POV: Go I-ram

The office smelled like cheap coffee, toner ink, and artificial lemon-scented cleaning fluid. All things Go I-ram hated in small doses and absolutely loathed when combined.

His head throbbed. His screen glared. And the world wouldn’t shut up.

“You’re stabbing your keyboard like it owes you rent,” Ah-ra said, dropping a protein bar beside his laptop. “Did your story commit a war crime?”

I-ram didn’t look up. “If I stop typing, I’ll scream.”

“Okay, mood.”

She didn’t leave, though. She leaned on the edge of his desk, watching him with narrowed eyes. She had her serious face on, the one she usually saved for heated editorial debates or when someone microwaved fish in the break room.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“No.”

The honesty startled even him.

Ah-ra blinked. “Okay. That was fast. What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away. He sat back, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. His stomach was a knot of caffeine, nerves, and something sour that had been building since yesterday’s phone call.

“My ex called,” he said eventually. “Yesterday. Out of nowhere.”

Ah-ra straightened. “What?”

“Remember what I asked you yesterday? He said he saw a picture of me. One of yours. I think it was the rooftop selfie you took when you visited. My face must’ve been in the background.”

“Oh shit. I...”

“I’m not mad at you.” He waved a hand. “It’s not your fault. He would’ve found a way eventually.”

“What did he say?”

“That he’s sorry. That he’s been thinking. That he wants to reconnect, whatever the hell that means.”

Ah-ra made a noise halfway between a gasp and a growl. “Reconnect? Does he think this is a goddamn sitcom? You nearly broke yourself over him.”

“Yeah.” His voice was flat. “I know.”

She sat down properly in the chair beside him. “What did you say?”

“I hung up.”

Silence fell but it wasn’t awkward. Just… charged.

Then she reached over and took one of his hands in hers. “You don’t owe him anything, I-ram. Not your time. Not your peace. Not even your hate, if you’re tired of carrying it.”

He stared at her fingers around his. She was warm. Grounded. Like she belonged in this world while he felt like a loose thread.

“I thought I was over it,” he said quietly. “But hearing his voice... my whole chest just… cracked.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not healing. Just means he found an old bruise and poked it.”

He let out a slow breath. “I don’t want him back.”

“I know.”

“I just want the part of me he touched to stop hurting.”

She squeezed his hand. “That’s grief. It lingers.”

He nodded. Closed his eyes for a beat too long. Then pulled his hand back gently.

“I need air.”

“Take a walk.”

“I might not come back.”

“Then I’ll steal your snacks.”

He huffed a laugh. Then stood, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the office with a pace that said he had somewhere to be...
Even if it was just away from here.

POV: Cha Do-yun

The hallway always echoed a little more at dusk.

Cha Do-yun paused at the stairwell, one hand on the railing, the other holding his canvas grocery bag. A door clicked shut somewhere above. The cars were passing on the street. Usual evening sounds.

Then he saw him.

I-ram stood by the mailboxes, hood up, headphones in, reading something that looked more like an excuse to avoid interaction than actual mail.

His face was paler than usual. He also looked thinner, somehow. He had his jacket zipped too high for the mild weather.

Do-yun stepped closer, slow and casual. “Hey,” he said.

I-ram didn’t look up. He gave the smallest nod—barely a flick of the head—before turning and walking toward the stairs like he hadn’t just ignored a person who once made tea for him in silence.

I-ram started to climb up the stairs while Do-yun stood in place. Watching him go up. He didn’t follow him, understanding that he needed the space, but the quiet afterward felt heavier than it should.

He let out a breath through his nose. Not frustration, more like something hollow. Disappointed. Not in I-ram. Just in the way things were curling back into silence.

He hadn’t seen him on the rooftop lately. No watering pots, no dragging garden gloves, no sarcastic commentary. The laundry room had returned to being just a room. He’d still been going up in the mornings. Tending the mint. Checking the lavender. Sitting, sometimes, with two thermos cups and only one used.

The last time they sat up there, I-ram hadn’t said much. But he’d stayed. Do-yun remembered the slope of his shoulders in the golden light. The way he’d leaned forward, eyes low, voice soft.

He hadn’t expected forever, just more time...

The mailbox exchange—if it could even be called that—was the most interaction they’d had in a few days.

It had been sudden. That’s what made it worse.

Do-yun shifted the grocery bag to his other hand, then walked slowly up the stairs himself.

When he passed 501, he glanced at it, not expecting anything. Just... wondering.

Do-yun stopped in front of 502, keys still in his pocket. His hand rested on the knob, unmoving.

“I don’t need to be his fix,” he thought, “I just don’t want to be a stranger again.”

He stood there for a while longer, grocery bag hanging heavy, as if the air might shift if he waited long enough.

But it didn’t.

Eventually, he went inside.

