Seo-jin stepped out of her office building, exhaling a long, shaky breath as the night air met her skin. It was a familiar ritual after a stressful day, but tonight, the exhale felt less like release and more like a deflating balloon. The city hummed around her, a symphony of traffic, the stuttering flicker of neon signs, the chatter of passing pedestrians. Each sound, each light, felt amplified, vibrating with her own internal static.

Do-yeon caught up, her stride purposeful, nudging Seo-jin lightly with her elbow. "Don’t even think about running home to overanalyse this." Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

"What else am I supposed to do?" Seo-jin muttered, her voice thin. The thought of her pristine, silent apartment felt suffocating right now.

"Eat. Drink. Pretend things aren’t weird for a couple hours." Do-yeon had a pragmatic approach to most of life’s curveballs.

Seo-jin hesitated, her gaze drifting. Do-yeon pointed ahead to a street stall glowing warmly at the corner. Customers huddled under its makeshift awning. The inviting aroma of spices and something savoury wafted on the breeze.

"Come on," Do-yeon urged, already pulling her. "Nothing like spicy tteokbokki to numb the pain."

Seo-jin glanced at the stall, then back at Do-yeon, her lips pressed into a tight line. "I don’t need to numb anything." The lie was automatic, flimsy.

Do-yeon’s gaze softened. "Then sit with me and pretend you believe that."

A pause. The beat stretched between them, filled with the unspoken weight of Seo-jin's distress. Then, finally, Seo-jin moved, letting Do-yeon pull her toward the comforting glow of the street food tent.

They settled onto low plastic stools at the bustling street stall, the air thick with the scent of chilli and fried batter. The owner, a woman with a kind, perpetually busy face, met them at their table. Do-yeon, without consulting Seo-jin, rattled off their order. "Two Tteokbokki. Spicy, and a bottle of Soju."

The food arrived quickly, almost before they’d fully settled. The bowls were plastic and disposable, filled almost beyond their brim, the hasty filling hinted at by the thick red sauce seeping down the sides. A bottle of soju and a pair of small, plastic glasses were placed beside them. Do-yeon thanked the owner with a bright smile as she efficiently organised the bowls between them. Placing the glasses between them, she shook one of the soju bottles, twirling it into a mini vortex before popping the top and pouring it into Seo-jin's glass first, then her own. She raised her glass to Seo-jin, who in turn raised hers. They clinked glasses, the plastic clack faint amidst the street noise, and gulped its contents down. Both pulled faces at the sharp, fiery sensation in their throats, the alcohol burning a momentary path through Seo-jin's agitated mind. They placed the glasses down, and Do-yeon, without missing a beat, quickly filled them again.

Seo-jin picked up her second glass and swirled the clear soju, watching the liquid catch the light, but she didn’t drink. She just stared, her mind a vortex of the last few hours. Do-yeon watched her for a beat, then worked her chopsticks into her tteokbokki, mixing it further as if to delay her next question, before breaking the silence with a sigh.

"What’s actually bothering you?" Her voice was quiet, direct.

"Nothing," Seo-jin mumbled.

Do-yeon scoffed, slurping her first mouthful of food. "You’re mentally ripping apart that glass, Seo-jin. Want me to believe that’s normal?"

Seo-jin sighed, a deep, weary sound, then lifted the glass and downed it in one go. She set it down with a soft click, the plastic reverberating. She rubbed her temples, as if trying to massage away the phantom ache behind her eyes, the lingering image of Hyun-woo’s unreadable face. "I just wasn’t expecting him."

Do-yeon leaned in slightly, her voice softer now. "And now?"

Seo-jin picked at her tteokbokki absently, stirring the spicy sauce, staring into the bowl as if the answer lay there, submerged in the fiery red. "Now he’s everywhere."

A pause settled between them, a heavy, knowing silence. Do-yeon didn't push further. She simply reached for the soju bottle, refilled Seo-jin's glass, and slid it back across the table. Before Seo-jin could protest, the words burst from her, raw and uncontrolled.

"And a motorbike? Seriously!?" Her voice rose slightly, the frustration building. "He didn’t even have a bike when we..." She caught herself mid-sentence, the words dying in her throat. Her eyes, wide and sheepish, flicked to Do-yeon. She’d let slip how far back her history with him truly went.

