"I—I never said I hated you. Let’s just go."
I threw the words out in a rush, yanked the door open, and walked out of the building. The moment I stepped outside—bzzzt—cicadas drilled straight into my ears. It was only June, but the cicadas were already going wild.
Even cicadas are throwing a tantrum to say they love each other, and here I am getting chewed out by my professor because I’ve never been in love. Meanwhile my amnesiac esper just tracks my location and trails after me. What a pathetic life.
I was muttering inwardly when Cha Gweonwoo came up beside me and suddenly said right in my ear:
"So you don’t hate me?"
I flicked my eyes upward at him. Must’ve been hot out, because both of his cheeks were flushed red.
"Then… do you like me?"
How the hell is that your conclusion, Mr. Cha Gweonwoo?
"‘Hate’ isn’t the opposite of ‘like,’ you know."
"True."
"Then how…"
How can you just…? Just because I don’t hate you doesn’t mean I like you! Don’t tell me you really think the opposite of hate is like?
I wanted to argue back, but I was already on the verge of failing Intro to Writing with a big fat zero, so I clamped my mouth shut.
Cha Gweonwoo’s lips curled into an easy grin, and with his lazy swagger he fell in step beside me. I thought about correcting myself, but trying to say “Actually, I don’t like you, Mr. Cha Gweonwoo” now felt like terrible timing.
So I just gnawed on my lip instead, while his eyes kept darting everywhere, busy scanning our surroundings.
The campus lake, with a few ducks floating. A couple sitting on a bench. Laughter echoing from far off. His gaze lingered on these lively scenes with something… almost wistful.
What are you thinking about right now, sunfish?
I suddenly wondered. He’d said, before waking up here, that he was twenty. What kind of life had twenty-year-old Cha Gweonwoo lived? Was he just a normal college kid, walking across a campus like this?
He spoke first.
"This school’s way bigger than I expected. Normally, I’d have gone to college too."
"Normally?"
"A week before enrollment, I got the notice. ‘Mr. Cha Gweonwoo, results of your first manifestation exam: confirmed as a physical-type esper. Please visit the Center within two weeks for your secondary exam… blah blah.’"
My own heart-dropping memory came back, clear as yesterday—the moment I pulled an ominous envelope out of my mailbox.
"How did you feel when you got it?"
Frowning, Gweonwoo rubbed a thumb across his eyebrow.
"Weird. Nobody around me had ever gotten a letter like that."
"……"
"My parents didn’t really believe it either. Everyone was like, let’s just see what the second exam says, then the final one. I thought it was bullshit too, went to sleep… then woke up and—"
He trailed off, shut one eye and opened it again with a crooked laugh.
"So why am I here now?"
His eyes clouded again with that sudden heaviness. Instinct told me: don’t let him sink any deeper into that line of thought.
I grabbed his wrist and derailed the topic.
"Mr. Cha Gweonwoo, have you eaten?"
Instead of answering, he looked down at my hand clutching his wrist. Then he wriggled his big hand until he was holding mine, face turning almost childish as he whined:
"No. Eat with me."
***
Dragging him out had felt all bold and decisive, but now… what the hell were we actually supposed to eat?
I knew plenty of good spots nearby, but not one menu seemed easy to suggest. My mouth opened and closed a few times, then I kept it shut.
Had I ever eaten alone with Cha Gweonwoo outside the Center? Of course not.
So I had zero clue what he liked. Personally, I didn’t care if a place looked dingy inside or out, as long as it tasted good. But what about him?
Most of the joints my classmates and I frequented were questionable hygiene-wise. The handful of places with nice interiors definitely didn’t have the right vibe for sitting down one-on-one with Cha Gweonwoo.
I pictured those restaurants where they pipe in classical music and serve palm-sized “artisan” bread as appetizers. Then I shook my head fast.
Nope. Absolutely not. I could not eat with him there.
That was when he suddenly pointed at the second floor of a building.
"Want tteokbokki?"
