red soup clung to her upper lip like a tiny jewel. She licked it away with the tip of her tongue.
“Here.” I tore off a paper towel and handed it over.
“Thanks~” She wiped her mouth, but a faint red stain remained just below her lip. I turned my eyes back to the pot and ate. The familiar heat. Why did ramen taste so good at this hour? Fatigue, hunger, and the night air combined into something perfect.
“Oppa.”
“Yeah?”
“How much time do you have left on your deadline?”
“I need to send it by tomorrow morning.”
“Me too! Mine’s due tomorrow morning too!” Dain scooped up an egg with her spoon. The soft yolk burst and swirled into the broth. “We’re deadline comrades.”
“Deadline comrades, huh.”
“Yep. All-nighter comrades. Ramen comrades.” She gathered another mouthful of noodles. “What do you usually eat when you work at night, Oppa?”
“I usually don’t eat. Just coffee.”
“Aww, that’s why you’re so skinny.” She tapped my arm lightly. The touch was casual, but her fingers were warm and carried faint smudges of paint.
“Next time you’re pulling an all-nighter, tell me. I’ll bring snacks.”
“You’ll just eat them yourself.”
“I’ll eat some and you’ll eat some. Food tastes better together.” She wasn’t wrong. The pot was already half empty. I took a spoonful of broth—hot, spicy, salty. The perfect midnight flavor.
“Oppa.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the illustration going? Is it turning out well?”
“About halfway. Still some coloring left.”
“What are you drawing?”
“A novel cover. A female character.”
“The women you draw always feel so alive. Every expression has a whole story behind it. Most artists make all their faces look the same, but Siru’s are all different.” Dain smacked her lips. I couldn’t tell whether it was the ramen or admiration. “I want to draw like that too.”
“Your drawings are good, Dain.”
“They’re on a completely different level from yours. My lines are still shaky.” Her expression changed when she said it. The usual bright energy faded into something serious. Art student Jeong Dain. A fan of Siru. She saw me as someone to look up to.
“Lines are just practice. Draw a thousand sheets and they’ll stabilize.”
“A thousand sheets…”
“That’s what I did. In college I filled one sketchbook every single day. Three hundred sixty-five a year, over a thousand in three years.” Dain looked up at me. Sitting side by side on the floor, our eyes were nearly level, but her smaller frame made it seem as if she were gazing slightly upward. The steam from the broth shimmered in her round eyes.
“Oppa, do you think I could really draw a thousand sheets?”
“Of course.”
“Really?”
“You already draw every day. You’re already doing it.”
She smiled, wide and bright. Her plump cheeks rose, and her hairpin slipped a little, brushing her forehead. “When you say it like that, I feel like I can do anything.” As she spoke she leaned toward me, an unconscious movement. Our shoulders touched. Hers was small and light. The soft fabric of the sweatshirt pressed against my arm. She didn’t pull away. She simply rested there while we kept eating.
“Oppa, can I have the rest of the broth?”
“Go ahead. Finish it.”
She tilted the pot and drank, blowing softly. More broth clung to her lips, coating the lower one in a thin, glistening layer. It sparkled under the light. I looked away. When I did, my gaze landed on her legs. Stretched out on the floor, the hem of her shorts rode up beneath the sweatshirt, revealing smooth, pale thighs. A single smudge of blue paint marked her calf. Her ankles were delicate. She had kicked off her slippers and was barefoot. Her entire body was a living canvas. I stared at the ceiling.
“Why, Oppa?”
“Nothing. Just checking for cobwebs.”
“Come on, your place is spotless. There aren’t any cobwebs.” There weren’t. My excuse had been weak. We emptied the pot. Warmth spread through me once the last of the broth was gone, chasing away the early-morning chill.
“Oppa, I’ll wash this.”
“It’s fine. I’ll do it.”
“No, you cooked, so I’ll clean.” Dain stood, lifting the pot. As she rose, her shorts rode higher for a brief second, revealing the upper curve of her thigh before the sweatshirt fell back into place. She washed the pot at the sink, humming a quiet tune—probably music she listened to while working. “All done~”
She returned and squatted in front of me again. “Oppa, I’m going back down to finish my assignment now.”
“All right. Good luck.”
“You too, Oppa!” She pumped a small fist. “Fighting, deadline comrades!”
“Fighting.”
She headed for the door, slippers dragging. Halfway out, she turned back.
“Oppa.”
“Yeah?”
“The ramen you made is on a completely different level from cup ramen.” Then she was gone. The door clicked shut. I remained on the floor, staring at it. A completely different level. It was the same instant noodles. All I had done was boil water, add the soup base, drop in the noodles and eggs. The only differences were pulling the noodles thirty seconds early and keeping the yolks intact. It probably wasn’t the ramen itself that tasted so good. It was the situation—eating together at dawn, sitting on the floor, straight from the pot. That was what created the flavor. It was also the first time I had cooked ramen for someone whose main diet was cup noodles. Alone, it was just a midnight snack. Together, it became a memory.