Do-yeon said nothing, just waited, her gaze steady. Seo-jin gulped from her glass, the harsh burn of the alcohol a welcome distraction from the shame, from the gaping hole of her past. She dropped her head, hiding her face from Do-yeon’s knowing eyes, from the truth reflected there.

"When we were at school." The words were muffled, barely a whisper.

"I knew it!" Do-yeon’s eyes lit up, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. "You really do know him!" She lifted the now-empty soju bottle with a flourish. "Two more bottles, please!" she called out to the vendor, already signalling for another round, celebrating the unearthing of a secret she'd suspected all along.

Later that night, the street stall hummed around them, but the conversation between Seo-jin and Do-yeon had narrowed, intensified. Seo-jin downed another shot of soju, setting the glass down with a little too much force, the clatter resonating with her building frustration. Do-yeon watched her, a slight smirk playing on her lips, clearly entertained by the unravelling of her usually composed friend.

"You know what’s actually annoying?" Seo-jin slurred slightly, her words beginning to tangle. "The way he acts like he’s unaffected. Like, none of it matters."

"None of what matters?" Do-yeon prompted, eyes glinting.

"Everything." Seo-jin waved her hand vaguely, encompassing everything. "Life. The past." Her gaze snagged on something in the distance, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. "Me."

Do-yeon raised an eyebrow, but wisely said nothing, letting the silence hang.

"And that motorbike?" Seo-jin continued, the thought reigniting her indignation. "Who is he trying to impress?" She reached for her glass, realizing the bottle was empty. Do-yeon, wordlessly, opened a fresh one, the satisfying pop of the cap cutting through the night air, and poured her another drink.

"I think we covered this already," Do-yeon said, her tone teasing. "So you’re mad because he upgraded his wheels?"

"I’m mad because he’s... because he’s... ugh." Seo-jin gestured vaguely, unable to articulate the whirlwind of emotions inside her.

"Wow," Do-yeon chuckled. "What a solid argument."

"He’s TOO perfect," Seo-jin suddenly declared, leaning forward, her voice hushed with a bitter intensity. "Always composed. Always logical. Like he’s got this flawless script running in his head and refuses to break character."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Do-yeon murmured, her eyes dancing.

Seo-jin froze, then slowly shook her head, ignoring the jab. Her gaze became distant, lost in a memory only she could see. "He wasn’t always so smooth. He was... he was mine for the briefest moment."

Do-yeon’s smile vanished. She stopped in her tracks, staring at Seo-jin, who wasn’t looking at her, wasn’t looking at anything in the present. This wasn't just a friend complaining about an ex; this was a revelation, a raw wound finally exposed. Do-yeon reached out, her hand steady, and refilled Seo-jin's glass. Her voice, when it came, was soft, gentle.

"I think we should make this our last one."

The apartment was dark and blessedly quiet, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the street. The two friends stumbled through the front door. Seo-jin kicked off her heels unceremoniously, the faint thuds echoing in the silence, before collapsing onto the soft cushions of the couch. Do-yeon, already prepared for this outcome, tossed a soft blanket over her.

"You’re staying," Do-yeon stated, her voice firm but kind. "No arguing."

"Fine," Seo-jin mumbled, already half-buried in the warmth of the blanket. She gripped the fabric, sighing deeply, a sound of profound weariness.

"Feel better?" Do-yeon asked.

Seo-jin stayed silent for a long moment, the sounds of the city muted by the walls. Then, a whisper, fragile in the quiet.

"He doesn’t even hesitate."

Do-yeon paused. This was different. Seo-jin wasn't ranting now, not lashing out in a drunken haze. She was mulling over something deeper, something that gnawed at her.

"He saw me and didn’t even flinch. Didn’t miss a beat." The raw pain in her voice was unmistakable.

Do-yeon watched her, letting the silence stretch, giving Seo-jin the space to speak if she chose.

"You wanted him to?" Do-yeon finally asked, her voice barely audible.

Seo-jin closed her eyes, pulling the blanket even tighter, wishing she could disappear into its warmth. Do-yeon didn’t push further. She simply rose, walked over to the light switch, and dimmed the lights, easing the room into comfortable darkness. She then settled onto the small sofa next to Seo-jin, a silent, comforting presence.

In the dark, Seo-jin’s voice came, barely a breath. "I think he loved me. But I think I broke him."

There was a pause, heavy with unspoken history, as Do-yeon watched her, a shadow in the dim light. Then, Do-yeon’s soft voice, infused with a quiet empathy.

"It sounds like it broke you too."