POV: Go I-ram

The office was too bright. Too loud.
Even the coffee machine sounded aggressive, like it was judging his life choices.

Go I-ram rubbed his temples as he passed Ah-ra’s desk. “Tell editor Lee I’m finishing my piece from the break room. I can’t handle fluorescent lighting and capitalism today.”

“You mean you can’t handle responsibility?” she said sweetly, not looking up from her screen.

“Same thing,” he muttered, and walked away.

He had just dropped into the seat near the farthest outlet—laptop open, half a sentence written—when his phone buzzed. Unknown number. Local.

He considered ignoring it… But instead, he answered.

“Hello?”

There was a pause, just long enough to start the tremor in his chest.

Then a familiar voice on the other end. Too familiar.

“...I-ram?”

His stomach dropped.

“Yoon-je.”
He hadn’t said that name in months. Maybe longer.

“I didn’t think you’d pick up,” the voice continued, soft, like it expected to be heard but not welcomed.

“I almost didn’t,” I-ram said flatly.

Another pause. Then:
“I saw a picture of you. Someone posted a story... rooftop, some plants, you looked...”

“Fuck.”

It came out before he could stop it. Not loud, but sharp.

Ah-ra. It had to be Ah-ra. That stupid rooftop selfie she took last week. He hadn’t even noticed she posted it.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Yoon-je said quickly. “I just... I’ve been thinking… About everything. About us. I’ve been trying to get better.”

I-ram closed his eyes. The room seemed to spin, even though he was sitting still.

“You don’t get to do this.”

“I’m not asking for anything.”

“Yes, you are. You want to be forgiven without having to earn it.”

Silence.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Yoon-je said, quieter now. “For hurting you. For leaving the way I did. You didn’t deserve that… I would like for us to… reconnect.”

I-ram clenched his jaw. Every muscle in his body tightened, as if holding together the seams of something barely stitched.

“I’m hanging up now,” he said. “Don’t call again. I don’t need your guilt.”

He didn’t wait for a response, he just ended the call.

And for a moment, he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t exist.

Then he stood—too fast, too sharp—and walked back to Ah-ra’s desk like a man retracing a crime scene.

“You posted a story of the rooftop, didn’t you?”

She blinked up at him. “Yeah? It was cute.”

“Did it have my face in it?”

“Maybe? You were in the background... Wait, why?”

He didn’t answer. Simply turned and walked back to pick up his things.

As he was packing his laptop, he stood still for a long moment, staring at the far table in front of him. The hum of the office felt like static in his skull. Then, he closed everything, turned and walked out without telling Ah-ra.

He left the building, walked to the bus stop on auto-pilot, and waited with hands shoved in his coat pockets, forehead tight, mouth dry. His body moved, but his brain had locked itself behind a steel door labeled “Do Not Disturb: Emotional Contamination Inside.”

The bus came. Go I-ram sat in the back corner, window seat, forehead pressed to the cool glass. His reflection looked unfamiliar. Drawn, paler than usual, like someone halfway through molting.

The movement outside felt disconnected. Like watching someone else’s life go by. The buildings blurred, the lights too bright, the faces too much. He kept his coat on the entire ride, sweating slightly, but not moving to unzip it.

His brain replayed things he didn’t want.
The way the voice had said “stillness.”
The word “defective.”
Some of the moments they spent together… and how he felt when he vanished into thin air.

That voice.
It had tunneled through him like smoke. Soft and poisonous smoke.

Why now?

Why ever?

Yoon-je’s voice had once been the place he went to feel safe. Then it had become the thing he associated with apologies that came too late and touch that felt like pressure instead of presence.

And now, he just called. Like a ghost showing up on your doorstep asking if you’ve redecorated.

I-ram closed his eyes. Tried to count his breathing.

It didn’t work.

He hated how much space his ex still took up in his mind. How the scent—long gone—still haunted phantom corners of his memories.
He hated that part of him still grieved what should have been more than what was.

He remembered the last fight. The way Yoon-je had looked at him like he was unreasonable for expecting reassurance. The way he’d said “It’s not my job to make you feel wanted.”

I-ram had laughed then. Bitter. Hollow. Like someone who knew the punchline already.

The bus lurched to a stop near his building. He got off without remembering the ride.

Without thinking, he ducked into a convenience store. Wandered the aisles blankly. Rice cakes. Instant noodles. A pre-made sandwich with too much lettuce. He grabbed them all without looking.

At the drink fridge, he stared at the rows of colored bottles, unable to decide if he wanted caffeine, sugar, or an actual escape from consciousness.

He picked a vitamin water. No reason. Just impulse.

At the register, the cashier barely looked at him.

Good.

He couldn’t remember if he paid with cash or card.

Outside, the air was colder than before. Or maybe he just felt thinner, like grief had taken something solid from him and replaced it with fog.

The walk back to the building was quiet. The streetlights hummed. His keys felt heavier in his pocket.

Once in his building, he stood outside 501 a couple of seconds… of maybe minutes? Shoulders tight, grocery bag digging into his palm.

He didn’t check if Do-yun was home. He didn’t even look toward 502.

Then, he unlocked the door, stepped inside, and let it close behind him like shutting the lid on a box that had no intention of ever being opened again.

Inside his apartment, the silence met him like an old habit. It wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him toward the couch. He didn’t turn on the lights.

Didn’t take off his shoes. Didn’t loosen the scarf… Didn’t even take off his coat.

He just sank into the cushions, body folded in on itself like a question he no longer had energy to ask.

The water sat untouched inside the bag. The rice cakes and pre-made sandwich remained sealed.

The light through the window was soft, almost gentle. But nothing felt soft inside him.

He stared at the ceiling. Mister Needle watched from the windowsill. The rosemary sat beside him, soft and verdant. Neither of them judged him.

He replayed the voice. The apology. The nerve.

Who gave Yoon-je the right to reopen a wound just to wash his own hands?

He hadn’t cried in years… But his throat felt raw, like something had tried and failed to make its way out. He didn’t cry. Didn’t rage.

He closed his eyes. Not to sleep, just to shut out the world.

The air didn’t smell like anything. Not citrus. Not soil. Not rosemary.

It was sterile. Like a memory wiped clean.

The only sound was his own breath, uneven, shallow.

He didn’t say anything or move for a long time.

Time passed. Or maybe it didn’t.

He reached for his phone once. Unlocked it. A worried message from Ah-ra he didn’t plan to answer. He locked the phone again.

Slid it under the cushions. The world could wait.

He pressed a hand to his chest, where the scent should have lived.

Nothing.

By the time he opened his eyes, it was 9:17 PM. He whispered to himself:

“Healing is fragile. And ghosts don’t knock, they barge in.”

End of Episode Ten