Kimdan picked them up one by one. First—the one with the grease stain from Junseo's lunch. Second—the damp corner where it had soaked up sink water. Third—the one that smelled faintly of his citrus body wash. He pressed them flat against the countertop, edges aligned perfectly parallel to the tiles beneath. Three breaths. Three folds. Three motions to tuck them into his pocket alongside the physics notes he'd stopped pretending to study.
The mirror showed him nothing new—same too-sharp cheekbones, same collar wrinkled from nervous chewing. But his reflection blurred at the edges these days, like someone had smudged the glass with their thumb right where his shoulders met Junseo's ghost. He ran the water ice-cold this time, watching his knuckles whiten under the spray. The soap foamed pink where his thumb had bled yesterday.
Outside, the courtyard buzzed with post-game chatter. Through the frosted window, shadows moved in pairs and trios—backslaps, shared drinks, arms slung careless over shoulders. Kimdan's fingers twitched toward his pocket again, toward the folded towels and their stolen citrus scent. He counted the time between distant cheers—one, two, three—until his phone buzzed against his thigh with his mother's fourth reminder about dinner.
The walk home smelled like rain and fried dough. He took the alleyway behind the convenience store where the concrete stayed damp even in summer, where puddles reflected fractured neon signs that moved when he didn't look directly at them. His keys jingled—three distinct notes—before finding the lock. The apartment smelled like ginger and burnt rice tonight. His mother's slippers scuffed against the linoleum as she stirred something without turning. "There's banchan in the fridge," she said to the stove. Kimdan nodded at her back, wondered when they'd stopped looking at each other.
The bathroom here had no flickering lights. Just a single bulb that made his skin look jaundiced as he scrubbed until his palms stung. Junseo's phantom droplets still clung to his wrist—cool spots that vanished when he pressed too hard. Three towels folded by the sink. Three breaths held before turning off the light. Three steps to his room where the ceiling cracks no longer looked like faces, just cracks.
He fell asleep with his glasses on, the imprint of folded paper ridges pressed against his cheek. Somewhere across the district, a basketball bounced—one, two, three times—before going still.
Morning came gray and damp. The school gates loosed their usual tide of students, but today Kimdan walked against the current, shoulders tight where they brushed others'. Second floor bathroom, third stall—his morning ritual since middle school, when he'd learned the hard way that homeroom chairs could stick to the backs of thighs if you weren't careful. He pressed his forehead to cool metal, counted the bolt heads (twelve) and the cracks in the tile grout (thirty-seven, plus two new ones since last Thursday).
His mother had forgotten to pack lunch again. The paper bag sat empty on their kitchen counter when he'd left, same as last Wednesday and the Tuesday before that. He knew the exact number of coins in his pocket (six 100-won pieces, three 50s) and which vending machine would accept the dented one.
When the third period bell rang, Kimdan lingered by the stairwell, watching Junseo's broad back disappear into the sea of uniforms. He'd memorized the exact shade of Junseo's tie—not navy, but midnight blue with faint pinstripes visible if you stood close enough. Not that he'd ever admitted to looking.
That afternoon, rain blurred the courtyard into impressionist smears of color. Kimdan traced the path Junseo would take to practice—right at the vending machine, left at the bust of some dead principal, straight through the double doors that always stuck in humid weather. His own reflection stared back from rain-streaked glass, distorted where droplets pooled between them.
The walk home smelled of wet concrete and someone's abandoned ramen cup. He took the alley where the convenience store's neon sign flickered—one, two, three—casting his shadow long and thin against the bricks. Three steps up to his apartment door. Three breaths before turning the key. Three taps of his shoe against the mat before entering.
His mother's slippers were gone. The rice cooker light blinked red, meaning it had switched to warm hours ago. Kimdan pressed his palm to the glass—still hot—and wondered if Junseo's family ate together, if anyone noticed when he came home late from practice with scraped elbows and mismatched socks.
In the bathroom mirror, his glasses fogged from the steam. He wiped them clean with practiced motions, folded the cloth twice along its original creases. The water ran until his hands turned pink, until he couldn't tell if the drops on his wrists were from the faucet or Junseo shaking his hands dry—three, always three—in some other bathroom, in some other world where people remembered to look at each other.