I stood and returned to the studio. I sat down, picked up the pen, and continued. The female character’s hair. A brown bob with a hairpin. …Wait. The character setting called for long straight hair. Why was I drawing a bob? I erased it and started over. If I let my hand move freely, strange things appeared. I needed to focus. Three in the morning. Four. Five. By the time the sky outside began to brighten, the coloring was nearly finished. Final adjustments—color balance, cleaning the shading, adding texture. Those would be better done with a clear morning mind. I saved the file, set the pen down, stood, and stretched. Every muscle ached. After washing up I lay on the bed. I thought I would fall asleep the instant my eyes closed, but images kept rising. Dain sitting on the floor eating ramen. The sound of noodles being slurped. Lips wet with broth. The way she licked them with the tip of her tongue. The light weight of her shoulder against mine. The shorts beneath the sweatshirt. Bare legs marked with paint. That single blue dot. The ramen you made is on a completely different level from cup ramen. I buried my face in the pillow. Fuck. Time to sleep.
It was seven on Monday morning. Last night she had texted, “I’ll drop by briefly before tomorrow’s PT session.” I had fallen asleep without replying, yet the doorbell rang at exactly seven. It was Haeun.
“Hey, what are those dark circles?”
“I worked through the night.”
“…Idiot.” Haeun sighed and held out her eco-bag. “You said in your text that the deadline was today. You never answered. I figured your stomach would be empty, so I brought ingredients for porridge.”
Rice, chicken breast, pumpkin, sesame oil. She had chosen a recovery meal after hearing about my deadline. In a trainer’s mind, deadline days were apparently classified as “condition zero.” I made chicken porridge—shredding the breast, soaking and boiling the rice, adding soft pumpkin, finishing with a drop of sesame oil. Haeun watched me while she ate. Her gaze lingered longer than usual.
“Hey.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t pull all-nighters. It’s bad for you.” The words sounded strangely awkward coming from her. They weren’t an order. They sounded like… concern. So Haeun was capable of worry after all. She simply didn’t show it often.
“I know.”
“You say that, but you’ll do it again anyway.”
“There’s a deadline. I can’t help it.”
“That’s why you should finish ahead of time.” She took another spoonful. “Be systematic.” Typical of someone who lived by exercise. Routine. Repetition. Waking at five, training at six, eating at seven, classes at eight. The complete opposite of my freelance life. When inspiration struck I worked until dawn; when it didn’t I lounged on the sofa. I knew cramming before deadlines was a bad habit, yet I couldn’t break it.
“Thanks for the porridge ingredients.”
Haeun paused, glanced at me, then continued eating. “…It tastes good, so it’s fine.” That was such a Haeun answer. Gratitude met with “it tastes good.” Emotions removed, only the result remained. She was simply clumsy at expressing feelings. I swallowed a laugh and kept eating.
After Haeun left I sat in the studio and completed the final work—adjustments, converting the file to print resolution, attaching it to the publisher’s email. Sending the final file. Sent. A hollow feeling settled in. The illustration I had stayed up all night to finish vanished with one click. That was a freelancer’s deadline. No applause, no dinner, just an email and it was over. I lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. It had been nearly a month since I moved into this villa. Until a month ago I had been alone—working through the night alone, eating alone, finishing deadlines alone. Now it was different. Haeun came in the mornings with ingredients. I cooked, we ate together. Sometimes Yuri would arrive holding Seojin’s hand, shouting “Mister’s food~”. Dain would climb the stairs at dawn carrying ramen. Chaewon would review contracts for me. The doorbell rang far more often. I used to think I preferred solitude, but now the silence when it didn’t ring felt strange. No, the strange one was me. When had things changed?
I rose from the sofa and walked to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator. The ingredients Haeun brought were still there, waiting for tomorrow morning. One pack of ramen Dain had left behind—three brought, one remaining. I closed the door. A quiet morning. The emptiness that always followed a finished deadline. Yet the ingredients Haeun carried over remained, and so did Dain’s ramen. Even if no one came again, I could eat properly for several days. For now, that was enough.
I went to bed and lay down. The exhaustion from the all-nighter rolled over me like a wave. I closed my eyes. The last things that rose in my mind were three separate scenes: Chaewon’s glasses, Haeun’s eco-bag, Dain’s ramen. Three people, three different temperatures—cool, hot, warm. The ceiling of Room 201 had grown familiar. A month ago it had looked cold and foreign. Now it didn’t feel cold at all. What had changed? The ceiling was the same. From upstairs came the faint scrape of a chair. Chaewon must have been organizing documents since early Monday morning. Just knowing her desk lamp was on somewhere above me strangely settled my heart. My eyes grew heavy. Truly heavy. I didn’t know whether the doorbell would ring at seven tomorrow, Haeun carrying that eco-bag. It might. It might not. She had said she only came when asked. Still, I knew she would come again. The timing simply wasn’t fixed. Everything else could wait until tomorrow. The rest was just noise. Or perhaps not noise at all—maybe those were the truly important things. I didn’t know right now. Right now I only needed to sleep. I fell asleep.