It's an off day.
No alarms. No call sheets. No set lights burning my retinas before I've fully become a person.
Just quiet… the kind that usually feels like relief.
Today it feels like a countdown.
I wake up slower than I should… but my mind is already awake, already standing at the edge of something and peering down like it's deciding whether to jump.
First thought:
Tonight.
Second thought:
I said okay.
Third thought… immediate panic:
Why did I say okay.
Then, softer… more honest:
Because I wanted to.
I lie there staring at the ceiling while my brain tries to file this under something safe. Work. Professional. Harmless.
It fails.
Because this isn't a workday.
I don't get to hide behind deadlines today.
Internal monologue:
You're thirty.
You pay taxes.
You own an embarrassing number of pens.
Why are you acting like a teenager about a dinner invitation.
Because it isn't just dinner.
It's the fact that he asked… carefully.
The fact that he waited.
The fact that I said yes without making him prove it ten different ways first.
That's what scares me.
That's what makes my chest feel too awake.
I finally roll out of bed and shuffle toward the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing the softest sweatshirt I own… the kind that says I am not trying to be attractive to anyone, including myself.
I make matcha the way I always do.
Hot… oatmilk… two pumps of vanilla.
Whisk until the green turns glossy and calm.
The smell steadies me instantly.
The cup warms my hands.
The first sip makes my shoulders drop.
Routine… control… a small safe yes.
I take a second sip and stare out the window like answers might be written in the sky.
Internal monologue:
Okay.
It's a date.
Or… it's not a date.
Or it's a "we're not calling it a date" date.
Either way, I have to show up.
And that thought…
That thought makes my stomach flip.
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I shower longer than necessary.
Not because I'm dirty.
Because water is the only thing that shuts my brain up.
I let the steam fog the mirror until I can't see myself clearly. It feels kinder that way. Then I step out, towel wrapped tight, hair dripping down my back, and the mirror clears anyway… like reality refuses to give me an out.
I stand there for a moment, still.
My body looks like it always has. Soft at the waist, full at the chest, hips that curve like they're not interested in fitting into anyone's idea of "ideal."
There's no sudden transformation.
No dramatic glow-up.
Just… me.
And for a second, an old voice tries to crawl back in.
If you were smaller, you wouldn't be nervous.
If you were thinner, you wouldn't have to wonder if he'll change his mind.
I stare at myself until the voice gets tired.
Internal monologue:
That man is not invited here.
That girl is not alone anymore.
Because Jingyi has seen me already.
Not in the way men like Hyun-woo used to look… like they were measuring whether I deserved attention.
Jingyi looks like he's grateful I exist in the frame at all.
The thought makes my throat tighten.
I swallow and breathe out slowly.
Tonight, I'm not trying to become someone else.
Tonight, I'm choosing to be seen as I am.
That feels more terrifying than any makeover.
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The outfit spiral begins.
I open my closet and immediately regret it.
Too formal. Too casual. Too "trying." Too "not trying." Too tight. Too shapeless. Too safe. Too loud.
I pull out three options and lay them on the bed like I'm preparing for battle.
Then I sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at them like they're going to speak first.
Internal monologue:
What do you wear when the person you like is also the person you're afraid to hope about.
I try on the first outfit.
No.
The second.
Absolutely not.
The third.
Almost.
I change again anyway, because my brain is convinced the perfect blouse will prevent emotional catastrophe.
Nothing prevents emotional catastrophe.
Finally, I pick a dark teal silk.
Not because it's dramatic… because it feels like me.
The fabric is soft and fluid, the color deep enough to make my skin look warmer, my face look awake.
I pair it with something simple, something that doesn't pinch, something that lets my body exist without punishment.
I stand in front of the mirror and tilt my head.
Soft wavy hair.
Natural glam.
Not heavy.
K-beauty calm with a hint of douyin softness… glossy lips, clean liner, subtle shimmer.
I look… pretty.
Not "trying to be a different person" pretty.
Just… pretty.
The thought lands strangely.
Like I'm allowed to say it without earning it first.
I lift my aqua pen and click it once, a nervous habit that makes me feel ridiculous.
Click.
Internal monologue:
Okay.
You look fine.
You're not auditioning.
You're going to dinner.
I put the pen in my small purse like it's protection anyway.
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An hour passes too quickly.
Then too slowly.
I make matcha again even though I don't need it… just something to hold.
I pace, then force myself to sit.
I check my phone.
No messages.
Of course not.
He said he'd come later.
I stare at the clock like it's personally insulting me.
Then my phone buzzes.
My whole body jolts.
Jingyi: I'm outside.
I freeze.
Internal monologue:
No.
Already.
Too soon.
I'm not done being anxious.
I check the mirror one last time, smoothing my blouse, fixing a curl that didn't need fixing, touching my lips like I'm making sure they exist.
My hand hovers over the doorknob.
This is the moment where I usually find an excuse.
A work email. A headache. A "something came up."
But nothing came up.
Just my fear.
I exhale… and open the door anyway.
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He's leaning against his car casually, like he's waiting for a friend.
Not an idol.
No sunglasses.
No emerald jacket.
Just a dark grey coat, simple shirt, hair slightly messy like he didn't fight it too hard.
More real.
More… dangerous.
He looks up when he sees me.
And for half a second…
He forgets how to speak.
It's tiny. A pause. A flicker.
But I catch it.
His eyes drop briefly… not in a way that evaluates… in a way that takes me in like I'm a moment.
Then he smiles.
Warm.
Unmasked.
"Hi," he says.
My voice comes out quieter than expected.
"Hi."
We stand there for a beat, the air between us full of everything we're not saying.
