Chapter Text
Your roommate was engaged to her soulmate. She’d woken you up at 2am, flicked your lights on, and jumped up and down on your bed until you’d roused enough to comprehend what she was saying, “….engaged… asked me at dinner…”
You sit up, blinking the sleep from your eyes.
Her joy was a little overwhelming. But still, there were worse emotions to be engulfed by. Far worse.
“Apparently she bought it months ago. She kept chickening out,” Mina giggles as she fiddles with the ring on her finger. “Isn’t it pretty?” she says, holding it out for you to inspect.
She’d shown you many times in the 20 minutes since she’d woken you up with a scream. It was a very pretty ring. One that you had admired from every angle. You indulge her anyway, taking her delicate hand in yours to rexamine the smooth emerald stone set upon a delicate gold band.
It wasn’t far off what you’d imagined you might like to wear on your own hand, if anyone ever wanted you, that is.
She flops down on her stomach to gaze at it some more, kicking her feet, all girlish joy and excitement.
She’s loved, and she has a little jewel on her finger to prove it.
It was only a few months after Mina first met her soulmate—now fiance—that your had boyfriend met his own. He’d lied to you, signing up for the matching service behind your back.
You were abandoned the moment he found someone better.
When he’d left, you’d signed up to be matched, fuelled by adrenaline and rage—as if it would hurt him back; as if he cared enough to hurt like you hurt.
As if you could hurt someone who didn’t care at all.
You’d learned not to care, too. You watched the people around you pair off, so distracted by their own joy that not one of them had asked you about your lack of it.
Then, a few weeks ago, you’d received your notification.
Congratulations! Your match has been found.
You’d stared at the simple sentence, trying to comprehend the reality of it. All you had to do was acknowledge the match and agree on a time to meet. Then… you’d be… one of them?
You’d thrown your phone across the bed, ignoring it until you were forced to pick it up again.
You hadn’t told anyone since.
Mina rocks side to side as she continues to admire her ring. She’s bright and warm and her cheeks are flushed from celebratory wine.
Jealousy stirs in your gut. Ugly and bitter.
“Mina?”
“Mm?” she hums absentmindedly, not looking up from her ring.
“I-I got my notification.” Her eyes snap up to meet yours. “...a few weeks ago,” you add.
“What?! Who are they?!” she squeals, falling forward to grab your hands in hers—flapping them up and down between you. You both bounce on the mattress at the force of it.
“I don’t know, I didn’t respond.”
She drops both your hands onto the bed, suddenly still. “What? Why?”
“I…don’t know. I’m scared, I guess.”
She shuffles up to sit beside you against the pillows. “You know, I was scared at first too.”
She’s looking at her ring again, a small smile tugging at her pretty lips. You remembered the first week after she got her notification. She’d been so bouncy, and overwhelmingly happy. You don’t remember her being nervous at all.
“You were?”
“Mm.” She nods. “I know the whole idea is that you are supposed to be perfect for each other. But… what if I was the exception? What if I wasn’t enough for her? It felt… like such a huge thing to live up to: being someone’s perfect person. I just wanted to be enough for whoever it was I was going to meet.” She reaches over to take your hand. “Then I met her…and that all felt so silly. She was everything, and I knew that even if I wasn’t enough for her yet, I'd do everything to make sure I was. She made me wanna be the best person I could be, and it… was a lot—but in the best way.”
“I don't… know if I’m ready to be the best version of me. It sounds… overwhelming.”
“That’s the point. Even if you aren’t, they’ll help you. Besides, what if they need you to help them be the best version of them?”
“I’m not sure I could help anyone with that…”
“Just try, yeah? I’ll be here,” she says, squeezing your hand gently. “You’re not alone.”
You look over at your phone charging on the bedside table.
Mina nudges your shoulder. You’re not alone.
You reach over to grab it. She’s quiet as you open the app. Your heart races as you enter times and days you are available to meet, hesitating over the final button that confirms your agreement. You look down to Mina’s hand on your leg as the delicate ring catching your eye.
You take a deep breath.
Then you hit confirm.
Three weeks—three entire weeks—and they haven’t confirmed a time. In your worse moments your mind shouts the worst at you: whoever they were, they clearly didn’t want you. Then, in the morning light, you’re a little more rational about it. You’d hestiated yourself, and it had nothing to do with the other person. Maybe they just had the same insecurities you did?
Mina hadn’t asked about it. She was busy with wedding preparations, immersed in the joy of it all. How could you blame her for being distracted. She was happy, and you were happy she was happy.
Everything was fine.
“What about these?” Mina says, pointing out some blue carnations.
The only other time you’d been in a flower shop like this was when you’d bought some red roses for your anniversary with your ex. You hated red.
“They’re pretty! Are you definitely going with blue then?”
“Mm,” she hums happily, “blue and purple.”
She wanders away again, and you trail behind, fiddling with the delicate charm dangling from your phone case.
“Haven’t heard back?” she asks.
Your shoe catches on the squeaky vinyl floor, tripping you up a little. “No.”
“They’re probably panicking, like you were.”
“Yeah,” you mutter.
You’re a little out of it as she leads you around the store, fiddling with the tiny clay moon dangling from your phone case the entire time. A loud ding—a notification—startles you right back into reality. Mina looks up at you as you flick your phone to silent, you must have absent-mindlessly flicked it off vibrate while you were fiddling.
You look up to meet her eyes, finding her eager—excited.
“Check it,” she prompts, using a flower she’d plucked some a bouquet as a pointer.
