POV: Go I-ram

The magazine thudded onto Go I-ram’s desk like it had something to prove.

He didn’t flinch. Just raised one unimpressed eyebrow at the glossy cover now occupying prime real estate beside his keyboard.

Seo-woo leaned on the edge of his desk with all the smugness of someone who absolutely knew what they were doing.

“Before you say anything,” he began, “yes, they printed the garden metaphor one.”

I-ram blinked slowly. “They always print the garden metaphor ones.”

“Sure,” he said. “But this one came with footnotes. You should be proud. One editor said it made them ‘emotionally unwell in a positive way.’ That’s a direct quote.”

He reached for his coffee, deliberately not looking at the magazine. “Are you congratulating me or warning me?”

“Both. Maybe more warning than usual,” he said, tapping his nails against the desk in rhythm with his amusement. “You’re really leaning into this whole gardens-as-heart-metaphors thing. I’ve seen you write poetic suffering before, but this one practically screamed, ‘Please love me, I’m a metaphor in a trench coat.’”

I-ram gave him a flat look over the rim of his mug. “Wow. A column about growth using plants. Revolutionary.”

Seo-woo grinned like a cat who had eaten someone else's pride. “Don’t sass me, I-ram. I know how much time you spent editing that ending. You reworded the final paragraph six times and then sent it to me ‘just to check tone.’”

“That was professionalism.”

“That was ‘I’m definitely talking about a real person but pretending it’s seasonal.’”

He opened his mouth for a retort, then closed it again. Shrugged. “Gotta keep it polished.”

He straightened up, tapping the cover once before turning to leave. “Page fourteen. Center spread. Don’t act like you’re not going to buy three copies at the corner store later like a proud grandma.”

“I make no promises.”

As soon as he disappeared back into his office, he looked at the magazine. Really looked at it.

It sat there, glossy and harmless, bearing the name of the publication like it had no idea it was weaponized emotional content. The latest issue of Verdant Living. Sustainable growth. Eco-forward living.

He reached out and ran a finger along the edge.
It wasn’t ego. It wasn’t even pride.

It was vulnerability dressed up as professionalism.

He flipped to page fourteen with reluctant fingers.
And there it was. His byline, crisp and centered:

“Gardens That Bloom After Drought: On Patience, Growth, and Learning to Stay.”

He had written it in a blur one night. Half-asleep, half-haunted, with the smell of Do-yun’s still lingering in his apartment.

It wasn’t about anyone.
But it also was.

It was about being cracked open by kindness and not knowing what to do with the space it left behind. About staying put long enough to feel something new taking root. About fearing the bloom because it meant you’d survived the drought… and had to choose what came next.

The kind of piece that read like it belonged to everyone until someone who understood read between the lines.

He stared at it for a while.
His words.
His voice.
His stupid, fragile hope typed out in black ink and metaphor.

Then he closed the magazine and slid it into the bottom drawer of his desk like it might combust if it stayed in sight.

His fingers lingered on the drawer handle for a moment longer than necessary.

“I’m not buying three copies,” he muttered under his breath.

He’d buy one. Maybe two.

For archival purposes.

POV: Cha Do-yun

Cha Do-yun wasn’t in the habit of buying magazines.

He usually skimmed plant blogs, botany forums, the occasional research brief. Things you could click, save, forget. But the convenience store down the street had a little spinner rack by the register, and something about the latest issue of Verdant Living caught his eye.

The headline said something about seasonal soil rotation and microclimates. Or maybe it was the photo of herbs in decorative pots on the cover. Basil, thyme, rosemary... Familiar things. Things that looked like home.

He picked it up casually, flipping through pages as he waited behind a customer buying enough instant noodles to trigger concern.

He wasn’t expecting to find a name he knew.

Not until the title caught his attention halfway through the magazine:
“Gardens That Bloom After Drought.”

He paused.

Then he saw it: the byline.
Go I-ram.

He blinked. Stared.
Read it again, just to make sure his brain wasn’t projecting.

Then he started reading the piece, slower now. Focused.

It was about the patience of plants. How some things don’t bloom just because you water them. How they need time. Quiet. Space. The right light. The right soil.
And even then, some flowers only open after the long, dry stretch, when they’re certain they’ve survived.

Do-yun didn’t realize how still he’d gone until the clerk called out, “Next.”

He tucked the magazine under his arm like it was something fragile and precious. Bought the bottle of barley tea he came for and added a small candy that was on the counter to feel less obvious.

Back outside, the air was thick with pre-storm humidity. He crossed the street slowly, the magazine rolled in his hand, soft at the edges where he’d gripped it too tightly.

Go I-ram. Writing about gardens. About survival. About blooming when no one expects it.

