Minji had just poured fresh milk into the onions she had been slowly frying when Zoya—standing opposite her with a notepad in hand, halfway through writing something—froze.
Her eyebrows drew together as she stared into the pan.
A look of genuine disbelief spread across her face.
Minji noticed immediately.
Still stirring the creamy mixture with a wooden spoon, she glanced sideways at Zoya and caught her staring as though she'd just witnessed a serious crime against cooking.
Suppressing a laugh, Minji raised an eyebrow.
"Zoya..."
She tilted her head.
"What now?"
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Caught, Zoya quickly shook her head and waved both hands in denial before awkwardly pointing back at the notepad resting against the counter.
Minji sighed dramatically.
"I am seriously getting tired of that notebook."
Her complaint sounded far more amused than annoyed.
"When is your voice coming back?"
She clicked her tongue.
"Honestly, I think you were right."
"Maybe we really should leave."
"At this rate, reading your notes all day is going to make us mute too."
Then a mischievous smile tugged at her lips.
"And tell me something..."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You barely talked before."
"So why now?"
She deliberately dragged out the last word.
"Whyyyyyy?"
"I thought you only wanted to check whether your voice had returned."
The teasing hit exactly as intended.
Zoya bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the smile threatening to escape.
Unfortunately...
Minji noticed that too.
"Oh..."
"So you're enjoying this?"
Zoya shrugged with an expression that looked suspiciously innocent.
Minji laughed under her breath before returning her attention to the stove.
The onions had softened into a rich, golden sweetness.
She added freshly sliced mushrooms, letting them absorb the creamy sauce before reaching for several bottles lined neatly beside the cooker.
One sauce after another disappeared into the pan.
Soy sauce.
Cream.
A little seasoning.
Everything measured without hesitation.
Watching the process unfold, Zoya couldn't decide what the dish wanted to be.
Sweet?
Salty?
Creamy?
It certainly wasn't spicy.
She made a face.
Her gaze travelled from Minji...
...back to the bubbling pan...
...then to Minji again.
The expression on her face suggested she was silently questioning every life decision that had somehow led her into this kitchen.
Without even looking up, Minji spoke.
"If you stop glaring at my culinary masterpiece..."
"...I might actually finish cooking it..."
"...and have enough time left to read whatever complaint you're writing next."
Zoya quietly leaned against the counter and folded her arms across her chest.
On the second induction stove, a pot of noodles boiled vigorously, steam curling lazily towards the ceiling.
The kitchen settled into a comfortable silence.
Only the gentle bubbling of sauce and the occasional clink of utensils filled the room.
Minji cooked with quiet confidence.
Every movement was smooth.
Practised.
Natural.
But Zoya wasn't watching the food anymore.
She was watching Minji.
The calm smile resting on her face.
The effortless rhythm of her hands.
The familiarity with which she prepared every ingredient.
Something about it tugged painfully at her heart.
She recognised the recipe.
Jeon J had cooked the exact same dish during one of Seven's live broadcasts.
She had watched it more than once.
The memory arrived without permission.
And with it...
That familiar ache.
A small smile appeared on her lips.
Yet sadness lingered quietly beneath it.
This distance between us...
It's becoming exhausting.
Her thoughts drifted further than she wanted them to.
You belong beside someone like her...
Someone who already understands your world.
Your food.
Your language.
Your memories.
What am I compared to that?
Nothing.
The answer came far too quickly.
And maybe...
...that's exactly what I should become.
Nothing more than the empty space between the two of you.
The thought settled heavily inside her chest.
For a brief second, her smile remained...
...but it no longer reached her eyes.
Before anyone could notice, she discreetly brushed the corner of one eye with the back of her hand.
Then lowered her head and hurriedly scribbled something onto the notepad.
This time, she held it up without hesitation.
Minji glanced over and read aloud.
I'm not drinking that tasteless soup. I'll make my own food.
She looked up immediately.
"You still aren't allowed spicy food."
Her voice carried the patient firmness of someone repeating the same thing for the hundredth time.
"Not until your throat has completely healed."
"Just bear with it for a few more days."
She gestured towards the pan.
"Look."
"I didn't make soup today."
"I made creamy fried-onion noodles."