“It’s probably nothing.”
“Check it,” she repeats.
She’s a ball of anticipatory anxious energy, contributing to the way your fingers tremble slightly as you type in your passcode.
The message you read is simple.
He’s confirmed to meet the next day.
Just like that.
Mina snatches your phone from your hands. “Tomorrow?! Oh my god,” she exclaims before shoving your phone back in your hands. “Confirm you’re going. Quickly.”
“I’m going…” you mumble, staring down at the screen—attempting to process it.
Mina’s laugh breaks you from your daze. “Yes, you’re going. Come on, let’s go pick your outfit.” She grabs your arm, pulling you from the store.
You hardly sleep that night, spending the entire next morning cleaning your apartment—attempting (and failing) to distract yourself from the anxiety stirring in your chest. Your small cat brushes against your leg as you bend down to clean her tray.
“Hey, baby. You might meet a new friend soon, hm?” She meows at you. “Mm, I know. It’s scary for me, too. We’ll be okay, I'm sure they’re nice.”
A clap of thunder sends a jolt through your muscles, startling you more the animal beside you. It had been storming all night. Usually rain relaxes you, but this was just rain. It was a storm. “Gonna shower now,” you whisper to your cat, stroking her fur one last time.
You’d been putting it off: showering. You didn’t feel like looking at yourself. Not now. You couldn’t stop imaginging their disappointment. Most of the time you managed to stay pretty neutral about how you looked. You were fine, mostly. Right now, though? Every negative thought you’d ever had was stirring to the surface, and you were working desperately to shove them back down.
Still, you can’t help pausing just before stepping into the shower, twisting back and forth to inspect yourself in the mirror.
There was nothing you could do, you remind yourself. The body your soul called home was the only one you had to offer. Focus on the things you could control.
You struggle to close your umbrella, shoving the handle into your stomach to give yourself leverage.
It’s still pouring. Thankfully, without the accompanying lightning and thunder from the previous night. It was the perfect ambiance to help you use the bus journey as a chance to calm your nerves.
You weren’t particularly successful. You rest your hand on the cool concrete wall after you manage to wrangle umbrella closed, steadying yourself as your empty stomach gurgles. Breakfast was out of the question on days like this.
This is fine, you tell yourself.
A girl walks out of the revolving door with a huge grin on her face—giggling to herself as she passes you. Clearly her meeting went well. What you wouldn’t give to switch places with her; to be the one walking out into the world with a new life ahead of her, hard part over. You suck in a deep breath, the fresh air helping a little. Then, shaking the dripping umbrella at your side, you approach your fate.
The receptionist hands you a clipboard and a pen, “Fill these out while you wait.” She’s all business. She must see the anxiety on your face, but everyone that approached her each and every day was the same. Thousands of people had done this and survived. It should be comforting, but instead, it stirs up something from the darkest pit inside you. Wouldn’t that make it worse: if you failed, where so many had walked the same path and suceeded?
With clipboard and pen, you settle yourself in the corner to read the detailed forms. You expect a disclaimer to cover the company's ass; terms and conditions. But it’s a little more than that. Your leg bounces as you scan the pages, pen tapping against the clipboard.
Customers retain the right to withhold personal information from partners and discontinue communication at any time. Security is present on the premises. You read a paragraph about a wristband each person can use to signal for security discreetly. Why would anyone need that? You realise you're chewing on the pen. Crap. You look up to see if anyone has noticed. You can’t read anymore. You feel like your entire brain is consumed with trying to keep it together. As the words blur, and you find yourself restarting sentences as the words fail to register, you give up and scribble your name at the bottom of the last page.
The receptionist is stifling a yawn when you approach the desk. “I’m—I’m done with this.”
She looks it over, then uses the clipboard to gesture to your left. “Felix will take you through now,” she says, pointing to the relaxed looking man holding a door open for you.
“Thank you.”
You readjust your bag as it slips off your shoulder. This is fine.
“Good morning,” he greets, bright, with a smile to match. He looks like the type to live his whole life bright and happy. You imagine his demeanour must’ve contributed to him landing a role like this: dealing with an endless stream of anxiety-ridden people. You would be terrible at it. Managing your own fear was more than enough for you to handle.
“Morning,” you offer in reply, doing your best to sound normal.
He holds the door for you as pass, then leads you down a long hallway—turning to speak to you once the door softly closes. “Nervous?”
“A little,” you lie, offering him a small shaky smile. You could throw up.
“You’ll be fine, promise. I’ve worked here a while and never seen anyone leave without a big smile.” You wonder if he’s lying too. He stops at a cupboard built into the wall and pulls the door open. “Could you hold your hand up for me? Just wanna check your size.”
He wraps a small smartwatch around your wrist. “Perfect,” he mutters to himself.
If only you were perfect, a little voice in your head supplies. This would be a whole lot easier if you were walking in there offering perfection.
“This is to call for security?” you ask.
“Yeah, just press this button on the side. It won’t make a noise. They won’t know you’ve called.”
“Why?” You shuffle on your feet, wet shoes squeaking on the shiny floor. “I mean, why would I need this if everyone always leaves with a smile?”
“I’m sure it was suggested by a lawyer at some point,” he says easily. “Just a precaution.” Your hand shakes a little as he secures the strap for you. “You’re okay,” he soothes, obviously noticing your visible nerves.
You’re okay.
“I’ll take you to your room now,” he says, gentle, leaving you room to refuse.
You look up to his warm face, counting a few of his freckles as you take a few slow breaths.
