Episode 6
3 March 2025, Monday. Late evening. SNU's chemistry faculty, Building 501, entrance.
The corridor was still empty. The steady hum of the air conditioning filled the space, oddly calming. Den walked down the hallway, feeling the weight leaving his shoulders—physical first, then moral, leaving just bitterness of consequences behind.
A thought surfaced, dry and tired:
So much for not getting involved.
He exited through the side door.
Outside, night had fully settled. The park path was quiet, the lamps glowing softly.
And there—near the building entrance, under a streetlight—stood a figure.
A small, neat, already strangely familiar figure of Jeong Mi-yeon.
She didn't approach. She kept her distance, as if unsure she was allowed to be near. In her hands was a small bottle of water—probably bought from a vending machine. Her shoulders were slightly drawn inward, her eyes darting once around the empty space.
When she heard his footsteps, she lowered her gaze immediately.
Her face held too many emotions at once: worry, relief, hesitation, embarrassment—and something softer, quieter, not yet named even by herself.
"I… was looking… for you…" she said very softly. "You were gone for a long time…"
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—a small, nervous gesture.
"So… I brought water…"
A pause.
"If… if you need it…"
She extended the bottle toward him carefully, afraid that he might refuse it—or her.
The night pressed in around them, still and attentive.
For a moment, there was nothing but the quiet trickle of meltwater somewhere in the distance.
Finally, Den took the bottle from Mi-yeon.
Her fingers trembled when his fingers accidentally brushed hers as she passed it to him.
Den took a few long, deep gulps.
She said quietly, "You look tired, like something heavy is on your mind."
He smirked. "Yeah. Today it felt… forty-five, maybe fifty kilos heavier than usual."
Mi-yeon blinked. Once. Twice.
"W-what…?" she asked, giving a confused smile. "Why… forty-five…?"
"Doesn't matter," he cut in lightly, shifting the bottle in his hands.
She didn't press.
Her boundaries were narrow, carefully drawn, and she was afraid of crossing them.
Then Den added simply, "Let's go back to the others. I think I had enough solitude for one day."
Mi-yeon inhaled. She didn't want to go.
With him, it will be fine.
She straightened her back a little. Gathered herself.
"…Okay," she said quietly. "Let's go."
Her step was cautious—the step of someone walking back into a place they feared.
They walked side by side.
There was a normal distance between them, but in the quiet campus night it felt closer. Mi-yeon's footsteps whispered against the pavement. She walked slightly behind him, unconsciously matching his pace.
As they entered the building, the noise of the rooftop reached them again—louder now. Music blared. Someone sang drunkenly off-key. Voices were raised, laughter and clapping spilling down the stairwell.
Mi-yeon heard it.
Without realizing it, she took a small step closer to Den. Not touching. Just close enough to feel less exposed—as if his presence cast a narrow strip of shadow she could stand in.
On the stairs, where the music dulled into a distant thrum, she spoke almost in a whisper: "Den… were you really alone… all that time?"
The question was gentle, almost casual.
But underneath it lived anxiety.
I feel he wasn't entirely alone. And I don't know why I am asking this.
They reached the top floor. The rooftop door loomed ahead—light leaking through the cracks, noise spilling out.
Den stopped in front of it and answered evenly,
"For the most part."
The words were vague. Neither a lie nor a confession.
Mi-yeon nodded once, accepting it without probing. Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her cardigan.
The door waited.
And beyond it—the crowd, the lights, the stories that would be told whether they wanted them or not.
By the time they returned to the rooftop, the party had crossed a clear line.
People were louder. Movements less precise. Someone danced alone in the middle of the room with exaggerated seriousness. A group near the windows argued about something meaningless with dramatic gestures. Laughter erupted too easily, too often. Games with alcohol were in full swing—rules already forgotten, punishment shots poured generously.
The crowd had fragmented into small constellations: whispers in corners, half-confessions over plastic cups, couples sitting too close, and near one wall, a circle of students around a guitar.
They took turns playing—some badly but enthusiastically, some surprisingly good. Someone strummed three chords and sang off-key. Someone else clapped too early. It was messy, sincere, and very drunk.
Mi-yeon stepped inside and immediately felt it again—that tightening in her chest. The noise pressed in. The light felt too bright.
She stayed close to Den instinctively, anchored by proximity.
Kim Soo-yeong noticed instantly.
Of course she did.
She approached with that effortless smile—soft eyes, gentle voice, curiosity wrapped in sweetness.
"Oh," she said lightly, as if pleasantly surprised, "you're back together."
No accusation.
Just an implication.
Her gaze slid briefly to Mi-yeon—measuring, dismissive—then back to Den.
"Where did you disappear to?" she asked. "Everyone was wondering."
Mi-yeon lowered her eyes at once, already bracing herself.
Now it starts. Now they'll decide what it meant.
Den answered before the silence could grow teeth.
"Went to look for a guitar, wanted to play some music," he said, shrugging. "Met Mi-yeon on my way back. I didn't know one had already been brought from the faculty office."