"It's something different."
"The creamy sauce still isn't perfect for your throat..."
"...but it's a much better choice than spicy food."
As she spoke, she lifted the cooked noodles from the pot and folded them gently through the sauce.
Steam rose in soft clouds.
The aroma filled the kitchen almost instantly.
Zoya watched for exactly two seconds...
...before shaking her head with complete determination.
"No?"
Minji stared at her.
One second.
Two.
Then she sighed in surrender.
"Fine."
She stepped aside and folded her arms.
"Cook whatever you want."
"I'll stand right here and supervise."
She pointed a warning finger at Zoya.
"But..."
"No chilli."
"No spicy seasoning."
"No negotiations."
A grin immediately spread across Zoya's face.
She flashed an enthusiastic thumbs-up before marching towards the refrigerator with the excitement of someone finally being released from prison.
Minji couldn't help laughing.
Zoya opened the fridge and began gathering ingredients.
One potato.
One carrot.
One green capsicum.
Two spring onions.
Four large tomatoes.
Then she reached into the cupboard and pulled out a frying pan.
Minji watched quietly from the side.
Someone had once said...
The things you truly love have a way of bringing you back to life.
Looking at Zoya now...
Bright-eyed.
Focused.
Almost humming to herself despite having no voice...
Minji realised just how true those words were.
Whatever else happened...
Cooking made her happy.
Meanwhile, Minji finished her own dish, scattering freshly chopped spring onions over the creamy noodles before switching off the stove.
She slid the pan aside.
Now...
All of her attention belonged to Zoya.
Zoya peeled the potato first.
Then diced it into tiny, perfectly even cubes.
The carrot followed.
Then the capsicum.
She picked up the spring onions...
Studied them thoughtfully...
Then quietly returned them to the fridge.
Instead, she reached for one large white onion and sliced it into thick crescents.
Finally...
She picked up the tomatoes.
Minji's eyes widened.
"Wait."
She stepped forward so quickly it almost made Zoya jump.
Her gaze dropped into the bowl.
"...Are you actually planning to use all four tomatoes?"
Zoya blinked.
For a moment, she misunderstood completely.
Thinking Minji was worried there weren't enough left, she simply shrugged before grabbing her notebook.
A few seconds later, she turned it around.
I was actually going to use two or three more. Then I thought it might be rude to finish someone else's groceries.
Minji's mouth slowly fell open.
"You thought..."
She pointed dramatically at the bowl.
"...this was you being considerate?"
She stared at the four tomatoes lying peacefully inside it.
"Zoya..."
"You call this less?"
Zoya frowned, genuinely confused.
"...Is it too many?"
Minji pressed a hand dramatically against her chest.
"Do you know how expensive tomatoes are in Korea these days?"
She looked from the bowl...
...to Zoya...
...then back to the bowl again.
"If Jeon J saw this right now..."
She paused for effect.
"...he'd either faint on the spot..."
"...or he'd already be unconscious."
Zoya stared at her blankly.
An idol...
...fainting over tomatoes?
She picked up the notepad again.
What kind of headline is that? 'Famous idol collapses after witnessing four tomatoes.'
Even as she held the notebook up, she let out a silent sigh.
Communicating like this was exhausting.
Every thought required writing.
Every joke had to wait.
Every reply took twice as long.
She missed speaking more than she cared to admit.
Still muttering to herself, she reached for the row of cooking oils arranged beside the stove.
There were several bottles.
Without hesitation, she picked the one carrying a small Halal certification label.
Only then did she pour oil into the pan.
To Zoya...
It looked like barely enough.
To Minji...
It looked dangerously generous.
She had watched Zoya cook before.
The first time...
The food had somehow turned out incredible.
The second time...
Even the first letter of the word taste had disappeared.
Utterly flavourless.
Minji folded her arms.
"I wasn't joking."
"Tomatoes are practically sold like gold these days."
Then she leaned closer until her mouth was near Zoya's ear.
Lowering her voice into a theatrical whisper, she said,
"And if you look carefully..."
"...there are security cameras in this kitchen."
She straightened again with the most innocent expression imaginable.
Zoya froze.
Slowly...
Very slowly...