“Okay,” you say with an exhale and a small nod.
He smiles then turns and leads you through a door to another long hallway. This one has many doors along each side, each one numbered. You count them as you go.
He finally stops at door 14.
“This is you,” he announces. He doesn’t open it, just turns and looks at you—clearly waiting for you to prepare yourself.
“Are they… in there already?”
“Mm, we stagger arrivals. He’s been here about 20 minutes.”
“He?”
“Oops, spoilers,” he says, offering you a playful smile.
You offer him a weak smile in return, then turn to the door, only to find yourself paralysed—staring at the door knob like you had never seen one before. Felix waits patiently at your side.
“What if he doesn’t like me?” you mutter under your breath.
“You know how long I’ve worked here?” Felix says in response, seemingly ignoring your question. “Four years.” You look from the doorknob to his face. “I’d say about 80% of the people I lead to one of these doors ask me some variation of that same question.”
“And they leave happy?”
He smiles and nods. “Mm.”
You grab the doorknob, ready to get on with it. “Felix?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you, really.”
“No worries,” he says with a small wave of his hand, brushing it off casually. “You’ll be fine.”
You smile at him one last time, take a deep shaky breath, and push open the door.
A chair scrapes across the ground.
There’s a man across the room, standing between the chair he’d been sitting in and a table.
You suppose, he’s yours.
The first thought that crosses your mind is to wonder if he thinks you’re disappointing. He might’ve had expectations, or hopes. What were the chances you met them? Felix places a gentle hand on your shoulder, and you take a few steps forward. The door closes behind you.
He looks nice enough, you suppose. He doesn’t scowl or look you up and down like people sometimes did when they were making snap judgments. Instead, he holds his arm out to his left, gesturing to a lounge pushed up against the wall.
“I saved you a seat,” he says, the first to break the silence.
A lighthearted joke, your panicked mind supplies. Not quiet a joke. Not something you should laugh at. He sounded relaxed. You wouldn’t, when you had something to say back. What should you say back? You focus on not tripping over yourself as you walk across the room to the sofa. Speaking could wait.
He sits himself at the other end as you place your bag on the ground at your feet. There’s space for another two or three people between you. Was that normal? Would you do the same? There’s two water bottles on the table. You should say something. Your name. Name’s are good. You fail to meet his eyes as you introduce yourself, reaching for the a bottle of water instead.
“Minho,” he offers in return. You look up at him, then. You had to.
He’s pretty.
Too pretty for you.
He’s wearing a black t-shirt and loose fitting jeans. There’s a soft looking red cardigan on the table he’d been standing by when you entered. You wonder if his favourite colour is red. Then you look down to your lap, tugging your yellow dress down over your knees. You’re overdressed.
“Hi,” you offer, pathetically.
“Hi.”
That’s it. It’s your turn again. Your heart stutters. “Have you… been waiting long?”
One corner of his lips curves up. He probably had a pretty smile too. “No, not long,” he replies. He has a kind voice, you decide. You could imagine him talking kindly to small children—gentle and soft.
He doesn’t seem nervous at all.
Why wasn’t he nervous?
Why had he waited three weeks to respond if he wasn’t at all like you—if it wasn’t out of nerves? “Ah, that’s good,” you mumble awkwardly.
“Nervous?” he asks, nodding towards your hands. You’re twisting the cap of the bottle on and off repeatedly. You hadn’t realised. You place it back on the table, more carefully than you need to.
“Sorry.” Why are you apologising? That’s not… the right thing to say. What’s the right thing to say? You were overdressed compared to him, and far more anxious. He’d noticed. He’d noticed and he was forming… opinions about you.
He stands up, and the movement ceases your spiralling tangled web of panic. “Do you wanna play a game?” he offers casually as he begins pursuing a bookshelf of miscellaneous items.
“A game?” you question stupidly.
“They have a bunch here.” You watch his long fingers dance across the items lightly as he considers. “Uno?” He asks, turning to catch your eyes on him.
When you nod in answer, he raises an eyebrow. “You know how to play?” he asks. His large hands cradle the desk of cards with ease as he slowly approaches.
You nod again, unconsciously holding your breath as he drops down beside you, far closer than before.
He smiles. “Just checking.” He shuffles the cards, leaning forward towards the small coffee table. “So you can play Uno. That’s only thing I know about you besides your name,” then, “...and that you like yellow.”
You look down at your bright yellow sundress. You had stood out amongst the crowd on the bus, everyone in dark raincoats and jackets. It wasn’t cold, just wet. Perfect weather for your favourite dress. That’s what you’d thought this morning, anyway. Now, you weren’t so sure. Your small matching cardigan feels like a comforting blanket as you tug the right sleeve down over your hand. “It’s my favourite colour, yeah.”
“It suits you.”
You look up.
He’s focused on dealing the cards, and as you process the compliment, your eyes track along the curve of his nose. He was even prettier from this angle. You trace across his jawline with your eyes, making note of the little lump at his throat and the way his chocolate brown hair flicked up in pretty little tufts around his neck.
“Thank you,” you mutter, just above a whisper.
He flips a card over onto the small table and grabs one of the hands he’d dealt out while you were absorbed in the details of him.
Right. Game.
You exchange small talk as you go. Your ages, what you do for work, if you have any pets. You talk about your cats a little, the first commonality you’ve discovered. You figure you are supposed to have things in common. There was supposed to be something about him that made him what you needed more than anything else. So you latch onto little things like that, clinging to them, in the hope it would all be okay.