POV: Go I-ram

The apartment wouldn’t let him rest.

Go I-ram tossed and turned for what felt like hours, the blanket kicked somewhere near the floor, the room too quiet, too hot, too empty. His body felt like a bruise under fabric, and his mind wouldn’t shut up. Even the rosemary by the window seemed louder than usual.

At 12:34 AM, he gave up.

He slid into his hoodie, shoved his feet into his house slippers, and grabbed his keys—not to lock the door, just to fiddle with them as he climbed the stairs.

The rooftop air hit him like an apology.

Cool, still, and untouched. No lights, just the faint glow from the streetlamps far below and the city’s reflection in the clouds.

He didn’t turn anything on. Didn’t want clarity. Just needed the dark to keep everything from spilling out.

The soil beds stretched before him in quiet rows, and the plants were shadows at this hour. But he could still smell them. Basil. Mint. A hint of lavender. The rosemary was the loudest, of course. It always was.

He walked among them slowly, brushing his hand over leaves without really touching. Just enough to feel the life there. They were growing. All of them. Despite the wind. Despite the changing temperatures. Despite the fact that he hadn’t been here to tend them.

They were doing just fine.

He crouched beside the basil. It had doubled in size since he’d last checked it. Green, lush, unapologetic.

“I didn’t do this,” he whispered.

It wasn’t self-pity, just the truth. The garden didn’t need him.

A familiar ache curled in his chest. He closed his eyes.

Yoon-je’s voice echoed again in the back of his mind. Apology-shaped syllables laced with the same tone he used when excusing himself from commitment. “You didn’t deserve that,” he’d said.

No. But he’d accepted it anyway. Maybe that was worse.

He pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to breathe evenly. “I thought if I ignored it, I’d be safe,” he muttered. “But I’m just… stuck.”

He wandered back toward the gazebo and sank onto the bench without thinking. Pulled his knees up, arms wrapped around them. The wood was cold through his pants.

He rested his chin against his knees and stared across the garden beds. His breath fogged softly in the night air.

Stillness wasn’t the same as peace. It hadn’t been, not for a long time.

His eyelids grew heavy. Not from calm. From exhaustion… And he didn’t fight it.

He leaned back on the bench, curling slightly to one side, the hoodie drawn tight. His body tucked into itself the way people do when they’re trying to feel small and untouched.

I-ram fell asleep.

POV: Cha Do-yun

The rooftop welcomed him like it always did: quiet, cool, and full of promise.

Cha Do-yun stepped into the pale light of early morning, breath fogging slightly in front of him as the chill settled into his sleeves. He zipped his jacket up to his neck, exhaled once, and moved toward the garden beds without hurry. His boots crunched gently on the concrete.

He hummed as he worked, nothing specific. Just a low, tuneless vibration to keep his hands company. He brushed dew off the lavender leaves, tested the rosemary’s soil, and ran his thumb under a new sprig of mint.

The world hadn’t fully woken up yet. And he liked it that way.

Then he noticed something out of place under the gazebo. A shape. Slumped and still. He squinted, walking a little closer.

Gray hoodie. Pale hands tucked into sleeves. Black hair slipping out from beneath the fabric, barely disturbed by the breeze. It took him less than a second to recognize him.

“I-ram?” he said softly.

No response. No startle flinch. Just the steady rise and fall of someone completely asleep.

Do-yun stood there for a moment, holding still. Not in fear of waking him, but in quiet reverence. Like if he moved too fast, he’d undo whatever fragile peace had settled over the rooftop.

He looked… tired. But peaceful. Curled on his side like someone who had finally run out of resistance. It wasn’t the sharp-edged I-ram he’d met downstairs or the dry-sarcasm rooftop companion. This was someone worn thin. Asleep in the place he once called a waste of space.

Do-yun stepped back without a word. Moved down the stairs in silence, hands purposeful now.

At 502, he walked past Bori, who blinked at him like he was making strange choices for this hour, and reached for the blanket draped across the arm of his couch. He didn’t think twice about it.

It was soft. Heavy. Faintly scented like his laundry detergent and his skin. Not cologne. Not anything manufactured. Just… home.

When he returned to the rooftop, the sky had lightened just a bit more. Pale gold tracing the edges of the skyline.

I-ram hadn’t moved.

Do-yun crouched beside the bench and, without a word, laid the blanket over his shoulders and tucked it gently at the edges. Then he adjusted it to cover his hands and knees… His exhaustion.

Then he checked the basil. Watered the rosemary. Ran his fingers along the edge of the planter, smoothing the soil like muscle memory.

He didn’t wake him. Didn’t say goodbye.

He just looked once more—soft and steady—and walked back down the stairs.

He left without a sound.

But the scent stayed behind: warm, familiar, and patient.

End of Episode Eleven