Second Verse Café
Chapter 2 – Second Verse Café
He told himself he wouldn’t go back.
That first visit had been an accident–an unplanned detour, a wrong turn, a coincidence the universe had thrown at him like a cruel joke.
Because what kind of person sees the girl they’ve loved from afar for five years and thinks, Yes. Let’s do that again.
Normal people didn’t do that.
Normal people didn’t collect photo cards like they were religious artifacts and hide them behind black jackets.
Normal people didn’t build AI empires and still feel their heart shake when a voice they knew only through speakers says, Hot or iced?
So Joonseo told himself he wouldn’t go back.
He walked out of Second Verse that day with the taste of bitter coffee lingering in his mouth, and he forced his feet to keep moving until the café was out of sight.
He went home.
He opened his laptop.
He drowned himself in numbers.
He traded.
He won.
And still, the scent of espresso followed him like a memory he couldn’t close.
That night, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to replay the moment as if he could fix it.
The bell above the door.
The warm light.
Her tired eyes.
The half-second when recognition almost happened–almost, like a match that nearly caught.
He imagined saying her name.
Yuna.
He imagined the way her face might change.
Would she flinch?
Would she smile?
Would she look at him like an obligation?
He turned on his side and buried his face into his pillow.
He didn’t sleep.
The next day, his phone lit up with a headline:
Small cafés closing as rent rises in old districts.
He didn’t even click it.
He already knew.
He could predict these things in graphs and models. He’d built an algorithm that could smell risk like a dog smells fear.
Second Verse was risk.
A storefront on a quiet street. A fading sign. Dusty windows. No foot traffic.
A girl behind the counter wiping the same spot like she was trying to scrub away time.
Joonseo stared at his screen for a long moment.
Then he closed his laptop.
He stood.
He put on his plain hoodie.
And he went back.
The bell rang again.
This time, it sounded louder.
Or maybe his heart was.
Inside, the café looked exactly the same as yesterday, which made him realize something he hadn’t wanted to realize.
Yesterday wasn’t a dream.
The warm lights glowed in the dust. The menu board still leaned slightly to the left. One chair leg was still uneven, making the table wobble with every touch.
The air smelled like coffee that had been reheated too many times.
And there–behind the counter–Yuna stood with a cloth in her hand.
She looked up at the bell.
Her eyes met his.
She blinked.
Then, very slowly, her expression shifted into recognition–not the kind that said I know you, but the kind that said You were here.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Her voice was a quieter version of the one that used to fill arenas.
“You’re back.”
Joonseo swallowed.
He nodded once, as if nodding could keep him from saying something stupid.
“I… was nearby.”
Yuna’s mouth tugged upward in the smallest curve.
“That’s what people say when they don’t want to admit they’re here on purpose.”
Joonseo paused.
He didn’t know what to do with the fact that she was joking.
He hadn’t heard her joke in so long.
“So,” she continued, leaning slightly on the counter like her body was tired but still trying to be friendly. “Americano again?”
“Yes,” he said too quickly. Then he corrected himself with a slow inhale. “If that’s okay.”
Yuna waved a hand.
“Of course it’s okay. Customers are… rare.”
The last word slipped out like a bruise.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
He watched her make the coffee.
She moved like someone who remembered choreography, even when the stage was gone. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just efficient. The kind of efficiency you learn when mistakes cost too much.
When she placed the cup in front of him, she hesitated.
Then she slid a small cookie beside it.
“It’s… leftover from yesterday,” she said quickly, as if she needed to justify kindness. “I made a batch. It didn’t sell. It’s still fine.”
Joonseo stared at the cookie.
A simple butter cookie, slightly imperfect around the edges.
He looked up.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
Yuna shrugged.
“If I don’t give it to someone, I’ll end up eating it myself out of stress and then my jeans will hate me.”
Joonseo blinked.
Then he laughed.
It surprised both of them.
Yuna’s eyes widened for a second–like she hadn’t expected a customer to laugh. Like she hadn’t expected her words to land.
Joonseo cleared his throat, embarrassed.
“It’s… nice,” he said.
“What is?”