He seems kind. Maybe a little reserved. But who were you to make judgments about quiet personalities. Still, you can’t help but feel it wasn’t a simple case of reserved personality. You get the feeling he’s holding a lot back, like he’s not entirely here. You wonder if his anxiety just presented differently to yours. Maybe this was his anxious. Calm, steady, and subdued.
“Do you live alone?” he asks, slapping a pick up 2 on the stack. You slap one on top, looking up with a small smile. “Got me,” he says, returning your smile and then picking up from the deck.
“I have a roommate. She just got engaged, so… I guess that’ll be changing soon.” You readjust your deck, holding slightly too many to fit comfortably in your hands. “What about you?”
“Hyunjin. Met him at dance lessons years ago. He stuck to me like a leech.” He soft smile tugs at his cheeks. “Doubt I’ll ever shake him.”
“So he loves you?”
He looks up from his cards, eyes flicking across your face for a moment like you’ve said something strange.
It was strange.
It had seemed a normal follow-up question. You’d seen the look on his face—love—and it had fallen out of you. It was a weird thing to ask. You wish you could swallow the words back and try again.
Thankfully, he brushes past it, focusing back on the game. Then, “Are you close with Mina?”
“I’m her maid of honour.”
“Ah.” He moves a few cards around in his deck. His fit comfortably in his hands. “Is she… with her…” He scratches at his wrist, twisting his body a little more towards you—like he’s worried you might see his cards. “I mean did they meet through this?” He gestures to nowhere in particular. Just waves his cards in the air.
Is she marrying her soulmate?
It’s a simple question.
And he’s awkwardly danced around it.
A small knot of anxiety reappears in your chest. It had eased without you realising, returning now. There were countless reasons why that question might make him feel awkward. Plenty of which had no impact on the success of this… relationship. It could mean nothing at all.
“Yeah, they met a year ago,” you answer.
“A year? That’s quick.”
“I guess.” You watch him continue to fiddle with his cards some more, looking distracted. “It’s your turn,” you prompt.
He looks up at you, pausing for a moment. “Right.” Then he leans forward to grab a card from the deck.
“Is Hyunjin…” You find the awkwardness infectious, stumbling in your search for the right words. “Has he met his…”
He places a colour change card down gently, a little slower than seems natural. “Green,” he says simply.
You expect him to answer your question, even unfinished, but he doesn’t. So you take your turn.
It isn’t until you’ve had two more turns each, both silent throughout, that he speaks again. “He hasn’t met them.”
You get the feeling you’ve said something wrong; that this awkwardness was somehow your fault. You fiddle with your cards, realising you’re guaranteed a win. You look up at the man seated beside you—or almost in front of you with the way you are both twisted to hide your hands from the other. Is he a sore loser? You’d let your ex-boyfriend win games sometimes, just to avoid his bad moods. You know nothing about the man beside you at all. Nothing.
You finish the game, looking up at him to study his reaction.
“Well done,” he says calmly, lips curving into a brief smile before he begins to collect the cards up. Well, he didn’t seem upset at the loss. His shoulders are relaxed. There was no tension that might hint at any suppressed frustration. Not a sore loser, you decide. You tuck away another tiny puzzle piece. Wouldn’t lash out if he lost a game. That was nice.
You look around the room, desperate to find another activity to save you from any awkward lulls. A big wooden chest catches your eye. You leave him to finish putting the cards away, wandering over to the mysterious chest. It looked like something that would be full of pirate’s gold. You bend down to lift the lid, conscious of the man appearing at the bookshelf next to you. It’s far heavier than it looks, and a hand appears to help you pull the chest open.
It’s full of clothes. Costumes and props. Your grandparents had a similar collection in their basement when you were little. That’s where you’d found your first yellow dress.
You dig around a little, aware of Minho lowering himself to a crouch beside you.
“Looks like someone’s dumped all their old Halloween costumes,” he comments, reaching in to join your aimless exploration.
You dig a witches hat out, lifting it onto your head and smiling at the man next to you. He tilts his head, like he’s contemplating whether it suits you, and you quickly turn back to your dig—awkward at the attention.
“Put this on instead,” he says, forcing you to look up again. “It matches your dress.”
He holds a straw hat with a broad, floppy brim.
“Does it?” you question, brows furrowing slightly.
Then, in a way that seems to pause your brains functions entirely, he smiles. It’s his first proper smile. It comes with a small laugh. And it’s so all-consuming that you don’t react when he reaches to place it on your head himself.
“You look like a sunflower,” he says simply. Then he returns to digging in the chest, and you are left to process the heat flooding your body.
He was beautiful.
Too beautiful for you.
You readjust the huge, feeling the heat in your cheeks and desperately hoping to hide any blush under the floppy brim.
A small squeak draws your attention to his search. But all you catch is a flurry of movement as he tugs something out and stands up.
“C’mere,” he says.
You look up, tracking up his body, until the hat blocks your view travelling any higher.
He offers his hand.
You’re grateful for the big hat and it’s privacy shield as you place your hand in his palm.
It’s so warm. It’s heat that seems to shoot directly to your cheeks, making your situation worse. And you’re quick to drop his hands once you are steady on your feet.
A squeak.
You look up.
A big, read clown nose sit in the centre of his face, and he looks very serious about it.
“Go on,” he says, encouraging.
You reach up and squeeze the red nose between your fingers. It squeaks, a lot like a dog toy.
