Rain and Ramyeon

The rain had already started when I left campus — not a drizzle, but the kind that soaks you before you even open your umbrella. Except I hadn’t brought mine. Typical. The walk back to the apartment felt longer with every cold drop that slid beneath my collar.

By the time I reached my door, my hoodie was clinging to me and my backpack straps had left damp marks on both shoulders. I fumbled for my keys, but before I could unlock the door, it opened from the inside.

Seo Yoon stood there, barefoot, holding a towel.

“You’re soaked,” she said simply, stepping aside.

“Didn’t plan on swimming home,” I muttered, half embarrassed, half freezing.

She handed me the towel without a word and went back to the kitchen, the soft sound of boiling water already rising in the background. I peeled off my outer layer and stood for a moment, dripping near the entrance, towel pressed to my neck.

There was something about the apartment in the rain. Warmer. Dimmer. The edges of the world felt softer somehow, blurred by steam and distance.

The soft hiss of boiling water greeted me as I stepped into the kitchen. Seo Yoon stood at the stove, sleeves slightly rolled up, gently stirring noodles in the pot.

“I was just making ramyeon,” she said without turning around. “With egg and spring onion. Hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay,” I replied, stepping beside her. Without asking, I grabbed the sesame oil and a pair of chopsticks, hovering nearby like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She glanced at me, a bit surprised, but said nothing. I cracked another egg into the pot, stirred slowly, careful not to let it break. For a few quiet moments, we cooked together — two strangers-turned-housemates, side by side in the yellow warmth of the kitchen light.

I reached for the cutting board and began slicing the spring onions she had set aside. My hands were still a little damp from the rain, and the knife slipped — just a little — but enough to leave a shallow nick across my index finger.

“Ah—” I pulled my hand back instinctively.

Before I could even process it, Seo Yoon was beside me. She grabbed my hand and, without hesitation, brought the bleeding finger to her lips.

“You should be more careful,” she muttered, brows drawn tight.

I blinked, frozen by the sudden closeness. Her hand was steady. Her eyes focused.

“Sit,” she said, already moving toward the bathroom cabinet.

I did as told. She returned with a small first aid kit, kneeling in front of me on the kitchen floor. Her fingers were gentle but sure — dabbing ointment, wiping the smear of blood with a tissue. Then she leaned forward and blew lightly on the sting before unwrapping a plaster and securing it in place.

“You’re lucky it’s not deeper,” she said, eyes flicking up to mine for just a second too long.

“I’m starting to think you’re better prepared than I am in my own home,” I murmured.

Her lips curled, just barely. “Someone has to be.”

She stood, and the moment passed — but it lingered in the air, like warmth left behind in a seat just vacated.

We didn’t speak about it. We just moved on, as if silence would smooth over whatever had shifted.

By the time we sat down at the low table, the bowls were steaming and the room smelled like memory.

We ate in silence. The kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that meant something was settling.

She stirred her noodles slowly, then glanced toward the window. “I like the rain,” she said. “It makes the city feel quieter. Like it’s listening.”

I nodded. “I get that. Seoul feels softer when it rains. Still busy — just… muffled.”

She smiled faintly. “I used to walk alone a lot when I first moved here. Rain made it easier to pretend I wasn’t.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Not without saying too much. So I offered her the last piece of fishcake instead. She took it.

Outside, the wind pushed the rain sideways. The windows blurred with beads of water. Inside, her shoulder was just inches from mine.

She turned to look at me once. Her eyes didn’t flinch. For a second too long, I forgot to breathe.

Then my phone buzzed.

Kim Ho.

The name lit up on the screen like a switch being flipped. I answered, turning slightly away. “Hey, what’s up?”

His voice was loud, cheerful. “Hyung! You free this weekend? We should meet — it’s been ages.”

I laughed, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, maybe. I’ve been a little swamped.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Seo Yoon quietly gather the bowls.

He kept talking — something about a new project, some inside joke I barely processed. I nodded along, said the right things. Tried not to look back toward the kitchen.

After I hung up, the silence in the apartment felt heavier.

Seo Yoon was wiping the table with slow, careful motions. She didn’t meet my gaze. I didn’t know how to start a new conversation without sounding like I was compensating.

Later that night, we sat in the living room again. But she left more space between us.

When she said goodnight, it was from the hallway. No glance back.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time that night, listening to the rain.

Whatever warmth we’d had — it hadn’t disappeared.

It had just gone quiet again.