He told himself it wasn’t about anything.
It was just writing. Just a metaphor.

But part of him—the part that felt I-ram’s scent like a fault line on the stairs—knew better.

It felt like a message slipped under a locked door.

He hasn't finished the article yet.

He couldn’t.

He wanted to read the rest somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could think.

Somewhere that smelled like mint and rosemary and stubborn little herbs that only grew when no one was looking.

The rooftop was quiet in the way that only dusk could deliver. Like the world was holding its breath for a moment longer than it should.

Cha Do-yun knelt beside the mint bed, checking for signs of rot, but his eyes weren’t really focused. Not on the leaves. Not on the soil.

The magazine lay open on the bench behind him. Verdant Living. Page fourteen: Gardens That Bloom After Drought.

He’d read it twice now. Once with the rush of surprise still warm in his chest. Again with a slower kind of ache.

He’d underlined a line with his thumb.

"Some things only grow once they've survived the silence long enough to believe in sound again."

It wasn’t just good. It was him.

It was I-ram’s voice in honesty and restraint. And under all the clever turns of phrase and elegant structure, it pulsed with something raw. Something unsaid, meant to be felt more than understood.

Do-yun exhaled, low and long, like he could breathe that weight away.

He didn’t know what the piece was about. Not really.

He didn’t know if he wanted to know.
Because if he was wrong—if he’d only imagined it—then the soft, stupid hope living under his ribs would shrivel like an overwatered sprout.

He leaned back against the garden bench, hands dusty, the scent of mint on his sleeves. Somewhere in the building below, someone slammed a door, and a dog barked in response.

He closed his eyes.

Then the door creaked open.

His eyes snapped open.
Steps.
Soft. Hesitant.

Do-yun turned, and there he was.

Go I-ram stepped out onto the rooftop like he didn’t quite belong there. He had a copy of the same magazine folded under one arm. His hair was slightly wind-tossed, his expression unreadable.

Their eyes met.

“I didn’t expect anyone up here,” I-ram said after a beat.

Do-yun managed a small smile. “You say that every time.”

I-ram huffed softly, gaze flicking to the garden beds. “Guess I’m not great at learning.”

“You brought a visitor.” Do-yun nodded toward the magazine.

I-ram looked down, suddenly awkward. “Yeah. I just… thought I’d see how it looked in print. I always check. Eventually.”

Do-yun straightened a little, brushing his hands on his jeans. “I read it.”

The comment made I-ram blink.

Do-yun held his gaze. “Didn’t know you wrote for Verdant. I picked it up because of an article on…” he gestured vaguely at the garden “...Thyme root systems.”

“Riveting.” I-ram deadpanned.

“But then I saw your name. And… I read yours instead.”

Silence stretched between them. I-ram’s posture tightened. Not defensive, exactly, but guarded.

“I didn’t know you’d read it,” he said, voice low. “It’s just a column.”

Do-yun standed up and got closer. Not close enough to crowd, just enough to be felt.

“It didn’t read like just a column.”

I-ram’s jaw twitched. His fingers tightened around the folded magazine. “It’s not about anyone.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know.”

Do-yun smiled gently. “Still… if it were about someone…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.

I-ram didn’t move, but his scent did.

Do-yun felt it before he even noticed it. A sudden spike, like heat rushing out of an open window. Paper. Citrus. Rain-soaked green. It wrapped around them like a question too big to ask.

Do-yun froze.

Every part of him screamed to respond, every instinct leaning forward, every muscle tensed like the first time he touched a seedling he was afraid to break.

But he didn’t move.
Not toward. Not away.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“If it were about someone… I think they’d understand.”

I-ram looked at him then… really looked. His eyes were wide and uncertain. As he opened his mouth to speak…

Thunder cracked.

The sky broke open a second later.

Raindrops hit the rooftop like coins on glass. Fast. Suddenly. Cold.

I-ram flinched. The spell shattered. His scent vanished. Washed clean in seconds.

“Oh…” Do-yun said, blinking up at the sky.

They both turned, half-laughing, half-panicked, and bolted for the door. Feet slipping on the wet rooftop, breath caught somewhere between what almost happened and what didn’t.

By the time they reached the fifth floor landing, both were soaked through.

In front of their doors, they hesitated.
I-ram looked like he wanted to say something. So did Do-yun.

Neither did.

“Goodnight,” I-ram said finally.

Do-yun nodded. “Night.”

They stepped into their respective apartments.

Do-yun closed the door behind him.
Leaning against it, he let the silence settle.

The scent was gone and the words unsaid.

He stared at the wet magazine in his hands, then leaned his head back against the door and muttered:

“I’m an idiot.”

And then he smiled. Just a little.

End of Episode Seventeen