She turned her head.
Her eyes travelled around the kitchen.
One corner.
Nothing.
The second corner—
She stopped.
A small black camera.
Her gaze snapped to the opposite side.
Another one.
Her eyes widened.
Almost instinctively, she looked down at herself.
She checked her clothes.
Her sleeves.
Then, in a rush, she adjusted her scarf despite the fact that it hadn't moved even slightly.
The entire time...
Minji watched her.
The moment Zoya finished fussing over her scarf...
Minji burst into laughter.
Real, uncontrollable laughter.
"You actually believed me!"
She covered her mouth, trying to stop.
"I was only teasing you!"
Zoya slowly looked back at her.
The expression on her face was somewhere between embarrassment...
...and betrayal.
She narrowed her eyes.
Then calmly picked up her notebook.
She wrote only three words.
You're very annoying.
Minji laughed even harder.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Zoya rolled her eyes dramatically before turning back to the stove.
She dropped the diced potatoes into the hot oil.
The gentle sizzle immediately filled the kitchen.
Next came the carrots.
Then the capsicum.
The colours brightened almost instantly against the heat.
Meanwhile...
Hundreds of kilometres away—
In Busan.
Inside Kim Joon's room.
Seven's live broadcast was still underway.
The atmosphere was relaxed.
Teahun was reading comments from fans.
Kim Joon answered questions while laughing.
Hosu and Jinhun occasionally interrupted with jokes.
Behind them, Minjo and Yomin sat comfortably on the sofa.
And beside them...
Jeon J held his phone.
To millions of viewers, it appeared as though he was quietly scrolling through fan comments.
No one realised a second screen occupied his attention.
The kitchen security camera.
Its image filled his display.
The cameras had built-in microphones.
He had muted his own microphone and lowered the volume on the live feed.
No one inside the house could hear him.
But every sound from the kitchen reached him perfectly.
On the screen...
Minji stood with folded arms while Zoya cooked beside her.
Then Minji picked up the notebook.
She read it aloud.
"'Famous idol collapses after witnessing four tomatoes.'"
For a heartbeat...
Jeon J simply blinked.
Then he laughed.
It escaped before he could stop it.
A genuine laugh.
Warm.
Sudden.
Completely unexpected.
Everyone in the room looked at him.
Teahun paused mid-sentence.
Kim Joon lifted an eyebrow.
Even Yomin turned his head.
Jeon.J quickly lowered the phone.
"Sorry."
He lifted both hands apologetically.
"I just..."
He shook his head.
"Never mind."
He tried to compose himself.
Really, he did.
But every time he remembered the sentence...
Famous idol collapses after witnessing four tomatoes.
...another laugh threatened to escape.
He pressed his lips together.
Not now.
Especially not now.
Because RAMY possessed an almost supernatural ability to notice the smallest change in his behaviour.
And whenever she noticed something...
The internet noticed it too.
By tomorrow morning, there would probably be theories explaining why he'd smiled for exactly three seconds longer than usual.
Taking a slow breath, he picked up his phone again.
His smile faded into something softer.
On the screen...
Zoya had already returned to cooking.
Back in the kitchen, Minji tilted her head as she watched the vegetables slowly soften.
Finally, curiosity got the better of her.
"So..."
She leaned against the counter.
"What exactly are you making?"
She smiled.
"And before you refuse..."
"Do you need any help?"
Without looking up, Zoya grabbed her notebook.
After a few quick strokes, she held it out.
Yes. I want rice.
Minji blinked.
"Rice?"
She walked to the refrigerator, opened it, and pulled out a sealed microwave rice bowl.
Setting it beside Zoya, she nodded confidently.
"There you go."
"Rice."
Zoya looked at the bowl.
Then at Minji.
Then back at the bowl again.
She picked it up.
Turned it over.
Examined every side.
As though she expected uncooked rice grains to suddenly appear through the plastic.
Nothing.
Her disappointment was immediate.
She sighed dramatically before reaching for the notebook once more.
I want rice. Actual rice. The kind that grows in fields.
Minji stared at the note.
Then at Zoya.
Then back at the note again.
"...Girl."
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
"You are genuinely going to drive me insane."
She folded her arms.
