Episode 32
16 May 2025. Wednesday. Early evening. SNU, Central Lawn.
A couple of hours later, the same three upperclassmen are still sitting at the table.
They've already eaten. Drained several bottles of soju. Now they linger—telling stories, laughing too loudly, ordering small snacks they don't really want, mostly to keep Soo-yeong coming back.
Se-a doesn't notice.
She moves between tables like she belongs there, smiling easily, collecting glances and compliments the way some people collect coins. Chang-woo doesn't notice either. In his simple, honest worldview, if a girl is smiling, then everything is fine. He only smiles when he's happy—so surely everyone else does the same.
But Mi-yeon notices.
She carries dirty plates. Ties trash bags. Walks back and forth between tents. And every time her eyes find Soo-yeong, something feels wrong.
At first, Soo-yeong was just annoyed.
Then irritated.
Then hurt.
Two hours in, she's barely holding it together.
Her smile has become tight. Her shoulders tense. Her answers are shorter. Her eyes avoid that table now—but she keeps having to go back.
She's scared.
Not openly. Not dramatically. She doesn't cry. She doesn't ask for help.
But Mi-yeon knows that look.
Because she has worn that look herself. Many times.
She considers offering to switch places. To take over that table.
But she hesitates—afraid Soo-yeong might snap back with something like, "I'm not the one who takes out trash."
So Mi-yeon stays silent.
She glances toward Den.
He's still at the grill. Calm. Focused. Turning skewers as if nothing exists beyond the smoke and fire.
The three men lean closer together now, voices lower—but not low enough.
Fragments drift through the noise.
"…our waitress—"
"…nah, I like them at least a couple of sizes bigger…"
"…your taste is primitive, Eun-ho, just like your brain. How did you even get into this university?"
"Shut up, Kyung-soo."
"No, I'm serious. You're blind. I'll help you get a better look."
Den looks up.
Just in time to see one of them deliberately tip his cup, spilling soda across the tablecloth.
"Hey, Soo-yeong?" he calls, loud and cheerful.
"Oops. We spilled. Sorry about that."
He grins.
"Could you change the tablecloth and clean this up?"
Another adds, laughing:
"Yeah, do it for us, Soo-yeong. We'll enjoy watching you take care of us."
"Don't worry," the third says. "We'll leave you a nice tip."
They laugh—convinced it's harmless, convinced it's funny.
Soo-yeong stands in the middle of the tent, fists clenched at her sides.
Den moves closer.
She hisses under her breath, barely holding it in.
"They're unbelievable. Absolute trash."
He shakes his head once, quietly.
"Go take a break," he says evenly.
"I'll handle them."
She looks at him—surprised, relieved, angry, all at once. She quickly puts her mask back on.
"I didn't ask you to interfere."
Den had already made up his mind.
"I am not asking you either. I am telling you. Go take your damn break."
He gave her a cold look, and Soo-yeong suddenly had no desire to argue. She looked at him irritated but still relieved, threw her hands up, and said:
"Don't expect me to be thankful."
She turned around and left.
Den watched her go.
"Gave that up a while ago."
He unties his apron. Hands it to Chan-woo.
"Watch the grill for me, bro."
Then he walks to the table.
The three men look up, confused.
"Lift your plates," Den says.
"What?" one of them frowns.
"Who are you?"
"Where's our Soo-yeong? What do you want?"
Den doesn't raise his voice.
"Lift. Your. Plates."
Something in his tone cuts through the alcohol.
They hesitate—then, one by one, lift whatever they still want to eat.
Den grips the tablecloth by all four corners. He tied it in a tight knot right there on the table. With one smooth motion, he gathers everything left on it—cups, spilled soda, scraps—and flings the bundle toward the trash area.
Then he leans forward, hands on the table, meeting each of their eyes in turn.
"We're out of tablecloths," he says calmly.
"And I'm nearly out of patience."
A pause.
"Finish what's in your hands. Pay. And leave."
For the first time all evening, the three men don't laugh.
Den turns away without waiting for an answer.
He goes back to the grill. Ties his apron on again. Picks up the tongs.
The meat sizzles.
The festival noise swells back around him.
And only Mi-yeon notices that Soo-yeong, standing a little farther away now, has finally let herself breathe.
When he stands for me… I always want to think that he likes me…
But he stands for anyone, it seems.
Why am I fooling myself into thinking that I'm somehow special to him?
Gradually, the flow of visitors thins out.
Han-bin unties her apron and exhales, stretching her shoulders.
"Alright, guys. You can handle the rest yourselves. We helped enough—and we have our own plans."
