Chapter Text
For all that Sooyoung is a pessimistic, acerbic, grandiosely self-absorbed writer, she’s never predicted that the end of the world would be announced to her in Frutiger Aero.
The blue screen floating in front of her eyes crackles, edges flickering in and out of existence with the sound of static. She reaches out to touch it, her fingers going straight through and disrupting the pixels with a fizzle. Very 2000s Minosoft. That thought is followed, accordingly, by a stray thought about Minosoft that she won’t allow to materialize, no thank you.
「 The world will end in 3 days. 」
Three days until the supposed end of the world. What is this, an apocalypse novel?
She does a furtive glance around, just to make sure there are no hidden cameras filming this. There’s the empty takeout boxes stacked haphazardly near the door, the purple hoodie she threw on the other side of the couch, and the pretty pastel blue trenchcoat, still hanging on the coat rack, that’s so evidently not her style—
She wrenches her eyes away, back to the god-awful blue screen. It’s still there, casting eerie light and a fuzzy shadow onto the floor.
It’s unthinkable that something so unbelievable can still obey the laws of physics. Or maybe it is thinkable, in the way that so many apocalypse novels including her own are incredibly absurdist to the point that it’s become a sort of in-joke in the genre. It would be a good idea for her next novel. That is, if this is a simple hallucination and she’s still alive in three days.
At that, she pads over to the window, pulling the blackout curtains away. The sudden assault on her eyes draws a wince from her as she squints against the light.
Below, the busy streets of Seoul run like clockwork, cars whizzing by at a dizzying pace. It’s noon, and the streets are full of people—wealthy women with multiple shopping bags, cliques of giggly teenagers skipping class, workers entering lunch places in their blazers and ties, and even the odd college student in a depression outfit not unlike her own at the moment.
There’s not a single Frutiger Aero resembling object in sight. Sooyoung casts another glance at the screen, which has followed her to the window like a dog to its owner. Do these things have a personality of their own?
Turning back to the window, she watches a flood of people emerge from the subway station across the street. One moment, there’s nothing, and the next, there’s a flicker of blue.
2000s Minosoft blue. She presses her palms against the window, placing her face as close as she can without pushing her nose into the glass.
The throng surrounding the blue disperses with time, and she can see it. It’s a woman, with long caramel brown hair that seems to glow in the sun, dressed in a tan blazer and matching slacks that accentuate the slim length of her legs.
She also looks oddly familiar. That blazer…
The woman reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear, and it hits her. Before her critical thought can even kick in, she’s scrambling down the stairs of her apartment building while simultaneously trying to tug a random jacket over her embarrassingly wrinkled and toothpaste-stained shirt. She nearly cracks her skull open when she slams into the wall by accident, but she manages to make it to the ground floor without incident, breathless with a sickening mix of anticipation and fear.
Blue screen still trailing behind her, she drags herself across the street, giving a flippant and potentially rude hand gesture to the verbally abusive driver who has to floor their brake pedal as she ignores all traffic signals, her mind—and eyes—focused on one thing. Or rather, person.
The woman turns at her approach, familiar honeyed eyes widening and—
“Soo—Han Sooyoung,” she says. The way her eyes curve, the slight red of her lips, even the way she blinks is pretty, and something inside Sooyoung twinges with hurt. Why did it have to be her?
“You,” Sooyoung breathes, pointing a shaking finger at the matching screen floating by her side, “see this, right?”
She watches her eyes widen, gaze darting between their two identical blue panels. She notes the way her face turns pale, then curses herself for caring, pretending to be overly interested in the freshly trimmed trees instead.
“Yoo too, Han Sooyoung-ssi?” she says, and the honorific is like another stab, another reminder of the past.
Sooyoung straightens herself, tugging at her jacket. “I thought it might be you,” she explains, pointing up in the general direction of her apartment window. “I saw you from my window.”
Now that she’s seeing her, seeing Yoo Sangah for the first time in a year, it’s embarrassing. Yoo Sangah is dressed immaculately, like she’s always been, perfectly ironed and tailored clothes befitting her background even if she used to claim she’d left that world behind. Sooyoung’s never felt more unkempt than now, standing next to her in sweatpants and her worn out purple hoodie. She scuffs the tip of her house slippers against the concrete, shoving her hands deep into her pockets to hide the trembling.
Yoo Sangah raises a delicate eyebrow. “You recognized me?” she asks, and Sooyoung wants to think it’s hope in her voice, even though it’s likely just mocking curiosity.
“I—no, not you. Don’t flatter yourself. I saw the panel.”
“Ah,” she says, folding her hands together in front of her, and it’s then that Sooyoung catches a glimpse of it, glittering on her hand.
She mentally counts the fingers—thumb, pointer, middle—and lands on the ring finger. Left hand.
She counts again. She thinks she might be bad at counting. Or, or, what if her eyesight is blurring from how hard she’s trying to keep it together, and she’s seeing it wrong?
Yoo Sangah’s still talking, and her hands move just enough to be sure. The pit in her stomach seems to multiply in size, a black hole threatening to swallow her whole. She’d welcome that over this, what this implies.
“Congrats,” Sooyoung says, the words thick on her tongue.
“I’m sorry?” Yoo Sangah says, confusion playing on her features.
“Your engagement ring.” She swallows, observing her reaction as she tacks on, “Or is it a wedding ring?”
Yoo Sangah glances down at her hand, and seems to turn another shade paler, making a move to hide her hands behind her back like a child caught red-handed. She seems to catch herself in the act, taking a deep breath in and letting her hands settle back to her sides. The diamond glimmers when it catches the sunlight, flashing like a reminder. Except Yoo Sangah doesn’t care, Sooyoung reminds herself, doesn’t care if she sees it, because Sooyoung is nothing to her now. They’re nothing. Was this ever anything to her?
“It’s…an engagement ring,” Yoo Sangah says finally, offering her a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you for your congratulations.”
It must be awkward, Sooyoung thinks with a lump in her throat, to talk about your new engagement with your ex-girlfriend.
And of course Yoo Sangah approaches it in the most distant, pleasant way possible. If only she knew how Sooyoung wants to curse, wants to rip that horrible, gaudy, glittering thing off her finger and throw it into the middle of the road and have it puncture someone’s tires and cause a traffic accident while she kisses the rationality out of Sangah until she breaks down in pretty tears and confesses that she can’t marry a man, that she loved and still loves her—
Instead, Sooyoung sighs, crossing her arms like it’ll keep all of that mess contained within.
“So, what do you think about this?” she says, referring to the twin panels that remain in front of them.
Yoo Sangah lifts her hand to glance at the watch on her wrist—a newer, fancier one from her fiancé, no doubt—and then looks back at her.
“We can talk about it over dinner if you’re not busy, Soo—Han Sooyoung-ssi.”
Sooyoung opens her mouth to refuse, but the excuse doesn’t come. Yoo Sangah smiles at her with a questioning air, and the gentle curve of her lips is distracting enough that the agreement comes slipping out before she can even yank it back.