Min-Ju noticed it long before he understood it.
It was the way Ji-Soo walked beside him now—slower, lighter, as if she was afraid of disturbing the air around her. She used to walk ahead, turning back only to complain that he was lagging. Now, she stayed close. Too close.
They sat together on the old bench outside Ji-Soo's house, the wood worn smooth by years of use. Night pressed in gently, cicadas humming somewhere beyond the gate.
Ji-Soo folded her hands in her lap.
Min-Ju glanced at her—and paused.
She was wearing a dress.
Not the loud, practical clothes she used to insist on. Not jeans, not oversized shirts. The fabric was soft, pale, brushing against her knees when she shifted.
She never wore dresses, he thought.
Ji-Soo hated them. Said they made her feel awkward. Exposed.
His gaze drifted higher.
Her bangs fell lightly across her forehead.
Min-Ju frowned.
Ji-Soo never wore bangs.
She used to wrinkle her nose and say they made her look like a monkey. She'd laugh loudly, tugging her hair back as if offended by the idea.
Now, the bangs stayed.
Neat. Intentional.
Min-Ju hesitated, then spoke quietly."Your hair…"
Ji-Soo stiffened.
Just a little.
"You… cut it?" he asked.
She nodded, fingers tightening together. "Mm. I thought… it looked better this way."
Her voice was softer than he remembered. Careful. Like she was testing each word before letting it out.
Min-Ju leaned back against the bench, trying to sound casual."I thought you hated bangs."
She blinked.
For a second, her lips parted—then closed again.
"I… did?" she asked, uncertainty slipping into her tone.
Min-Ju watched her closely.
Right, he reminded himself. She doesn't remember.
Still, something about the way she asked unsettled him.
"I mean," he said gently, "you used to say they made you look like a monkey."
A faint smile appeared—but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Oh," Ji-Soo murmured. "That sounds like something I'd say."
She reached up, brushing her bangs instinctively.
"They don't bother me now."
There was a pause.
Then she added, too quickly, "I just thought… it'd be easier."
"Easier how?"
She hesitated.
Her fingers trembled, barely noticeable, as they twisted the fabric of her dress.
"Because…" she began.
Her voice dropped."…because I didn't like how my forehead—"
She stopped.
Silence settled between them.
Min-Ju felt it—the sudden stillness, the way her shoulders tightened as if she'd almost stepped off a ledge.
He turned his head slightly, watching her from the corner of his eye.
Ji-Soo stared at her hands now, breath shallow.
She was going to say something, he realized.
Something important.
Min-Ju could have asked.
He didn't.
Instead, he shifted closer and spoke lightly, carefully."Hey. You don't have to explain."
Ji-Soo looked up at him, startled.
He smiled—not teasing, not curious. Just warm.
"If you like it, that's enough," he said. "You look… comfortable."
That wasn't the right word.
But it was the safest one.
Ji-Soo's shoulders relaxed—just a fraction.
"Do I?" she asked softly.
"Yeah," Min-Ju replied. "More than before."
She let out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh.
"I don't remember much," she said quietly. "But… I feel like I used to be louder."
"You were," Min-Ju said with a faint chuckle. "Terrifyingly so."
She smiled this time. Really smiled.
Then her gaze drifted down again.
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly.
"For what?"
"For being… different."
Min-Ju shook his head. "You don't have to apologize for surviving."
She flinched at the word.
He noticed—but didn't press.
They sat there in silence, the bench creaking softly beneath them, the house behind Ji-Soo dark and still.
Min-Ju glanced at her once more.
The dress.The bangs.The careful way she held herself together.
She felt fragile.
Not weak.
Just… breakable in a way she hadn't been before.
As he stood to leave, Min-Ju spoke again, voice low.
"Ji-Soo."
She looked up.
"Even if you don't remember who you were," he said, "you don't have to be afraid of who you are now."
Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with something close.
She nodded.
Min-Ju walked away with a strange weight in his chest.
He didn't know what Ji-Soo had almost said.
But he knew this much—
She wasn't just missing memories.
She was guarding something.
And for now, he chose not to take it from her.
--
Ji-Soo closed the door softly behind her.
The click of the lock sounded too loud in the quiet house.
She stood there for a moment, unmoving, her back pressed to the door, as if someone might still be listening from the other side. Her chest felt tight—not painful, just shallow, like her breath didn't know where to settle.
That was close.
She slid down slowly until she was sitting on the floor, knees drawn in.
The words replayed in her head, over and over.
Because I didn't like how my forehead—
Her fingers clenched into the fabric of her dress.
Idiot.
She lifted one hand and brushed her bangs aside before she could stop herself.
The mirror across the room caught the movement.
Ji-Soo froze.
For a second, she didn't look.
Then, reluctantly, she raised her eyes.
The girl staring back at her looked calm. Too calm. Soft hair framing her face, expression gentle, harmless. The bangs fell back into place, hiding what they were meant to hide.
Slowly, she reached up again—this time deliberately—and pushed them aside.
The birthmark was there.
Unchanged.
Her breath hitched.
You almost told him, she thought. You almost said it out loud.
Min-Ju's face flashed through her mind—not suspicious, not demanding. Just confused. Concerned. Kind.
That scared her more than anger ever could.
She dropped her hand and pressed her palm flat against her forehead, as if she could erase it through pressure alone.
"I can't," she whispered to the empty room. "I can't let you know."
Her voice shook—not loudly, just enough to betray her.
She stood abruptly and paced the room, steps uneven.
You're not Ji-Woo. You're not Ji-Soo. You're—
No.
She stopped herself.
Names were dangerous.
She went to the window instead and pushed it open slightly. Cool night air slipped in, brushing her skin, grounding her just enough to breathe again.
Outside, the street was quiet. Normal. Unaware.
Act normal, she reminded herself. You've been doing it this long.
She touched the bracelet on her wrist unconsciously, fingers curling around it like an anchor.
You survived worse than this.
Still, her hands trembled.
Not from fear of being exposed—
—but from the realization that she wanted to tell him.
That was the real danger.
Ji-Soo sank onto the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands.
"If you find out," she murmured, "everything breaks."
Her shoulders rose and fell once, sharply.
Then she straightened.
Slowly. Carefully.
She smoothed her dress. Fixed her bangs. Practiced her breathing until it evened out again.
By the time she lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, her face was composed.
Fragile.
Believable.
Only her eyes remained wide open in the dark.
Sleep did not come.
And somewhere in the quiet, Ji-Soo understood something new—
The truth wasn't slipping because she was careless.
It was slipping because she was tired of being alone with it.