“My cats would hate this,” he says, a hint of laughter in his voice. “One of them more than the others. The youngest is braver.” His mouth curves up a little in one corner as he looks at you, then he pulls it from his nose and holds it out. “You try. I want to see how brave I am.”
Your fingers brush together as you take it from him, a subtle tingle running down your spine at the contact. His eyes stay on you as you attach the nose to your face. When you look up, he wastes no time squeezing it. “Mm, maybe I’m braver than I thought.”
You smile, and he tilts his head, looking at you like he had when you’d first put the witches hat on. You drop back down into a crouch, hiding again.
Slowly, he lowers himself to the floor to join you. In the moment of silence that follows, you realise how fine you are. Completely and totally… fine.
When he breaks the silence, he sounds a little sad. It might be something else. It’s new. “Why’d you take so long to respond?”
Fuck. You hesitate to answer, which makes it all worse.
“I just wasn’t ready.” You pull the large hat off your head. “You… took awhile as well.”
He pulls his legs to his chest, arms resting on his bent knees. “I wasn’t ready either.” He says it like it’s simple. Maybe it is for him.
“You’re ready now?” you ask, quieter—meeker—than you would’ve liked if you could try again.
He’s quiet, eyes flicking between yours. It’s the longest you’ve looked at each other. Then he stands, offering you a hand up. You make sure your dress stays down as you let him pull you up. And because you can’t resist it, you let yourself bask in the heat he transfers to you during the brief contact.
“Would you like to come over for dinner?” he asks.
Maybe this could be simple. Maybe you really would be okay. He smiles when you nod in reply, and you watch as he retrieves that red cardigan from the table and a small backpack hidden under it.
“I think Hyunjin might be home tonight, but he’ll probably stay in his room.”
“Tonight?”
He looks up at you. “Yeah… is that alright?”
No. You knew the moment you got home you’d crash, emotionally drained. “Yeah.”
“Did you drive here or…”
“Bus.”
He looks up into the corner of the room, like he can see the cloud-filled sky through the walls. “I can give you a lift home,” he offers, eyes dropping down to his phone as he types something quickly. “I’ll pick you up later as well, if you like.”
“I can get the bus.” You’re not sure why you turn him down. You need a moment to breathe, suddenly overwhelmed. Did that sound rude? You press your lips together.
He looks up at you, brows furrowed. “You sure? It’s probably still raining.”
“I… like the bus.” You tug at your cardigan sleeve. “Especially when it’s raining.”
After a small pause, he steps towards you, and you hold your breath as he reaches towards your hair. He picks out a pink feather—a remnant from your dress up session. “I’ll pick you up at six?” he asks, close enough that your eyes fix on the freckle at the end of his nose. Your soulmate has a nose freckle.
Soulmate.
Yours.
“Six,” you confirm with a small nod, voice a little breathy.
“I told Hyunjin you were coming and he… well, he showed a lot of interest. He might hang around, sorry.” Minho warns as he steps up to his door, leading the way.
“I don’t mind.”
“He’ll keep you company while I finish up with dinner, anyway.”
“Alright.”
You follow him into his apartment, taking in your surroundings as he leads you to the living room. A man with short blond hair sits at a small table on the floor. He jumps up as you enter, and a wide grin spreads across his face as he approaches.
“You’re here,” he greets, like you’re old friends—like you were here for him and not the man standing beside you.
You offer him a friendly smile in return, hoping it hides your anxiety.
“I’ll leave you two to chat for a bit,” Minho says, “I’ll be done soon.” He backs up towards the adjoined kitchen, but you don’t miss the pointed look he gives his roommate. It’s a silent moment of communication you are excluded from. Then you are alone with another stranger.
Hyunjin gestures to a cushion on the floor as he sinks back down to resume his position at the small table. He pushes aside a notebook and closes it as you arrange yourself across from him, and you catch a glimpse of some sketches. “Can’t believe you’re finally here,” he says, propping his elbows on the table to gaze at you like you’d put the stars in the sky.
Overwhelmed by the intensity, and not sure what to do with yourself, you drop your eyes to your lap. “Uh, I—I can’t really believe it either, I guess. It’s a lot.”
“Did it go well today?”
You nod before you are even sure of the answer. “I think so.” A draw slams in the kitchen. “Minho hasn’t said anything?”
He looks to the doorway Minho had disappeared through, then leans over the table so he can lower his voice to a whisper. “He’s not particularly talkative these days. You may have noticed.”
These days? “He seemed a little reserved, but so am I. I don’t mind.”
His plush lips curve up in one corner, and he sits back. “So it was a quiet session then?”
“We played Uno and messed around with some old Halloween costumes.” You look down at the table, a little embarrassed at the silliness of it. Hyunjin is quiet too, and when you look up at him again, he has a soft smile on his face. You drop your gaze to the table, avoiding his eyes. The small notebook sits on the clear surface, corners bent like it was tossed into bags often. “Do you draw?” you ask, keen to lead the topic of conversation away from yourself.
He sits back, pushing the notebook in front of you and flipping it open. “Mm, you can look if you want.”
Thankful for the distraction, you flip through the pages as he sit across from you quietly. They’re mostly sketches of people, with a few watercolours scattered in. You pause on a page of a silhouette. The figure is turned away, hair falling over their face. It makes you sad. You close the book, sliding it gently back across the table.
“You’re very good.”
“Thank you,” he says, accepting the compliment easily. He’s a natural socialiser. Totally unlike yourself. You can’t imagine him ever feeling awkward, no matter what situation he’s thrown into. “Do you like art?”