It was the first thing that came to his mind.
And it worked.
Perfectly.
Soo-yeong's smile paused—just a fraction. The answer gave her nothing to twist. No walk. No intimacy. No excuse for gossip about Mi-yeon.
"Tsk," she said softly, almost disappointed. "Is that so?"
Mi-yeon exhaled, barely noticeable. The danger passed her like a train she heard but didn't see.
But that moment didn't end there.
Oh Yu-ra had been listening.
She straightened, eyes sharpening with interest—not suspicion, but curiosity. She looked from Den to the guitar, then back to him.
Without a word, she reached out, took the guitar from the group, and walked over.
"If that's the case," Yu-ra said, holding it out to him, "then play."
The room quieted a little. Not completely—but enough.
It was a test.
If he refused now, the lie would be obvious.
Not just to Soo-yeong—but to everyone.
Den hesitated.
He wasn't that good. He was aware of it. He could play—but not to impress a room full of people.
But backing down would turn his harmless excuse into gossip.
And that would land on her.
So he took the guitar.
He sat. Adjusted it. Breathed once.
His fingers hesitated over the strings… then began.
The first notes were soft. Clean. Familiar.
Yiruma—"Kiss the Rain."
Neither flashy nor loud. Not a party song. But a genuine melody, giving each listener something different to feel.
The room changed.
Some people lost interest immediately. Others quieted down without knowing why. Conversations faded into background noise.
The melody filled the space gently—uneven in places, not perfect. He made mistakes. His skills were not nearly as good as the previous guy's. But it was unmistakable.
Honest.
Yu-ra slowly sat on the nearby chair. This was not what she had expected. She leaned closer and said quietly, just for him,
"…You seem to know well how to appeal to a girl."
Den only nodded, polite, reserved, and continued playing.
Mi-yeon was not breathing.
Her hands were clenched so tightly around her cup that the plastic creaked.
That melody.
Her favorite.
In high school, on the worst days—when words cut too deep, when laughter followed her down hallways—she would put this melody on her old phone. Over and over. It was her shield. Her hiding place. The one thing that made the world quiet enough to survive.
And now it was here. Played by him.
He doesn't know. He can't know.
To her, it felt like he had opened her chest and looked straight inside.
Her eyes stung. She blinked quickly, afraid tears might fall. It wasn't from sadness.
She looked at Den as if seeing him for the first time. And something shifted inside her.
Nothing to do with recognition of growing attraction. Such thoughts would be far too brave for her liking. But the sense of the first crack in the walls she had built to survive.
Closer to the end of the melody, Den hit a wrong note. He tried to recover and stumbled completely. When the last note faded, there was a short pause—then scattered applause. Not wild. But sincere.
"Sorry, I need more practice," he said, a bit disappointed in himself.
Kang Min-jae appeared almost out of nowhere—like he rose straight from the floor.
A light clap on Den's shoulder. The kind guys give when someone has crossed an invisible line and is now one of them.
"At this rate, Hyung," Min-jae said with an easy grin, "you're going to cause a rain of tears in this university."
A brief nod. "Nice tune."
There was no mockery in it. Just straightforward, masculine acknowledgment. Then Min-jae melted back into the crowd as suddenly as he had appeared.
Mi-yeon watched how Den stood up.
The couch creaked softly beneath him. The guitar remained on the seat, still warm from his hands—an object that no longer belonged to him the moment he let go.
Yu-ra noticed that he was leaving as well, but chose not to stop him. She understood the rules of attention instinctively. Maintaining alluring distance. Allowing him to leave without small talk.
Mi-yeon cared little for such complications. For her, any small talk would be significant enough.
Her fingers tightened around the water bottle. She took a tiny step forward—barely a step at all—then stopped.
She wanted to say something. But she didn't know if she was allowed.
In her eyes: anxiety, shyness, gratitude—and something dangerously close to interest, still afraid of its own existence.
They looked at each other.
A second longer than was reasonable.
An eternity longer than would be safe.
Den broke it first.
He turned and walked—unhurried, composed, like someone who had made a decision and didn't need to explain it.
As he passed her, Mi-yeon lowered her head slightly, as if not to block his way, as if trying to make herself smaller.
But just as he was about to reach the door, she gathered everything she had left.
And whispered—so softly it almost didn't exist:
"Good night, Den…"
Not loud. Not for anyone else, only for him.
He slowed down just a little at the doors, giving her a small nod, and disappeared.
The room behind remained loud, chaotic, soaked in alcohol and other people's ambitions.
Mi-yeon asked herself, staring at the door:
Why did I look at him longer than I should have?
At the same time, he paused for a few seconds, half-turned after the door closed between him and Mi-yeon:
Why did I look at her longer than I planned?
Den gave his head a small shake, as if physically throwing off the spell.
Then he turned fully and walked toward his dorm.
The night swallowed his footsteps.
Behind the door, Mi-yeon remained standing for a moment longer than necessary—holding a bottle of water, holding a melody in her chest.