Then he clears his throat lightly and opens the passenger door without making it a performance.
"Ready," he asks.
I nod once, because if I speak, I might say something unhinged.
"Yeah."
I slide into the seat, hands gripping my purse like it's a life raft.
He closes the door gently… then walks around to the driver's side and gets in, smelling faintly like clean soap and something warm.
He starts the car.
Then glances at me.
"You look…" he begins.
I tense immediately.
Here it comes.
Compliment. Pressure. Expectations.
He pauses, then finishes quietly:
"Comfortable."
I blink.
That's not what I expected.
It's not "hot." Not "gorgeous." Not anything that would make me feel like I'm performing.
Just… comfortably beautiful.
Like he's glad I'm not forcing myself into pain for him.
My chest loosens.
"Good," I manage. "Because I am."
His smile deepens.
"And you look…" I begin, because fairness.
He lifts an eyebrow, amused.
I tilt my head thoughtfully like I'm a critic.
"Less like a national threat today," I say.
He laughs, real and soft.
"That's disappointing," he says. "I worked hard on my threatening aura."
"It's still there," I assure him. "It's just… domesticated."
He glances at me, eyes warm.
"Careful," he says. "I might like that."
My heart stumbles.
I look out the window.
Internal monologue:
I am in danger.
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The restaurant he takes me to is small.
Not fancy. Not crowded. Warm lights, quiet music, the kind of place you'd only know if you'd been there before… or if someone told you it felt safe.
I realize slowly that he chose this on purpose.
Not a place for paparazzi.
Not a place for spectacle.
A place where we can be normal.
We sit across from each other.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Close enough that I can see the tiny details… the dimple when he smiles, the way his gaze lingers like he's memorizing something.
He looks at the menu like he's trying to look like he's actually reading it.
"You're pretending," I say.
He glances up innocently.
"Pretending what."
"That you don't already know what you want," I say.
He exhales a laugh.
"Okay," he admits. "I know."
"What do you want," I ask.
He points casually.
"This," he says.
I look.
Of course.
Then I point at something random.
"This," I say, equally confident.
He blinks.
"You didn't even read," he accuses.
"I'm intuitive," I reply. "It's my writer gift."
He watches me for a second, amused.
"You're nervous," he says gently.
My whole body stiffens.
"I'm not," I lie automatically.
He doesn't call me out.
He just tilts his head, gaze soft.
"Okay," he says.
Not convinced.
Respecting anyway.
The food arrives. We start eating. The conversation flows more easily once there's something to do with our hands.
We talk about small things.
Favorite late-night snacks. Bad sleep schedules. Shows we both pretend not to watch but obviously do.
I tell him I once watched a drama so ridiculous it made me cry anyway.
He admits he's watched romance dramas too and pretends it was "research."
"Liar," I say, pointing my chopsticks at him.
He smiles.
"Fine," he admits. "I like them."
The warmth in his voice makes my chest ache.
We talk about places we like to walk.
He asks where I go when my brain won't shut up.
I hesitate… then answer honestly.
"Rooftops," I say.
His gaze flickers.
"I know," he murmurs.
Of course he does.
I swallow.
I mention China casually… a street food smell, the way rain sounded against old apartment windows, how my best friend laughed too loud and made strangers smile anyway.
He listens like it matters… like he's collecting every piece of me without asking for more than I offer.
At one point, I laugh… real laughter… the kind that slips out before I can stop it.
And he just… watches me.
Not staring.
Witnessing.
I catch him and narrow my eyes.
"What."
He shrugs. "Nothing."
"Jingyi," I warn.
His voice softens.
"Just… you," he says.
My throat tightens.
I look down, focusing on my food, but my heart is doing something loud inside my ribs.
Internal monologue:
This is what I was afraid of.
Feeling safe enough to relax.
Feeling safe enough to want more.
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After dinner, we walk.
Not far. Just enough.
Night air cool against my cheeks. City lights reflecting on windows. People passing by in quiet clusters.
It feels like a scene… except no one is filming.
No script. No blocking. No lines.
Just us.
We walk side-by-side, hands not touching.
Not because we don't want to.
Because we're both aware of what touch means now.
The silence stretches comfortably.
I realize I'm not trying to impress him.
I'm not editing my words.
I'm not bracing for a moment where he changes.
I'm just… here.
And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I have to earn being wanted.
Internal monologue:
This doesn't feel like a date.
It feels like a beginning.
We end up near my building.
He slows.
I slow too.
We stop under a streetlight that makes everything look softer than it is.
He looks at me.
I look back.
No teasing. No jokes.
Just quiet.
He clears his throat lightly.
"I'm really glad you said yes," he says.
My chest warms so fast it almost hurts.
I swallow.
"Me too," I admit.
We stand there for a moment longer than necessary.
Not touching.
But close enough that I can feel the warmth of him in the air.
He doesn't lean in.
He doesn't push.
He just holds my gaze like he's telling me… without words… that this mattered to him too.
Then he steps back slightly, giving me space to go inside.
"Goodnight, Su-bin," he says softly.
"Goodnight," I reply.
I turn toward the door… then pause.
Something pulls me back.
I glance over my shoulder.
He's still there.
Waiting.
Not looming. Not claiming.
Just… staying until I'm safely inside.
Our eyes meet again.
And something in my chest clicks into place like my pen's twist mechanism.
Click.
Internal monologue:
Okay.
This was real.
And I didn't ruin it.
I open the door and step inside.
The hallway light is dim and quiet.
My heart is loud.
As I walk toward the elevator, I realize my hands are shaking again.
Not from fear.
From hope.