Even now, Mr. Cha Gweonwoo sits there, lofty as ever, reading without sparing me a single glance. I caught a glimpse of the title: One Hundred Days of Meditation on Anger, Patience, and Peace.
“Fuck…”
Maybe my grip had slackened while I was cursing under my breath, because Cha Gweonwoo’s face tightened into a scowl.
“Ah—sorry.”
I hurriedly clasped his hand tight again.
It’s not like I’d relaxed that much. So this guy really has zero patience—not even a 1 out of 100.
Watching his wavelength levels shrink by tiny, caterpillar-toe increments, I zoned out like that for three and a half hours.
The maximum time you can guide in a day is four hours. At three hours and fifty minutes, an alarm goes off like clockwork, saying the guiding will end in ten minutes.
The sound snapped me awake, and I hastily wiped the drool at the corner of my mouth. I must’ve fallen asleep at some point. Can’t blame me—it’s finals season, and I’d pulled an all-nighter.
The instant it hit 59 minutes 59 seconds, I let go of his hand and scrambled to put my clothes back on. And in my half-sleep, I blurted something unnecessary.
“Starting next week, I’ve got two weeks of exams.”
I surprised myself as soon as I said it.
Huh? Why am I telling Cha Gweonwoo that?
Luckily, he seemed not to have heard a word. Of course. In Cha Gweonwoo’s worldview, I’m an IV drip; an IV drip doesn’t talk.
Still, since I’d brought it up, should I go ahead and beg him not to call me for the next two weeks?
I considered it for a second, but it wasn’t something you say to a guy who, the moment he climbs down from the bed, turns his back coldly like he’s been waiting to do it. I planned to pretend those words had been tossed into thin air, offer the perfunctory “thank you for your hard work,” and leave.
But for some reason, Cha Gweonwoo stared down at me.
What’s with you?—that’s what my eyes asked as I looked up, and instead of speaking, his eyes said, What was that you said earlier? And so what exactly am I supposed to do about it? I, of all times, happened to be looking right at the broad, square line of his chest, and tugged an awkward smile onto my lips.
“I said I’ll go crush those exams. Fighting.”
“……”
“Then, thank you for your hard work today as well.”
With that, I bowed a neat ninety degrees, then bolted out of Room 305.
“Guide, you’ve really worked hard.”
When I dragged myself to the counter, the staffer handed back my ID along with a glucose candy. I trudged out of the building and shoved the candy into my mouth.
My stomach sounded like a one-ton cargo freighter was departing port. Come to think of it, I hadn’t eaten a single meal today.
“I’m hungry…”
Once I got home, I’d have to study for finals. I had dozens of assignments left. And it was already ten at night.
Blinking heavy eyelids at the car waiting in front of the Center, I thought:
God, surviving as a 21st-century guide is brutal.
***
He won’t call me just because I told him not to? Then he wouldn’t be a true dogsper.
An esper who understands a guide’s words—even when they’re said like crap—is a godsper.
An esper who takes a guide’s words said like crap and understands them even more crappily—that’s a dogsper.
“Starting next week, I’ve got two weeks of exams.”
Our dogsper, presented with my carefully couched request—could you maybe call a little less for the next two weeks because it’s exam period?—of course understood jack shit and summoned me before the rooster even crowed the very next morning.
As expected of the community’s top-tier dog-dog-dogsper.
Today is even a Sunday. Do weekends not exist in his world? I felt like staging a one-person protest in front of City Hall to demand protection for freelancers’ right to rest on weekends.
But what can you do.
When you feel like that, look outside. In this blazing heat, would I really go stand there alone with a placard? Better to get ready now, go earn some easy guiding money, and come back with a thicker wallet. After rolling around in my heap of blankets, screaming my misery into the void, I finally gave up and got up.
Waking to a summons from Cha Gweonwoo a full hour earlier than my alarm—it’s so wonderful, so indescribably wonderful that I actually teared up while brushing my teeth.
“Haa…”
I couldn’t help sighing as I packed my bag. I’d prayed he wouldn’t call today of all days.
Today is the due date for the final assignment in the class I hate most, Lyric Writing Theory. The professor assigned it three weeks ago, but of course I hadn’t written a single word. Muses only arrive right before the deadline—that’s just how it is.
It was also my mistake to think I could rest because it’s Sunday. I’d planned to get wasted with my classmates until ten tonight and then crank something out in two hours and submit it—but that plan was toast.