“Mm, I like it. I can’t do it.” You look over to the kitchen, wondering if Minho was an artist. You hadn’t asked. There was a lot you hadn’t asked.
“Same as him, then,” Hyunjin says, like your thoughts are written across your forehead. Then, “I know how it feels… all of this—it’s terrifying.”
“You—You know?”
He smiles sadly, just as a loud crash tears both your eyes towards the kitchen. “I’ll check on him,” he says quickly, standing and leaving you there at the small table.
You take the opportunity to wander around the room, attempting to gather as much information about the man who was supposed to be yours. There’s not a lot of clutter. A few textbooks sit on shelves along the wall. A small jingle draws your attention to a cardboard box in the corner of the room. A small cat is curled up inside, lazily licking at his paw.
“Hello, baby,” you coo softly, crouching down to stroke his soft fur. “I have a friend at home who’d love to meet you.” You scratch his chin, the cat lifting his head so you can get a good view of his collar. No name tag. “What’s your name, baby? Which one are you?”
Minho had mentioned his cats earlier. You’d forgotten their names, too anxious at the time to retain the information. You look back to the kitchen. Hyunjin hadn’t returned. Maybe you could go ask. You lean down to kiss the purring cat on the head and then head towards the kitchen, freezing when you hear the two men arguing in hushed tones—clearly attempting to keep their voices down.
“I did this for you,” Minho’s anger comes through his voice clearly, despite it being practically in a whisper. “I could lose Sana over this.”
“Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?”
“Angry.”
“Because I’m working my ass off to cook for a stranger when I’d rather be with the girl I fucking love.”
You stagger back a step, kicking a cat toy across the hardwood floor.
The men go silent, alerted to your eavesdropping.
Hyunjin appears in the doorway, catching you just as you take one more step back.
“I’m—I—” you stutter. “I’m sorry,” you blurt out, spinning and rushing for the door.
In your rush to snatch your bag from the small table, your shin smashes into the sharp corner of the glass. The pain snaps you out of your panic as you drop to the floor and clutch your leg tightly against your chest. He loves someone else. He didn’t want you. He loves someone else. He lo—
Hyunjin appears in front of you. Just wait for it pass, you tell yourself.
Pain doesn’t last forever.
It would pass.
“Show me,” he says gently.
You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut.
If only you could pass out. Or just leave the next hour of your life to a clone of you. Auto-pilot your way out of this without needing to be in the driver’s seat. You can’t do this. You need to get out. You stand abruptly, wincing at the pain in your leg and rushing for the door in an awkward hobble. Hyunjin hovers around you as you shove your feet into your shoes, heels hanging out the back.
“Let me drive you home,” he says, the gentle touch of his hand on your arm snapping your eyes to his. You’d felt comfortable with him since the moment you’d met. He felt safe.
You don’t look over his shoulder, but you see him there anyway: Minho—a silent observer.
You nod once.
“Okay,” Hyunjin says, offering you a small, sad, smile. He opens the door for you, and you fight the voice in your head that tells you to turn around, to take one last look at the man you’d thought was yours.
Hyunjin is quiet as you both walk down the stairs. He’s quiet as he unlocks the car and hands you his phone with maps open. He’s quiet as he drives you to your apartment. When the car is parked and the engine is off, you’re almost afraid to break the silence. “Thank you. I know–I know we just met but you’ve been… very nice. It was nice to meet you.”
“Can I come in?”
You turn to look at your front door—at safety—then back to him. No. “I—”
“Just wanna make sure you’re alright… and explain things a little.”
You’re not sure if you want things explained. You feel like collapsing into bed and crying until you pass out. The adrenaline has well and truly worn off, and you're too afraid to look at your leg. You’re sure it’s bleeding. “Alright,” you mutter, too exhausted for anything else.
The door seems further away than it usually was, and you still find yourself unable to look down as you hobble towards it.
“Can I help?” Hyunjin asks, appearing at your side.
“I’m fine. It’s fine,” you lie.
Mina isn’t home. You’re not sure if you’re relieved or disappointed. You’re not sure about anything. You want to be unconscious.
Hyunjin digs out your first aid kit after listening to your directions, and then joins you in the living room.
He’s quiet as he cleans you up. It’s only when he closes the first aid kit that he finally says anything of substance. “I don’t know how to say this without… without sounding like I’m trying to say I have it worse. I’m just trying to explain this whole thing. Okay?”
You nod, emotionally drained.
“She died,” he says simply. “My soulmate. I don’t know if Minho said anything.” The corner of his mouth pulls up into a sad smile. “I can’t imagine he would.”
Well, fuck. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Just… let me finish, please?” You sit back, giving him a slight nod. “She—It was… it was the day we were supposed to meet,” he continues, placing the first aid kit on the table and then joining you on the couch.
He collapses into the cushions and seems to fold in on himself as the words flow from him.
You don’t know whether to turn your body towards him or give him all the space you can. So you stay completely still, a compromise. “I’m telling you this because I want you to understand why I did what I did. I… encouraged him because I love him like a brother… and I want him to be happy. I need him to be happy. And you’re—you’re the thing he can have that I can’t. I need him to have you.”
You can’t help looking at him, turning your body slightly as you try and find a position for your leg that doesn’t hurt. He didn’t want to be there today. Your soulmate had met you because he was forced. No wonder he hadn’t seemed anxious. No wonder you were overdressed. Humiliation. You pick it out amongst the mess of feeling swirling inside you. “He doesn’t want me.”
“He doesn’t know you.”