She doesn't wait for an answer. She grabs Min-jae by the arm—he hasn't even taken his apron off yet—and drags him toward the deeper part of the park, where the lights are brighter and the music of the invited K-pop group rolls through the air.
"Bye, Han-bin!"
"Bye, Min-jae!"
"Thanks for helping!"
They wave after them.
The moment they step onto the park path, Han-bin releases his arm.
Not abruptly—more like she no longer needs the excuse. As if earlier she'd been afraid that without touching him, she wouldn't be able to pull him away from Se-a's orbit, and now she's calm, certain.
She walks ahead, fixing her hair.
Min-jae, a little confused and discouraged that she released his hand, follows a step behind.
His thoughts are completely occupied by her.
He is hopelessly, thoroughly in love with this loud, fearless, infuriating girl.
She stops, clearly expecting him to catch up.
But Min-jae stops a few meters behind her instead—hesitant, unsure if he's allowed to stand beside her.
"Uh… are we here?" he asks awkwardly.
"Is this where you wanted to go, Han-bin?"
She snorts.
"Of course not. Why would I drag you to a dark, quiet corner of the park? Dream on!"
She tilts her head.
"We're going to the concert."
"Oh. Right. Yeah."
He flushes. "Let's go, then."
She starts walking again.
And again, Min-jae trails behind her in silence.
Han-bin stops a second time, giving him another chance.
He still doesn't close the distance.
She rolls her eyes—but it's pure flirtation, not irritation.
Under her breath, she mutters to herself:
"Oh my god… he's following me like a homeless puppy. I'm going to die from how cute this is."
"W-what?" Min-jae asks, lifting his head. He clearly didn't hear.
Han-bin exhales, gathering her courage.
Then she makes a decision.
She turns, walks straight up to him, takes his hand. Min-jae freezes.
She looks him directly in the eyes and says, fast and fierce:
"Kang Min-jae. I want you to be my boyfriend. We're dating now. And if you reject me, I will die of embarrassment—but before that, I'll beat you up and scratch your face.
So… please. Say yes."
"…Yes," Min-jae blurts out.
He tries to add something—anything—but Han-bin presses a finger to his lips.
"And now," she continues firmly, "hold my hand so everyone—and that flirty fox Se-a—knows you're mine. And walk me to the concert."
"Yes. Yes, of course." He nods too quickly, bowing out of pure reflex.
He takes her hand.
And as they walk toward the glow of the stage lights, something shifts in his face—confusion fading, replaced by a happiness and confidence so obvious it's almost embarrassing.
Hand in hand, they disappear into the music.
16 May 2025. Wednesday. Late evening. SNU's park zone.
Mi-yeon drags her feet as she climbs the steps toward the dormitory.
The night has already settled in.
Far away, the festival is still alive—music, cheers, the muffled pulse of a concert—but here, between the buildings, it's quiet. Almost empty. She's already left the tents far behind.
Then—
"Mi-yeon! Mi-yeon, wait!"
She turns.
Den is jogging up after her, slightly out of breath. In his hands: two skewers of still-steaming meat. Tucked under his arm—a half-empty bottle of red wine, corked, a plastic cup perched awkwardly on its neck.
"Where are you rushing off to?" he calls.
"We worked all day. At least have dinner."
She stops.
For a second she just stares at him, as if trying to understand what she's seeing—not just the food, but the fact that he ran after her. That he noticed she left. That he followed.
Den drops his jacket onto the steps, spreading it out like an improvised seat. He sits down and pats the step beside him.
"Please, Mi-yeon. Sit. Eat with me."
She nods lightly, lips pressed together, nerves written all over her face. She smooths her shorts with her hand—like they're a skirt that needs arranging—and sits.
He hands her a skewer.
"Eat. Tastes better while it's still hot."
Then he takes the other skewer in both hands and bites straight into the meat.
Mi-yeon's eyes widen.
She's holding her skewer with both hands, frozen. In her head, food should be taken off, cut up, eaten neatly with chopsticks.
"Y-you're eating it… like that?" she asks, stunned.
Den pauses, pulls back slightly, wipes a drop of juice from the corner of his mouth with his finger.
"Well… yeah. It's shashlik. That's how you eat it."
He shrugs. "No plates anyway. Just bite. It's good. Don't be scared."
Inside Mi-yeon, upbringing battles hunger.
Hunger eventually wins by a few dozen points.
She smiles faintly at him, looks away, and almost whispers—fully aware of how strange this must sound:
"O-okay… but… please… turn around. Don't watch me bite."
Den blinks, genuinely confused.