I swallowed hard instead of answering. Just the sign made it look lethal. Honestly, I’d never even glanced at that place while in school.
Every time my friends tried to drag me there, I’d scoff: Why would I pay money to eat something that spicy? Might as well go home and mix gochujang with wasabi. Always flat refusal.
But now Gweonwoo’s eyes sparkled. He said he used to go all the time in high school. Didn’t even know it was a chain. Thought it only existed in front of his house.
He looked so thrilled I couldn’t bring myself to say no. Not like I had a better alternative anyway.
So I nodded, and just like that, I’d bought myself a one-way ticket straight to hell.
Sitting across from him at a second-floor window seat with the street spread out below us… it felt bizarre. Like hanging my grade-school dinosaur doodle in the center hall of the Musée d’Orsay.
Even the crooked sign right behind his head looked grotesque: “Fried Rice 1,000 won” with the word “refill” scribbled in bright red marker.
Tteokbokki with Cha Gweonwoo. Honestly, meeting that professor from earlier at some tacky nightclub would’ve made more sense than this scene. Awkward, I half-rose from my seat.
"Water—"
"I’ll get it. Guide Kim Doweon, please sit."
"Then pickled radish—"
"I’ll get that too."
"Chopsticks—"
"I’ll take care of it. Sit down."
Something was off. Cha Gweonwoo, fetching side dishes in front of a campus tteokbokki shop, red apron and all?
Every pair of eyes in the place clung to his broad-shouldered frame, his striking face, and that one word he kept attaching to every sentence—guide. It was like a spotlight.
Even I felt suffocated by all the attention stuck to his back. But him? Either he didn’t notice or he ignored it. With a ridiculously sunny quokka face, he scooped a whole heap of pickled radish, despite the sign politely asking to take only what you’d eat.
When he came back balancing two cups in one hand like it was nothing, the stares shifted to me. I rubbed my cheek, sheepish and empty-handed.
Some espers apparently love this kind of spotlight. Honestly, respect. Me, I’d once enjoyed showing off too—student council president and all—but as my head grew up I discovered shame, and that urge just died a natural death.
Flipping through the menu, Gweonwoo asked what flavor I wanted. My eyes went straight to “mild,” supposedly no spicier than instant ramen. But I tested him instead.
"Do you handle spicy food well?"
"I love it. What about you, Guide Kim Doweon?"
“Love it,” huh? People like me, spice weaklings, don’t say we “love” spicy food. Sounds like he can handle fire without blinking.
I glanced up from the menu. His cap revealed a perfectly sculpted forehead as he grinned, confident as ever.
He loves it. Eats it like nothing. And me, saying I can’t? My pride wouldn’t allow it.
"I eat it too."
Yeah, I said it. Pride talking. Then the food arrived, and my first crisis hit.
The color. God, the color… not just red, but hellish, glowing crimson. My shoulders flinched before I could stop them.
That was my cue to wave a white napkin and surrender. Kim Doweon, you should’ve tapped out right there.
But my pride dug in, so I picked up my chopsticks like nothing was wrong, shoved a rice cake into my mouth—and walked right into my second crisis.
Barely chewed, I swallowed it whole, and my hands clutched the table by instinct.
Spice is pain. Anyone who enjoys this is a masochist.
It tasted like dipping my tongue into a blast furnace, then branding my throat with a soldering iron for good measure. My eyes stung, tears pooling, and even my nose prickled.
Cha Gweonwoo—whose body looked like it lived on boiled chicken breast—ate the infernal stuff without changing color. And here I was, panting like an idiot. Eventually, his curious gaze slid over to me.
"You can’t handle spice?"
I snapped my tongue back into my mouth and barked out a desperate reply. What are you talking about?!
"No way!"
But the tears dangling from my lashes didn’t exactly sell conviction.
Flustered, Gweonwoo ignored my protests and ordered rice balls. I waved my hands, insisted I was fine—but the moment they came out, I shoved rice straight into my mouth with a spoon, gloves and rolling optional.