“He doesn’t want to know me. He l-lo-loves,” you stumble over the word, “someone else.”
“He’s infatuated with a girl he’s known for years. She doesn’t feel the same way. She sleeps with him because it’s easy and he’s there.” Hyunjin spits out in a rush, frustrated, like it’s something he’s had to explain before. You’re not even sure you catch the words he’s saying. “It’s not… it’s not love,” he finishes.
“I’m sorry… about what happened to you. I—I can’t imagine…” trailing off, you find yourself slammed with a wall of panic. You stand, forgetting about your leg and stumbling a little as you catch your footing.
He stands quickly, arms outstretched in an attempt to help.
You don’t need it, holding your hand up to signal it. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t want me,” you continue, “I can’t—” You cover your mouth as your voice wobbles, not wanting to cry in front of a stranger.
“Can we exchange numbers?” he asks gently. “If you ever want to get coffee or… if you ever want anything…”
You collapse back onto the couch. Part of you wants to send him out the door and never see him again, breaking off any connection to Minho entirely. But then, the other part… it wants to hold on, to take Hyunjins hand and beg him to keep you. He felt safe. And you didn’t feel safe often. Maybe he could convince Minho to want you, to love you.
You hand him your phone, and when he’s finished, a heavy silence falling over the room.
“I’m not sure… if I'll want to keep in touch,” you confess eventually.
“I won’t contact you,” he says, sounding as exhausted as you feel. “Just… message me if you ever want to talk, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You have to tell me,” Mina says as she lays a blanket over your lap. “Please?” She passes you the mug of coffee she’d made you. “Please, talk to me.”
“He didn’t want me. That’s it,” you say simply, before blowing over the surface of your coffee and taking a small sip. It was simple after all.
“It doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t he want you?”
You shrug, as if you’re unbothered. It was easier that way. “He found someone better.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“You said that.”
She’s quiet for a moment. You imagine what she must be thinking. Pity, probably. Her poor friend. Dumped by her boyfriend and then dumped by her soulmate. “You can’t give up. He’s—He’s yours,” she mutters, like shes talking to herself—like she truly can’t believe it could have all ended this badly.
You lean over to place your mug down on the table, shoving down your anger as you do so. “What am I supposed to do? Bother him until he decides to give me his attention? I’m not begging someone to want me, even my soulmate.”
“Just speak to him. You haven’t even given him a chance to talk about it.”
You pull the blanket up over your shoulders, tucking your chin into the soft warmth. “What if I cry?” you whisper. “I don’t want to cry in front of him.”
Your friend leans against you, laying her head gently against your shoulder. “You’re brave. You’ll be okay. If you do cry, and he judges you for it, then that’s embarrassing for him, not you. That would be his failure.”
“I don't think I can. Not yet.”
“Alright,” Mina whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Not yet.”
“Morning,” Hyunjin greets, a warm smile on his face, like you were two friends meeting for a casual chat.
You look around you, at the other people sitting around, engaged in their own conversations. You wonder if they have their soulmates.
You’d given in to Mina’s pestering, messaging Minho’s roommate only a week after rushing from his apartment. Minho hadn’t contacted you at all. You wished you were strong enough to let him go like it was all as simple as it was for him, but apparently, you weren’t. So here you were, attempting to form a connection with his roommate, like a pathetic coward.
A hand waves in front of your face, snapping you out of your trance. “How have you been?” Hyunjin asks.
“Is that a polite ‘how are you’ or are you actually asking?”
His plush lips curve up into a small smile. “I’m asking.”
“I miss him,” you confess, “I don’t even know him and I miss him.” Miss the potential future he represented, maybe. How could you miss him?
“Mm, I get it,” he says, tipping sugar into the iced coffee you’d ordered for him.
You hesitate before asking, “Has he said anything?”
He wraps his hands around the cup, tipping it back and forth a little. We had,” a pause, “a conversation that night, but we haven’t been talking since then.”
Minho was really that angry at his friend for making him meet you? You look down to your empty cup.
“Oh.”
“He’d like to meet you,” Hyunjin says.
Yeah, right. Your silence speaks to your disbelief.
“I didn’t force him to meet you,” he adds.
“That’s what it sounded like.”
“I think this is something he should talk to you about.”
You sigh. Then, you nod.
“You’ll meet him?” the blond stranger asks, sounding almost excited.
“Not yet.”
Hyunjin twirls his straw around, playing more with his coffee than actually drinking it. “Would you like to come to a gallery with me?” he asks after a lull. “There’s one near here.”
“I have to go to work soon,” you say, gently declining. He drops his eyes to his lap. “But I can tomorrow?” you find yourself adding in a moment of weakness.
Shit.
His eyes meet yours, one corner of his mouth lifting a little. “Alright.”
It becomes a regular part of your schedule, visiting galleries with him. Once a week, at least. He gives you a tour around the entire city's art scene, opening your eyes to a world you’d never bothered to explore yourself. He’s kind, easy to open up to, and he doesn’t bring up Minho unless you ask first.
It’s nice.
It’s safe.
You’re fine.
It’d been weeks since you’d seen Minho. He hadn’t said anything. You find yourself caring less each day.
“She was an artist, apparently,” Hyunjin says suddenly, eyes fixed on the large portrait you’d been appreciating. You think he means the woman in the painting at first, but when you look at his expression, it’s obvious he means his soulmate. He hadn’t brought her up since the night in your apartment, after he’d finished cleaning your blood from your leg.