“That you’re… still you.”
The sentence slipped out before he could stop it.
Yuna went still.
For a moment, the café was too quiet.
Joonseo regretted everything.
He forced himself to look at his coffee, pretending he hadn’t said it.
But Yuna didn’t snap.
She didn’t accuse.
She only looked at him with a strange softness that made his skin tighten.
“…People say that,” she murmured.
Joonseo’s throat went dry.
“Who?” he asked, carefully.
Yuna’s smile turned thin.
“Fans,” she said.
The word hung between them.
A fragile bridge.
Joonseo didn’t move.
His pulse thundered.
Yuna tilted her head slightly.
“You were a fan?”
He forced a calm expression.
“I… listened,” he said.
Yuna watched him like she didn’t believe in half-truths but was too tired to chase the full truth.
“Hmm,” she said.
Then she turned away, busying herself with wiping the counter again.
Same spot.
Same motion.
But her shoulders seemed a little less tight.
Joonseo took a bite of the cookie.
It was buttery, slightly too crisp.
He chewed slowly.
“It’s good,” he said.
Yuna didn’t look up.
“It’s not. It’s dry.”
“It’s good,” he repeated.
This time, her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile.
“Your standards are low,” she muttered.
Joonseo lifted his cup.
“Maybe I like imperfect things.”
Yuna finally looked at him.
Her eyes held something sharp and old–hurt disguised as humor.
“Careful,” she said quietly. “That kind of taste gets you disappointed.”
Joonseo didn’t flinch.
“I’m already disappointed,” he said, softly.
Yuna’s gaze softened.
Not pity.
Recognition.
Because she was disappointed too.
He stayed for an hour.
Then two.
Not because he wanted to occupy her space.
But because leaving felt wrong.
He watched her pretend to reorganize the same small shelf of coffee beans. Watched her glance at her phone once every few minutes like she was waiting for a miracle that wouldn’t come.
When she finally sat down at the corner table–two chairs facing each other–he realized she hadn’t eaten anything.
He stood and walked to the counter.
“Do you have… food?” he asked.
Yuna looked startled.
“Food?”
“Like… something. Toast.”
Yuna laughed.
“I have instant ramen upstairs.”
Joonseo blinked.
“That counts as food?”
“It counts as surviving.”
Joonseo looked at her, and the protective instinct in him rose so fast it almost scared him.
He kept his voice gentle.
“You should eat,” he said.
Yuna’s eyes narrowed.
“Are you scolding me?”
“No,” he said quickly. “I’m… worrying.”
The word slipped out.
Worrying.
For her.
Yuna stared at him for a long moment.
Then she looked away.
“…I’m fine,” she muttered.
Joonseo recognized the lie.
He’d used it for months.
On his third visit, she started saving his seat.
Not officially.
Not with a sign.
Just… the way she didn’t wipe that corner table as aggressively as the others. The way the chair was always pushed in neatly, waiting.
He sat there and let the warmth of being expected sink into him.
It was dangerous.
He knew that.
Because being expected meant becoming part of someone’s day.
And if you became part of someone’s day, leaving would hurt.
But he came anyway.
Every afternoon after the market closed.
Every evening when the sky turned soft.
Sometimes he brought his laptop and pretended to work.
Sometimes he didn’t.
Sometimes he simply sat and listened to the café’s quiet.
The sound of the espresso machine.
The scrape of a chair.
The faint old playlist that repeated the same three songs like the café itself was stuck.
One day, Yuna broke the silence.
“Can I ask you something?”
Joonseo looked up.
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
His heart stuttered.
He could give her a fake name.
He’d given fake names to reporters.
To investors.
To strangers who got too curious.
But her voice made lying feel uglier.
He chose a truth.
“Joonseo,” he said.
Yuna repeated it like she was testing how it tasted.
“Joonseo.”
Then she nodded.
“I’m Yuna,” she said, like she wasn’t sure if he knew.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“I know,” he thought.
But he didn’t say it.
He just nodded like a normal person meeting a normal café owner.
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
Yuna’s eyes held his for a second longer than necessary.
“…Nice to meet you too,” she replied.
