I don't like coincidences.
They imply a lack of control.
That morning, Ha-rin stood near the door, mask already on, fingers hovering over the cap my mother had handed her.
She didn't put it on immediately.
"…I hate this," she muttered.
My mother paused. "The cap?"
Ha-rin nodded, eyes lowered.
"It feels like…" She stopped herself. "Never mind."
I understood anyway.
Caps meant hiding.Hiding meant disappearing.
For someone whose life was built on being seen, that mattered.
"It's temporary," I said quietly.
She looked at me.
"…That's what everyone says."
My mother softened her tone. "This isn't about erasing you. It's about protecting you."
Ha-rin exhaled slowly.
"I know," she said. "I just hate feeling like I'm not allowed to exist."
No one spoke for a moment.
Then she put the cap on herself, tugging it down firmly.
"…There," she said. "Happy?"
"Yes," my mother replied. "Relieved."
We stepped outside.
The street felt louder than usual.
Too many footsteps.Too many glances.
As we waited for a taxi, my thoughts drifted—back to something I hadn't mentioned.
A few days earlier
The taxi smelled faintly of coffee.
The driver glanced at the mirror once.
Then again.
"You heading to the hospital?" he asked casually.
"Yes," I replied.
He nodded, then his gaze shifted to Ha-rin.
She sat quietly, hands folded, posture too controlled.
"…You know," the driver said slowly, "you look familiar."
Ha-rin's fingers tightened.
I spoke before she could.
"She gets that a lot," I said. "Common face."
The driver squinted. "Like someone from TV."
"No," I replied calmly. "Office job."
Ha-rin nodded once. "…Marketing."
The light turned red.
Too long.
The driver glanced again.
"You sure I haven't seen you somewhere?"
"Yes."
The light changed.
He drove.
Nothing else happened.
But the damage was already done.
The present returned as the taxi pulled up.
Ha-rin hesitated for half a second before getting in.
Inside, I sat closer than usual.
Not touching.
Just enough.
"…You're hovering," she murmured.
"I am adjusting," I replied.
She glanced at me. "…Something happened before."
"Yes."
"…In a taxi."
"Yes."
She looked down. "…I knew it."
The ride passed quietly.
Too quietly.
By the time we reached the hospital, my decision was already complete.
Later, walking back home, Ha-rin spoke again.
"…I don't like living like this," she said softly. "Like one wrong look could ruin everything."
"I know," I replied.
She stopped walking.
"…You always say that."
"This time," I added, "I am changing something."
She frowned. "…What."
"I will buy a car."
She stared.
"…A car?"
"Yes."
"…Because of that one look?"
"No," I said. "Because there will be more."
She studied my face.
"…You thought this through."
"Yes."
She looked away, cheeks faintly warm.
"…You don't have to solve everything."
"I am not," I said. "Only what I can."
She was quiet for a moment.
"…Okay," she said. "But I get to choose the color."
"That is acceptable."
"…Really?"
"Yes."
She smiled. Just a little.
At the apartment entrance, my mother watched us approach.
"You took longer," she said.
"Transportation inefficiency," I replied.
She nodded. "…We need a car."
I paused.
"…I agree."
Ha-rin looked between us.
"…Was I even part of this discussion."
I didn't answer.
Because I already had my answer.