POV: Go I-ram

The rosemary was judging him.

It sat in the middle of his kitchen counter like a passive-aggressive houseguest—alive, aromatic, and smug in its little pale pot. Go I-ram stared at it the way one might stare at a tax notice: mildly offended, slightly confused, and entirely unprepared to do anything about it.

“This is what I get for babysitting a cat I don’t even know the name of,” he muttered.

The apartment smelled faintly green now. Not floral, not synthetic—just… fresh. It wasn’t overwhelming. That would’ve been easier to ignore. It was subtle. Sneaky. Warm.

Unnerving.

He turned away, boiled water, and dropped the tea bag in without looking at which flavor he grabbed. Sat down at the table like he was being forced into it by a petty god.

The rosemary stayed quiet, but it didn’t go away.

“What do I even do with you now?” he asked. “You’re not even useful.”

Still no answer. Typical.

Back at his desk, he glared at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen. This week’s column was due in three days. He had no story, no outline, and barely a functioning frontal lobe.

He opened a blank document and started typing.

There was a knock. Not the kind you expect—the urgent kind, the loud kind—but the soft kind. The kind that waits. The kind that says, I could leave if you want me to. But I won’t, unless you say so.

And when he opened the door, there was a plant. And a man who smelled like rain and knew too much about herbs.

He stopped. Re-read. Scowled.

It was too obvious and too sentimental. But also... not terrible.

He hovered his fingers over the delete key, then sighed and hit save instead. Closed the laptop. Regretted it instantly.

“Should’ve just written about the cat,” he muttered.

Mister Needle sat smugly by the open window, enjoying the night breeze like a cactus who’d earned his serenity.

“You’re the only relationship I’ve managed to keep alive longer than six months,” I-ram told him. “Don’t make it weird.”

The next morning, his apartment still smelled faintly like rosemary. Not stronger, just... more familiar. And annoyingly comforting. He ignored it with a great ceremony while getting dressed.

In the hallway, he barely had time to lock his door before something warm and fuzzy curled around his leg… Again.

“You,” he said flatly, looking down. “Are relentless.”

The cream-and-beige cat swirled around his shin like he was an obligation she only barely tolerated.

“She escaped again,” said a voice he heard the night before.

He turned to find Do-yun emerging from 502, pulling his jacket over one shoulder. His hair was slightly damp, this man clearly showered with intention.

He leaned down and scooped the cat up. “Her name’s Bori, by the way.”

“Of course it is,” I-ram muttered.

“She has abandonment issues,” Do-yun added.

“So do I, but you don’t see me clinging to strangers’ calves.”

Do-yun laughed—openly, easily—and I-ram cursed the way it almost made him smile.

“She’s selective,” Do-yun said. He gently nudged Bori back into his apartment, then closed and locked the door before joining I-ram at the stairwell. “Mind if I tag along?”

I-ram shrugged. “It’s a hallway. Not like I can stop you.”

Do-yun took that as a yes.

“Do you usually take the bus or subway?”

“Bus.”

“Better?”

“Less screaming children. More engine noise.”

“Comforting… I guess?”

“It’s not.”

Do-yun nodded like this made sense and didn’t flinch at the dry tone.

They descended the stairs at a steady pace, Do-yun occasionally asking things that sounded like he’d Googled “how to be friendly to emotionally distant neighbors.”

“Any decent places to eat?”

“There’s a noodle place a couple blocks over that’s probably never killed anyone.”

“Wow. A rave review.”

“I said probably.”

“You should write food blogs.”

“I write short fiction, actually.”

“Oh?”

It slipped out before I-ram could stop himself. He gave a quick shrug, then cut the subject off by pretending to be very interested in the floor tiles.

At the building’s entrance, they paused.

“I go left,” Do-yun said.

“I go right.”

“See you tonight, maybe?”

“Assuming my editor doesn’t bury me. Sure.”

Do-yun smiled again—charming and calm, like the rosemary wasn’t slowly destabilizing I-ram’s entire living space.

“Have a good day.”

“You too.”

As they parted, I-ram caught himself thinking:
He’s the first neighbor I’ve spoken to this much.
Then, quickly correcting:
Aside from Ah-ra, who doesn’t count because she forced her way in like a cheerful virus.

He adjusted the strap on his bag and walked faster.

His doctor’s appointment was at 4:30. Dr. Moon’s office was as unnervingly beige as always.

“How have you been feeling?” the doctor asked, folding his hands with practiced calm.

“Alive. Unfortunately. Vaguely human.”

“Any changes in your scent?”

“Still ghosting me.”

Dr. Moon raised an eyebrow at his chart. “Your latest results show slight hormonal activity. Fluctuations. Nothing dramatic, but... suggestive.”

“Of what?”

“Possibly emotional stress. Or progress.”

I-ram stared at him. “So you’re saying my body is healing but forgot to send a memo to my brain.”

“Sometimes the body reacts before the mind. Changes in hormone regulation can precede scent return. It’s... a slow process. But not a hopeless one.”

The word hope made I-ram visibly flinch.

Dr. Moon jotted something down. “Let’s try a different medication. It’s milder, but targets the parts of the endocrine system that interact with pheromone production.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“Then we keep trying.”

He handed over the new prescription, along with a sheet of reflection prompts—questions designed to help patients explore emotional triggers, lifestyle influences, and memories connected to scent loss.

I-ram folded it and tucked it into his pocket without reading a single word.

After the appointment, he stopped at a small grocery store a few blocks from home. He picked up two packs of instant noodles, a couple frozen meals, a sleeve of rice cakes, and the cheapest coffee that wouldn’t actively poison him. He considered the wine aisle, but walked past it.

Back at the apartment, he dropped everything on the counter with a sigh. He set the prescription beside the sink and glanced over.

The rosemary was still alive.

Still there. Still judging.

He looked over at Mister Needle—stoic, spiky, and thriving out of spite.

He placed the rosemary beside him with exaggerated caution.

“Let’s see which one of you breaks first.” he said, “I’ve got nothing but time and instant noodles.”

He sat down at his desk and reopened the draft from last night.

And this time, he typed:

The plant wasn’t the problem. It was what it meant—

that something had been given to me. And I kept it.

End of Episode Three