Let me just say it upfront : I hate birthday .
Especially mine .
There's something painfully ironic celebrating the slow crawl towards death while pretending you're ' grateful for the journey ' . No thanks . Not when you're turning 25, broke, single, and living in a matchbox apartment where the fridge hums louder than your social life."
Honestly, the only thing worse than this day… is the cake I didn't buy.
I'm sitting on the floor, in a hoodie that smells like leftover garlic bread, eating ice cream straight from the tub with a fork because, yes, all my spoons are dirty. This is adulthood. Not the glamorous version with suits and skyline apartments — the real one, with laundry mountains and existential dread.
I scroll through Instagram and — bam — there it is.
My ex. With a guy who looks like he models for protein shakes and speaks in six languages. He's got abs, a yacht, and a golden retriever with its own verified account.
I've got... lint.
My phone buzzes.
Junho [8:12 PM]
Get dressed.
We're drinking.
You need to touch grass. And maybe boobs.
I sigh. Junho's my best friend, and also the human version of a traffic cone: loud, impossible to ignore, and probably slightly dangerous if you lean on him too hard.
Me
I'm not in the mood for anything that requires pants.
Or pretending I'm okay.
Junho
Then don't pretend. Just show up and drink like a tragic king.
*****
Thirty minutes later, I'm on a rooftop bar that smells like citrus, cash, and bad decisions. The crowd is beautiful. I feel like a potato in a world of French fries.
Junho hands me a drink that's pink and glittery. "Strawberry Soju Sparkle," he grins. "Don't judge it till it ruins your night."
I sip. It's dangerously good.
"You know what your problem is?" Junho says, yelling over the music.
"I only get one?"
"You're scared of change. You cling to comfort like it's a lifeline. And your comfort zone is... sad."
"Did you read that off your shampoo bottle?"
He laughs. "Nope. That's pure Junho wisdom. And also… your fly is open."
It wasn't. But I checked anyway. Classic Junho.
****
A little later, I stumble down the bar's narrow staircase alone, my head buzzing — maybe from the drinks, maybe from the quiet storm inside me. I don't know.
What I do know is… something happens.
It's like the air ripples. My foot hits the bottom step — and I blink.
The next second, I'm somewhere else.
Everything's... cleaner. Brighter. The air smells like citrus and coffee and something expensive. My hoodie's gone. I'm in a crisp button-down shirt that actually fits. My hair looks styled. My body feels... different. A little stronger.
I glance around. Hardwood floors. Books on shelves. Art on the walls. A sleek couch. A flat-screen TV bigger than my bed.
Where the hell am I?
No, wait... where the hell did I get this apartment?
And then I hear a voice. A woman's voice.
Soft. Playful. Familiar — somehow.
"Shun? You're home early."
My heart slams.
Footsteps pad across the floor. Then she appears.
She's wearing an oversized shirt — not mine, I think… or is it? Either way, it looks criminally good on her. She has long, messy hair, bare legs, and a sleepy smile that could probably ruin me in five seconds flat.
And then — without hesitation — she walks up to me, slides her arms around my neck, and kisses me.
Like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Like I'm hers.
Like I've always been hers.
I don't kiss back right away. Because my brain is still buffering.
When she finally pulls back, she looks into my eyes with this glint — like she knows something I don't. "You smell like soju," she says, teasing.
I swallow. Hard.
My voice barely works. "Uh... who are you?"
She laughs, brushing her lips against mine again. "Very funny. You're lucky you're cute."
And I just stand there, stunned, heart racing, staring at the most beautiful stranger I've ever seen...
Who is this women ?
What the actual hell is going on?
And how the hell did I get so lucky?
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