"What kind of bachelor do you think lives here?"
"Of course everything is ready-made."
"At best, you'll find pasta."
She tapped the plastic bowl.
"Heat this in the microwave."
"Three minutes."
"Done."
"Stop making life difficult."
The second Zoya reached for the notebook again—
Minji snatched it straight out of her hands.
"No."
She held it behind her back.
"I refuse."
"If you write one more complaint..."
"...everything gets cancelled."
"And you're drinking soup."
Zoya immediately clasped both hands together beneath her chin.
Her eyes became impossibly pleading.
Just...
One...
More...
Note.
Minji tried not to smile.
She failed.
With an exaggerated sigh, she handed the notebook back.
The instant it touched Zoya's fingers...
She scribbled furiously.
Then shoved it towards Minji.
Then I'm not eating this rice. Give me spaghetti instead. After that... leave. And please take this notebook with you.
Minji read the note.
Looked at Zoya.
Looked back at the note.
A smile slowly spread across her face.
Without another word, she walked to the cupboard, pulled out a box of spaghetti and placed it on the counter.
"There."
"As requested."
Then she gathered the four plates of creamy fried-onion noodles she'd prepared.
One by one, she carried them into the living room—
Where three wonderfully lazy girls were already sitting comfortably in front of the TBS live, waiting to be fed.
The living room felt warm compared to the kitchen.
The LCD filled the room with soft voices.
A live TBS broadcast was playing.
Seven sat comfortably together, chatting with fans as if they were simply spending an ordinary evening.
Minji placed the plates on the coffee table one after another.
"There."
She smiled proudly.
"Dinner is served."
Ruhi immediately reached for her plate.
"I've been starving."
Sophia inhaled dramatically.
"This smells amazing."
Hana picked up her fork before looking around.
"...Where's Zoya?"
Minji chuckled.
"Still in the kitchen."
"She declared independence."
Ruhi frowned.
"Again?"
"Mhm."
"Apparently my food has committed some terrible crime."
"She's making her own desi-style rebellion dinner."
The room erupted in laughter.
Meanwhile...
The kitchen belonged entirely to Zoya now.
The spaghetti had finished boiling.
She drained it carefully before adding it to the vegetables.
Then came the spices.
One spoon.
Then another.
Then another.
The familiar aroma instantly transformed the room.
Warm.
Comforting.
Home.
She closed her eyes for just a second.
It had been days since she had smelled food that reminded her of Pakistan.
A small smile appeared without permission.
For the first time in days...
Cooking didn't feel like survival.
It felt like comfort.
She tossed the spaghetti through the masala until every strand was coated evenly.
Satisfied, she switched off the stove.
While the food rested...
She cleaned.
Every bottle returned exactly where she'd found it.
The chopping board washed.
The knife dried.
The counter wiped spotless.
Whatever anyone thought about her cooking...
Nobody could complain about the kitchen afterward.
Jeon J couldn't help smiling.
She cleaned while she cooked.
He noticed everything.
The way she instinctively returned each spice bottle to its place.
The way she wiped the counter before the food had even reached the plate.
Tiny habits.
Meaningless to anyone else.
For some reason...
They didn't feel meaningless to him.
Without realizing it...
He found himself waiting to see what she would do next.
Finally...
Zoya plated the spaghetti.
Steam curled lazily into the air.
She looked satisfied.
Then...
She opened the utensil drawer.
Her hand reached automatically toward a fork.
Her fingertips wrapped around the handle.
She stopped.
Completely still.
Her eyes remained fixed on the fork.
Then...
Very slowly...
She let go.
Instead...
She picked up a pair of chopsticks.
Back in Busan...
Jeon J straightened.
His smile disappeared.
He already knew she couldn't use chopsticks.
Minji had mentioned it more than once.
Which was exactly why...
He didn't understand.
Why was she forcing herself?
Zoya looked down at the chopsticks in her hands.
She adjusted her fingers.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
She remembered watching Korean dramas.
Variety shows.
University cafeterias.
Everyone used them so naturally.
It had looked...
Easy.
Now...
They felt impossibly unfamiliar between her fingers.
She inhaled quietly.
"It's okay..."
she whispered to herself without sound.