He felt like he’d been given something.
A small piece of her present.
Not her past.
Not her idol self.
Just her.
On the seventh day–because seven is a number that makes people believe in patterns–rain came.
It started lightly, then grew heavier, turning the street outside into a blur of wet neon.
Yuna looked at the window with a tired sigh.
“Great,” she muttered. “Now nobody will come.”
Joonseo looked around the empty café.
“Nobody was coming anyway,” he said.
Yuna shot him a glare.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s… hopeless.”
Joonseo paused.
He didn’t want to lie.
But he didn’t want to hurt her.
So he chose the third option.
“It’s not hopeless,” he said.
Yuna stared.
Then she scoffed.
“You’re just saying that because you’re polite.”
“No,” he said, quietly. “I’m saying it because… you’re still here.”
The rain hammered against the window.
The café’s warm light held steady.
Yuna’s eyes flickered.
For a moment, her expression looked like it used to on stage–when she was about to sing something too honest.
Then she looked down.
“…I don’t know how long I can keep being here,” she admitted, voice small.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
He saw it then.
Not just tiredness.
Not just financial strain.
But the way her shoulders carried the weight of someone who hadn’t rested properly in months.
The way she rubbed her wrist absentmindedly, like pain had become normal.
The way she flinched when her phone buzzed, as if every notification was either a bill or a disappointment.
And above all–
The loneliness.
It sat in the café like an invisible customer.
Joonseo set his cup down.
“Yuna,” he said.
She looked up, startled by the softness of her own name.
He forced his voice to stay calm.
“If… you ever need help,” he began.
Yuna’s eyes narrowed instantly.
“No.”
He blinked.
“I didn’t even–”
“No,” she repeated, firmer. “I don’t take help from strangers who show up and pretend to be… kind.”
Joonseo went still.
Yuna’s jaw tightened.
“Sorry,” she said, but her voice was sharp. “I’ve learned.”
Joonseo swallowed.
He could feel every secret in his closet pressing against his ribs.
He kept his gaze steady.
“I’m not asking you to owe me,” he said.
Yuna’s eyes flickered.
“Then what are you asking?”
Joonseo inhaled.
He thought of the chair legs.
The leaking faucet.
The empty tables.
The way she never ate.
The way she looked like she was running out of herself.
He chose his words carefully.
“Let me… be a customer,” he said. “Let me keep coming.”
Yuna stared.
Then, slowly, her shoulders loosened.
“…That’s not help,” she muttered.
“It is,” he said, quietly. “It’s just the kind that doesn’t embarrass you.”
Yuna looked away.
Her throat moved like she swallowed something.
The rain kept falling.
The café stayed warm.
And for the first time since disbandment, Yuna let herself look… slightly less alone.
“…Fine,” she said, voice barely audible.
Joonseo’s breath eased.
Yuna added, still not looking at him:
“But don’t make it weird.”
Joonseo’s mouth twitched.
“I won’t,” he promised.
He didn’t know yet that everything about them was destined to become weird.
Not in a loud, scandalous way.
In a quiet way.
The kind of weird that turns ordinary days into something you start to protect.
When he left that night, the rain had softened.
Yuna locked the door behind him, then lingered by the entrance like she was unsure what to do with herself now that the café was empty again.
Joonseo hesitated.
He looked at her.
“You should go upstairs,” he said gently. “Rest.”
Yuna scoffed.
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“Don’t say that,” he murmured.
Yuna froze.
Then she looked up at him.
Her eyes were tired.
But there was something else too.
Something fragile.
Something that wanted to believe.
“…You’re strange,” she said.
Joonseo blinked.
“Is that bad?”
Yuna held his gaze for a second.
Then she shook her head.
“No,” she said softly. “Just… strange.”
Joonseo nodded, accepting it like a title.
He stepped into the damp night.
The streetlights reflected on wet pavement like scattered coins.
As he walked home, the bitterness of coffee lingered in his mouth.
But underneath it–
something else.
A faint sweetness.
Not from sugar.
From the fact that Yuna had said his name.
And hadn’t told him to go.
Not yet.