“Sunfish, please.”
When I trudged up and spoke, the staffer’s eyes went round.
“Today’s Sunday, though?”
Yesterday, apparently, Seoul had been historically peaceful. Since he’d been calling me since dawn, I’d figured a dozen A-class aberrants must have popped up and Cha Gweonwoo had been here, there, and everywhere—but betrayal.
I handed the staffer a candy from my pocket as she passed me the keycard for Room 305 with a pitying look.
“Want one? It’s a new candy—durian flavor. They say it tastes good if you hold your nose.”
“Thanks. I’ll enjoy it. But why do you look so wiped out?”
“It’s exam period.”
“Oh dear.”
I was moved by the staffer’s humanity—her ability to consider the person in front of her and empathize with their pain. Humans are so warm. This is society.
Meanwhile, without giving my face a single look, Cha Gweonwoo sat bolt upright on the bed, reading. I was also moved by his consistency. Our esper is this cold. This is a dogsper.
“I’m going to guide with my left hand today. I need my right hand for my assignment.”
“……”
“You called me again today… Did you go out to the field yesterday too?”
All the thoughts I didn’t say out loud—You didn’t even go to the field yesterday, so why did you call me? I told you it’s exam period, didn’t I? I’ve heard other espers at least don’t call on weekends. And if they absolutely have to, they at least say sorry as a formality…—I swallowed them tactfully.
Whatever I said, he just kept reading. As for the book: A Book for the Alone in a Noisy World. It was like the title itself was telling me to shut up, do my job, and get lost.
So I set my bag down and sat quietly.
“If you have anything to say, squeeze my hand tight and let go. I’m going to put an earbud in one ear because of my assignment.”
“……”
“Want to listen with me?”
I asked out of courtesy, thinking maybe it’d be rude to listen alone, but just hearing me seemed to irritate him—his brows pinched hard. He thrust out his hand as if to say, Hurry up and guide, and I grabbed it on reflex.
With one hand I guided; with the other, I grunted as I unzipped my bag, grunted as I pulled out a staff notebook as big as my chest, grunted as I took out a pencil and eraser from my case—and still he didn’t spare me a single glance.
Would it kill him to use that free hand to help? The thought slithered in—but of course it stayed a thought.
The assignment for Lyric Writing Theory—a class on how to write lyrics—had the theme of “love.” We were to pick one of several pop songs the professor listed and write lyrics on the theme of “love” to fit the melody.
Love. Not easy.
It’s such a deep, heavy topic that I couldn’t bring myself to touch it, so I propped my chin on my hand and brooded. Let’s think for a second.
Hmm. Love…
Wow. Who knew a mind could go this blank? Like a page cleaned with a perfect swipe of an eraser—absolutely nothing came to mind.
Hoping to spark some brainstorming, I flipped back through previous assignments, but—
[I hate eggplant side dishes / And today again I go to the practice room]
That time the theme had been “self.”
[After do-re-mi, is it fa or sol? / Or maybe la]
That time the theme had been “music.”
Amazingly, none of it helped at all.
Since nothing resembling a lyric would come, my mood turned crooked.
I mean, I’m a composition major—do I also have to be good at lyrics? Ever heard “medicine from pharmacists, treatment from doctors”? Composition from the composer, lyrics from the lyricist, yes?
I wrote the word love with my pencil and doodled a couple of hearts. Love, love. Because I love, nothing comes to mind.
Naturally. I’ve never loved anyone in my life. I love myself more than anyone else in the world. Next would be… our cat?
Thinking of my cat, I hummed a melody, and then—like Beethoven struck by inspiration—my pencil started moving on its own.
[baby my love, Minky / you’re going to live a long, long time, right]
Holy crap—am I a genius? Is this seriously just flowing out?
I was rolling the pencil along, admiring myself, when I suddenly felt a heavy gaze.
I flicked my eyes up—and it was Cha Gweonwoo.
The moment my eyes met his, furrowed deep as he stared down at my assignment, my face flushed scarlet.
“Ah!”
I yanked out my earbud and slammed my notebook to my chest.
“Hey—why are you looking!”
His brow was twisted like someone who’d just found a rotten carrot in the fridge. If anyone saw, they’d think my assignment had picked a fight with him.
This is so unfair. What did my assignment ever do to you!