"You can do this."
She lowered them toward the spaghetti.
The noodles slipped away.
She tried again.
This time...
She managed to catch a few strands.
A tiny smile appeared.
Slowly...
Carefully...
She lifted them toward her mouth.
Just a little farther...
Almost there—
The chopsticks shifted.
The noodles slipped free.
They fell back onto the plate with a soft metallic clink.
Silence.
She stared at them.
Then tried again.
They slipped again.
And again.
Each failure smaller than the last.
Yet somehow...
Each one hurt a little more.
Not because of the chopsticks.
Because they reminded her of everything else.
The language.
The food.
The customs.
The endless effort of trying to belong somewhere that still didn't quite feel like home.
And suddenly...
Something inside her gave way.
Zoya stood motionless.
The chopsticks rested loosely between her fingers.
She looked at the spaghetti again.
Then at her own hands.
A tiny, helpless smile appeared...
Only to disappear a heartbeat later.
She adjusted her grip.
One last time.
Maybe this time...
She tried again.
The noodles lifted.
For one fragile second, they stayed exactly where they were supposed to.
Hope flickered across her face.
Then—
The chopsticks slipped.
The spaghetti slid back onto the plate.
Clink.
The sound was barely audible.
Yet inside her...
It echoed like something breaking.
She didn't move.
Her eyes remained fixed on the plate.
The kitchen suddenly felt much quieter than before.
No one noticed.
Ruhi was still eating.
Sophia laughed at something happening on television.
Hana complimented Minji's cooking.
Minji smiled proudly.
None of them realised the battle taking place only a few metres away.
Back in Busan...
Jeon J forgot the live broadcast.
Forgot the cameras.
Forgot the millions of people watching him.
His eyes never left the tiny screen in his hand.
He knew immediately...
It wasn't about the chopsticks.
It had never been about the chopsticks.
Zoya slowly lowered her hands.
She stared at the chopsticks resting against the edge of the plate.
Memories surfaced one after another.
The first day she had landed in Korea.
Standing alone inside the airport.
Unable to understand a single announcement.
Trying unfamiliar food.
Smiling politely when she wanted to ask questions.
Learning words that refused to stay in her memory.
Pretending she wasn't homesick.
Pretending she wasn't lonely.
Pretending she wasn't tired.
Every small struggle...
Every silent compromise...
Every lonely victory...
They all returned at once.
The chopsticks had simply become the final straw.
A shaky breath escaped her.
Then another.
Before she realised it...
Warm tears blurred her vision.
One drop landed on the countertop.
Another followed.
She quickly wiped her face.
But the tears refused to stop.
She lowered her head.
Both hands gripped the edge of the counter.
Her shoulders trembled.
No sound escaped her.
Only silent tears.
The kind that came after holding everything together for far too long.
Back in Busan...
Jeon J sat upright so suddenly that Yomin glanced at him.
There was no mistaking it now.
Something was wrong.
Yomin looked from Jeon J...
...to the phone lying beside him.
Then back again.
He wanted to ask.
But he couldn't.
Not here.
Not during a live broadcast.
Meanwhile...
Fans flooded the chat with new comments.
"Jeon J looks distracted today."
"Why does he keep looking at his phone?"
"Is everything okay?"
He didn't see a single one.
His attention remained somewhere else.
Hundreds of kilometres away.
Inside a quiet kitchen.
Watching someone cry.
And being completely unable to do anything about it.
A strange ache settled inside his chest.
Heavy.
Restless.
Unfamiliar.
He wished—
Just once—
He could reach through the screen.
Tell her to stop blaming herself.
Tell her that failing to use chopsticks wasn't failure.
Tell her she didn't have to become someone else just to belong.
But screens didn't allow that.
Neither did reality.
As though she sensed someone watching...
Zoya slowly lifted her face.
Tears still shimmered in her eyes.
Her gaze travelled across the kitchen...
Until it stopped.
The camera.
For a long moment...
She simply looked at it.
Her expression was heartbreakingly calm.
No surprise.
No confusion.
Only certainty.
She didn't know why...
She didn't know how...
But somewhere deep inside...
She knew.
He's watching.
Neither of them moved.
