The tension with my father hung over the house like an oppressive fog. Conversations were minimal, and my thoughts circled endlessly around Jiho's words: You can either let them dictate it, or you can fight for what you want.
But fighting had never been my strong suit.
I called father,
"Appa," I began cautiously, breaking the quiet.
He didn't look up, but the slight pause in his movement told me he had heard me.
"I need to know," I said, my voice steady but pleading. "Why won't you let me go to Boston? What's the reason?"
"You already know my answer," he replied evenly, his gaze fixed on the teacup in his hands.
"But that's not enough," I pressed, leaning forward. "Appa, I'm not asking for permission anymore—I'm asking for understanding. Why can't I take this opportunity?"
He set the cup down with deliberate care, his eyes finally meeting mine. There was a flicker of something—regret, hesitation, perhaps—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Yoon Seo," he said, his tone soft but firm, "I will tell you when the time is right. For now, trust me. Don't ask me again."
My chest tightened with frustration, but I nodded reluctantly. "When will that time be, Appa?"
He stood, adjusting his jacket before glancing at me. "Soon," he said simply. "But not now."
---
Two days later, Jiho was seated in the living room when I returned from my shift at the clinic. He barely glanced up from his book as I walked past, my steps faltering when I caught sight of him. Something about his presence had always been unsettling. It wasn't just his sharp features or his unreadable expressions—it was the way he seemed to see through people, as though no secret was safe from his piercing gaze.
"Long day?" he asked, his voice devoid of actual interest.
"None of your business," I replied curtly, kicking off my shoes.
His lips quirked in a faint smirk, and I braced myself for another jab. "You're awfully defensive for someone who doesn't care what I think."
"I don't care," I shot back, my irritation flaring. "I just—"
"Miss Yoon," he interrupted, finally looking up. "If you're going to be this predictable, you might as well save us both the effort."
I clenched my fists, his casual dismissal igniting a flicker of anger. "Why are you even here, Jiho? You don't seem to like anyone in this house, least of all me."
His smirk vanished, replaced by a colder, sharper expression. "And yet, here you are, always seeking me out. Funny how that works."
I opened my mouth to argue but closed it again. He was right, though I hated admitting it. Something about Jiho's presence—his aloofness, his honesty, even his disdain—kept pulling me toward him, as if I craved his approval despite myself.
"Don't flatter yourself," I muttered, turning toward the stairs. "You're just the only person who doesn't walk on eggshells around me."
---
Later that night, I found myself awake, staring at the sky. My father's disapproval weighed heavily on me, but Jiho's cutting words replayed in my mind: You're predictable.
Was I? Was I so easy to read, so trapped in my own cycle of hesitation and fear?
Sleep eluded me, so I stepped outside, drawn once again to the quiet solace of the garden. The koi pond shimmered under the moonlight, and I knelt beside it, tracing patterns in the cool earth.
"I'd suggest a better outlet for your frustration," Jiho's voice startled me once again.
I whirled around, glaring at him. "Do you always have to sneak up on people?"
"Do you always talk to yourself in the middle of the night?" he countered, leaning against the tree. His coat was draped over his shoulders, and his dark eyes glinted with amusement.
I sighed, turning back to the pond. "Why are you here, Jiho? Really. You act like you hate this place."
He didn't respond right away, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost contemplative. "Maybe I don't hate it. Maybe I just hate the people who pretend it's perfect."
I glanced at him, surprised by the unexpected honesty. "Do you think that's what I'm doing? Pretending?"
He shrugged. "You tell me."
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves.
"I don't pretend," I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt. "I'm just trying to survive."
Jiho's gaze softened, and for a moment, I thought he might say something comforting. But then the mask slipped back into place, and he straightened, his smirk returning.
"Good luck with that, Miss Yoon," he said, turning to leave. "You're going to need it."
As I watched him walk away, I realized Jiho wasn't just dismissing me. He was challenging me, pushing me to face the parts of myself I'd been too afraid to confront.
And perhaps that was the most infuriating thing of all.
The next morning, Jiho's words lingered in my mind, blending with the tension that had settled into every corner of the house. My father's refusal, Jiho's jabs, and my own frustration churned inside me until it felt like I would burst.
I found myself sitting in the living room with Jiho's mother, Mrs. Kang, who was arranging flowers in a vase with meticulous care. She had always been kind to me, a stark contrast to her aloof and infuriating son.
"Mrs. Kang," I began hesitantly.
She looked up, her warm eyes meeting mine. "Yes, Yoon Seo? Is something troubling you?"
I hesitated for a moment, unsure if I should voice my thoughts. But the words came tumbling out before I could stop them.
"It's Jiho," I blurted. "He's impossible to deal with. He's cold, dismissive, and—and downright rude!"
Her brows lifted in mild surprise, but she didn't interrupt. I took her silence as permission to continue.
"I don't understand him," I went on, my frustration spilling out. "One moment, he's acting like he's better than everyone, and the next, he's giving cryptic advice like he's some sort of philosopher. And he always finds a way to make me feel small, like I'm some kind of... burden!"
Mrs. Kang set the vase down gently, her expression thoughtful. "Jiho can be difficult," she admitted, her voice calm. "He's always been a bit... distant. Even as a child."
"Distant?" I repeated, frowning. "He's downright hostile."
A small smile tugged at her lips. "Perhaps, but I don't think it's hostility toward you, Yoon Seo. Jiho has his own way of dealing with the world, and it isn't always kind. But that doesn't mean he dislikes you."
I folded my arms, unconvinced. "Well, he has a strange way of showing it."
Mrs. Kang regarded me for a long moment before speaking. "Have you ever asked him why he behaves the way he does?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "Why would I? He barely talks to me as it is."
"Sometimes, people build walls to protect themselves," she said gently. "And sometimes, those walls hurt the people who try to get close. If you truly want to understand Jiho, you'll need to look past the surface."
Her words left me with more questions than answers. Could there really be more to Jiho than his icy exterior?
---
That evening, I tried to avoid Jiho altogether, but fate seemed determined to put us in each other's paths. As I walked into the dining room, I found him sitting at the table, lazily scrolling through his phone.
"Ah, Miss Yoon," he greeted without looking up. "Here to critique my manners again?"
I ignored his jab and sat at the far end of the table, determined not to let him get under my skin.
"What, no snarky comeback?" he asked, his tone laced with mock surprise.
I slammed my book onto the table, glaring at him. "Do you ever get tired of being insufferable?"
He finally looked up, his brow arching. "Depends. Do you ever get tired of complaining about it?"
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "You know what, Jiho? I don't care why you act the way you do. But maybe—just maybe—you could try being a decent human being for once."
He leaned back in his chair, his smirk never wavering. "And maybe—just maybe—you could try minding your own business."
Fuming, I stormed out of the room, my earlier conversation with Mrs. Kang replaying in my mind. Look past the surface? How could I, when all Jiho ever showed me was disdain?
---