Chapter 2: The Things She Leaves Behind
The dry cleaner's was on the corner of her apartment block, run by an elderly woman who always called her "the pretty office lady" and charged her extra for express service.
Seo‑ah walked in with two large garbage bags.
"I'm here to pick up a navy suit," she said. "Park Min‑joon."
The owner shuffled to the rack and returned with the garment bag. "This one? Very nice fabric. Your husband?"
"Not my husband." Seo‑ah took the suit. Then she pushed the garbage bags across the counter. "And I'd like to donate these."
The owner peeked inside. Her eyes went wide. "These are… these are all sneakers. Very expensive ones."
"Limited editions. All his." Seo‑ah pulled out her wallet and handed over a stack of cash—money she had saved by never buying herself anything nice. "Consider this the donation fee. Please make sure they go to someone who actually needs shoes."
The owner looked from the cash to the garbage bags to Seo‑ah's face. Slowly, she nodded. "I know a shelter. They'll be grateful."
Seo‑ah bowed. "Thank you."
She walked out with the navy suit draped over her arm. Her phone had been buzzing nonstop for the last three minutes. She finally looked.
Min‑joon (12:03 PM): "Why aren't you answering?"
Min‑joon (12:07 PM): "Did you get the dry cleaning?"
Min‑joon (12:12 PM): "Seo‑ah. Seriously. Where are you?"
Min‑joon (12:18 PM): "I just got a notification from the building security. Someone donated a bunch of sneakers from our place. What the hell?"
Min‑joon (12:20 PM): "Yoon Seo‑ah. Answer me."
Min‑joon (12:25 PM): "If this is about last week, I said I was sorry. You know how my mom gets."
Min‑joon (12:30 PM): "Fine. Ignore me. See if I care."
Seo‑ah scrolled through the messages with a detachment that surprised her. Six months ago, she would have been frantically typing apologies, explaining herself, trying to smooth things over. Six months ago, she would have already picked up the suit and the sneakers would still be in their boxes.
Now she opened his contact and typed one message: "I'm not mad. I'm done."
She blocked his number.
The viewership counter jumped to 3.2%.
Seo‑ah stood on the sidewalk for a moment, watching the number glow in the corner of her vision. It was still pathetic by any measure—three percent—but it was growth. Someone was watching.
She had no idea what "production budget" would look like, but she figured she'd find out when she needed it.
Her phone rang. An unknown number. She almost ignored it, but something made her answer.
"Yoon Seo‑ah speaking."
"Ms. Yoon, this is Human Resources at Daehan Corporation. Director Cha has filed a formal complaint regarding an incident this morning. We need you to come in for an investigatory meeting tomorrow at 9 AM."
Seo‑ah leaned against the wall of the dry cleaner's. A month ago, that call would have sent her into a spiral of anxiety. Now she just felt tired.
"I'll be there," she said.
She hung up and looked at the navy suit in her arms. Min‑joon's favorite. The one he wore to his cousin's wedding, where he had spent the entire reception talking about his stock portfolio while she sat alone at the table.
She walked to the nearest donation bin and dropped it in.
---
Her studio apartment felt smaller than she remembered. Which was strange, because she had only been gone for a day.
The viewership counter hovered at 3.2%. No change.
Seo‑ah sat on her bed and looked around. The place was neat—she had always been neat—but it had never felt like hers. The furniture was the cheapest available. The walls were bare. There were no photos, no plants, no evidence that a person actually lived here. Just a bed, a desk, a closet full of work clothes, and a kitchenette she used only to boil water for ramen.
She had spent ten years building nothing.
On the desk, next to her laptop, was a framed photo of her and her younger sister, Yoon Seo‑kyung. It was five years old. In it, Seo‑kyung was holding a guitar, grinning at the camera. Seo‑ah stood beside her, smiling but stiff, like she was afraid of messing up the shot.
They hadn't spoken in eight months.
Seo‑ah picked up the frame and traced the glass with her thumb. The last time they talked, Seo‑kyung had called her a sellout. "You work for a company that destroys small businesses," she had said. "You wear a suit every day and you pretend you're fine with it. You're not my sister anymore. You're a walking LinkedIn profile."
Seo‑ah had hung up. She hadn't called back.
Now she pulled up Seo‑kyung's Instagram. The last post was from three weeks ago: a video of her playing an original song at a small club in Hongdae. The caption read: "To anyone who's ever felt invisible—this one's for you."
The video had forty‑seven likes. Her sister was talented. No one was listening.
Seo‑ah set the frame back down and opened her laptop. She typed: "Yoon Seo‑kyung Hongdae gig schedule."
The next show was in four days. She marked it in her calendar.
The viewership counter ticked to 4.0%.