But he doesn't argue.
"…Alright. Fine."
He turns his back to her, sitting almost back-to-back, his shoulder lightly touching hers.
"I'm turned around."
Mi-yeon glances around to make sure he really isn't looking.
Then, finally, she gives in.
She takes a small bite.
Chews.
Her eyes close.
"Oh…" Her voice is barely there. "It's… really good…"
She takes another bite—this time without hesitation.
They eat in silence.
At one point, Den pours a little wine into the plastic cup and hands it to her.
"Try this," he says quietly.
"French. Aged Bordeaux. I was saving it for a special occasion."
She takes a sip. The flavor shifts—the meat becomes richer, deeper.
"For the festival?" she asks softly.
Den answers without thinking.
"For you."
Mi-yeon freezes.
Am I special to him? Is that what he says?
Or am I fooling myself again into thinking that?
Her fingers tighten around the skewer.
The night feels suddenly closer, warmer.
She doesn't look at him—but her smile grows, small and careful, like something precious she doesn't quite dare to show yet.
They sit there, shoulders touching, eating meat off skewers on a dormitory staircase, the festival fading into the distance.
Quietly and happily.
16 May 2025. Wednesday. Almost midnight. SNU, Central Lawn.
When Han-bin comes back to the dorm, Mi-yeon is already in their room.
She's curled up in the armchair in her soft home pajamas, legs tucked under herself. A plush bear is hugged tightly to her chest. A book rests in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other. The light is warm, quiet—safe.
Han-bin, on the other hand, practically glows.
She drops her bag, crosses the room in two steps, wraps Mi-yeon in a sudden hug, then—without shame—leans in and kisses the plush bear on the head. She steals Mi-yeon's coffee, takes a bold sip, and then spins around the room like a snowflake caught in a happy gust of wind, laughing to herself.
Mi-yeon watches this in stunned silence for several seconds.
Then she carefully closes her book and speaks, calm but dangerous:
"Either you tell me everything. Right now. Or give me back my coffee, go wash your face and brush your teeth, and DO NOT ever kiss my plush bear again. You have your own."
Han-bin freezes.
She looks at Mi-yeon, then deliberately sits down on the floor. She takes another slow sip of coffee—clearly testing her luck—sets the mug down with exaggerated care, then clenches her fists under her chin and announces with cartoonishly radiant joy:
"Min-jae and I are a couple. We're dating!"
Mi-yeon jumps up.
"Seriously?!"
"Yes!"
Han-bin jumps up too.
They hug, bounce in place, stomp their feet, squeal like teenagers who've just won the lottery. Then, breathless and laughing, they collapse onto the floor together.
Mi-yeon's happiness is genuine, bright.
"You have to tell me everything," she demands.
"Did he confess? How did it happen?"
Han-bin makes a sly, mischievous face.
"He walked up to me with a bouquet of flowers, took my hand, and said, 'Lee Han-bin-ssi, be mine forever!'"
Mi-yeon gasps.
"He really said THAT? With flowers?!"
Han-bin bursts out laughing.
"Of course not, you dummy. This is Min-jae, we are talking about. He just stood there, staring like a fish. So I told him I'd scratch his face if he won't say yes to me…"
She pauses, squints playfully.
"…and he said yes!"
They hug again, laughter filling the room.
Then Han-bin leans back, studying Mi-yeon.
"So? How about you?"
"Still pretending you're not in love?"
Mi-yeon looks away.
"In love with who?"
"With Den oppa," Han-bin says flatly.
"Who are you trying to fool? I'm your best friend."
Mi-yeon bites her lip.
"I don't know, Han-bin. Sometimes it feels like I matter to him. And sometimes I think… he's just kind. He's kind to everyone."
She exhales.
"You saw today. The way he made those drunk seniors leave. He'd do that for anyone."
Her voice softens.
"How do you know a guy likes you… when he treats everyone well, not just you?"
Han-bin falls silent. She doesn't have an answer.
Mi-yeon continues, quietly:
"And even if he did like me… then what?
Beautiful guys belong with beautiful gals."
She hugs her knees.
"If I even dared to say his name out loud, popular girls would tear me apart. And guys will laugh at him for having 'bad taste.'
I want to be with him… but I don't want to ruin his life. Or mine."
Han-bin sighs and pulls Mi-yeon into a side hug, resting her chin lightly on her shoulder.
"Oh, my poor bestie," she murmurs.
"You really fell hard, didn't you."
The room grows quiet again.
Two girls sitting on the floor, holding onto each other—one glowing with new love, the other terrified of hers.