“Do you know much about her?” you ask gently.
“Her family invited me to the funeral. I kept in touch with her brother. He… told me about her,” he says, moving each arm behind him so he can lean back on the long bench you both sit at. A couple walks by you, more engaged in each other than the artwork around them. You’re both quiet as they pass. “If she was here, and I had the chance to know her—”
“I know,” you say, cutting him off before he can finish. You didn’t want to hear it. “I know. But… what if it’s not… everything people say it is. What if it’s a placebo effect? We all think this other person is perfect for us, and so they are. We convince ourselves they are.”
“Maybe,” he says. Then, “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” you reply quickly.
“Why?”
“Because clearly it isn’t working on him.”
Him.
You’d opened the door.
Hyunjin jumps through it. “Will you talk to him, please?”
You find you feel nothing at the thought of it. No anxiety. No dread. “Okay,” you answer with a sigh.
“Really?”
You lift his hand from where he’s gripping his own thigh, intertwining your fingers together to take the tension away. “I like you, Hyunjin. I like spending time with you. And if this will make you, you know, happy, I’ll do it.”
“It will.”
“Is he home now?”
Get it done while you’re numb.
The feelings would be back at some point. They always came back.
Now was best.
He grins, pulling you up from the bench.
“You warned him?” you ask, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
“Yeah,” Hyunjin says, slamming his car door and skipping up onto the pavement beside you.
“And he wants to meet?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
He huffs out a light laugh. “I promise.”
“You’ll be nearby?”
“Cafe across the street,” he says, pushing you gently towards the steps to his apartment. “Now go. You’re okay.”
You trudge up the stairs, begging your body to be calm—to hide the anxiety coursing through your entire frame. All that numb nothingness had been well and truly scared off. You miss it already.
You close your fist until your nails mark your palm and knock on the door before you can change your mind.
It swings open almost immediately.
“You came,” Minho breathes, brushing his hand through his damp hair. He quickly moves to the side, holding the door for you.
He looks calm, as always. His lack of anxiety during your first meeting made total sense now you knew the truth. He didn’t care like you did. He was doing a favour for a friend. It was as if he was entertaining a child he was babysitting. An obligation.
You hesitate, turning to look back at the coffee shop where Hyunjin waits.
You’re not alone.
You step through the threshold.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks as you sit down on one of the cushions at the small table where you’d first met Hyunjin. Minho hovers in the kitchen doorway, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than here with you.
“I’m fine.”
He rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment, then joins you at the table.
You wait for him to speak; to explain.
He taps his nails on the wood, the only sound in the room for a minute or two.
“I didn’t… want to hurt you. You seem nice,” he says, still tapping on the table.
You seem nice. Casual dismissive nonsense. It hurts. You wish it didn’t.
He flattens his palm against the surface of the table, then continues. “Has Hyunjin told you about… what happened? With his—”
“Yes.”
He nods. “He’s been here for me through a lot. I owed him this.”
You clench your fists in your lap, struggling to contain the sharp anger that bursts in your chest. You take a deep breath before speaking. “What about me?” you question.
His brows furrow, like he doesn't understand what you have to do with any of this.
Your nails cut into your palms. “You did ‘this’ as a favour to him. What about me?”
His palm curls into a fist on the table. “I don’t-” His hands relax, and the memory of their warmth burns you. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t know you.”
You huff out disbelieving laugh, airy. “That’s the thing though, isn’t it? You don’t know me, and you never wanted to know me. Hyunjin wanted you to try. That’s what he wanted from you, and if you didn’t want to do that, then you owed me the courtesy of telling me… or at least telling me when you showed up that you weren’t there for me. I was sitting around waiting that fucking notification, thinking- , “ you suck in a breath, cutting yourself off. He’d taken 3 weeks to agree to meet you. You’d done the same, but he’d done it because he didn’t care. You did it because you cared too much.
“I had to sort some things out,” he says vaguely, “before I could agree to meet you.”
“What things?”
His eyes drop to his phone, sitting on the table between you. “I needed to explain it to someone.”
He means the girl. The girl he loves instead of you. "That's what you were doing for 3 weeks? Fucking her?!" Okay. You were gone. You had no patience left. All that could happen now was this: uncontrolled anger.
He looks up at you, brows raised. Then he scoffs—scoffs—snatches his phone from the table and stands. "So what if I was? And don't act like I fucked you over,” he adds, “You took just as long."
You grab your bag, jumping to your feet. "I was questioning if I was good enough for you! I was sitting around feeling shit about myself, and the entire time you were fucking the girl you love."
"You're acting like I was cheating on you,” he throws his hands up in the air, then points his phone at you. Your mind goes to a memory of your ex-boyfriend, his finger pointed in anger—in accusation. “I had no fucking clue you existed,” Minho finishes.
He’s angry at you for existing.
"You did though,” you mutter, your anger quiet now. “You knew I existed. You just didn't know my name or my face."
"Same thing."
"No, it's not. You knew I was waiting for you. That I was thinking that we were meant for each other—”
"Clearly we're not,” he says quickly.
You step around the table slowly, moving closer towards him.
He takes one small step back as you press your finger to his chest. It’s rising and falling quickly as adrenaline surges through him, like it surges through you.
Your breath mixes in the small space between your bodies.
“You’ll regret letting me go. You don’t deserve me,” you warn, just above a whisper.
His warm breath brushes against your skin—warm like his hands—and then his eyes drop to your lips.
Then, after a seemingly prolonged few seconds of silence, he takes a large step away from you.