Hundreds of kilometres apart...
Separated by cities...
By lives...
By circumstances...
Their eyes met through nothing more than a silent camera feed.
Time seemed to stand still.
Then...
Very slowly...
Zoya shook her head.
Once.
Then again.
A quiet...
Gentle...
Almost pleading refusal.
No.
No to the feelings neither of them had spoken aloud.
No to the fragile hope growing between impossible circumstances.
No to a future that could only hurt them both.
She didn't need words.
The gesture said everything.
Jeon J felt something tighten painfully inside his chest.
He understood.
Not because she explained it.
But because she didn't.
Sometimes...
Silence carried truths words never could.
He watched as she looked away from the camera.
She placed the chopsticks carefully on the counter.
Not angrily.
Not dramatically.
Just...
Quietly.
Then she reached for the fork.
The same fork she had ignored moments earlier.
She picked up her plate.
Without another glance...
She walked out of the kitchen.
The camera continued recording an empty room.
Steam still rose from the forgotten pan.
The silence she left behind somehow felt louder than any conversation.
Jeon J remained frozen.
The live broadcast continued around him.
People laughed.
Answered questions.
Read comments.
Life carried on.
Yet he heard none of it.
A single thought echoed inside him.
I couldn't even tell her it was okay.
He closed his eyes briefly.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
Then...
Slowly...
He took a deep breath.
Another.
And another.
Until the storm inside him settled beneath years of practiced control.
A painful truth quietly found its place.
He wasn't simply Jeon J.
He was...
Jeon J of Seven.
A name.
A public figure.
Someone whose every step belonged to millions of people.
Someone who couldn't follow silent feelings born through camera screens and unspoken glances.
No matter what his heart wanted...
Reality would remain unchanged.
It always had.
It always would.
The thought hollowed something inside him.
But it also reminded him who he had trained himself to become.
So...
He buried the feeling.
Locked it behind the smile the world expected from him.
When he finally looked up again...
His expression was calm.
Professional.
Untouched.
Only his eyes betrayed the exhaustion of someone who had just quietly lost a battle no one else even knew had begun.
The tears had never been about the chopsticks.
Not really.
Those two thin wooden sticks had only become the final reminder...
...of a distance she could no longer pretend didn't exist.
A distance measured neither in kilometres...
...nor in languages.
But in worlds.
Such a small thing.
So ordinary.
People picked them up without thinking.
Yet she had stood there for minutes...
...unable to make them obey her hands.
A bitter smile trembled across her lips.
"If I can't even learn something this simple..."
"How could I ever belong in his world?"
The thought settled heavily inside her chest.
It wasn't about eating.
It wasn't about culture.
It wasn't even about learning.
It was about him.
Jeon J.
Every day she tried to step a little closer...
Only to discover another distance waiting between them.
Language.
Culture.
Life.
Status.
Dreams.
Even the smallest habits seemed to whisper the same truth.
You don't belong here.
Another tear slipped silently down her cheek.
She finally understood why her heart hurt so much.
She hadn't failed to use chopsticks.
She had simply caught a glimpse...
...of how impossible her love truly was.
Jeon J continued watching the empty kitchen through the screen.
Only now...
He understood.
She hadn't broken because of the chopsticks.
She had broken because they represented something far greater.
A gap neither of them had ever dared to name.
A gap built from different countries...
different languages...
different lives...
and realities neither love nor longing could erase.
For the first time...
He wished he could tell her...
"You were never too far away."
But some words...
Could never be spoken.
And some distances...
Could only be carried in silence.
He wasn't just Jeon J right now.
He was an idol.
And idols didn't let themselves break on camera.
So he stayed where he was.
Forced his breathing to be steady.
Held himself together.
That's all I'll ever be, he thought bitterly.
An idol.
Nothing more.
A name people belonged to.
A person who could not afford to act on silent feelings carried through camera screens and unspoken glances.
No matter what he felt—
That reality would not change.
And it never would.
The thought hollowed something inside him.
But it also steadied him.
So he did what he had trained himself to do for years.
He buried it.
Locked it away.
And when he looked up again—
His expression was smooth.
Controlled.
Untouched.
To be continued...
Regards,
ZK 💌