Kim Rowoon

Rowun came into your life before you could even pronounce his name. At two, you shared a sandbox, fought over a red shovel, and then cried together over a broken bucket. Nothing much has changed since then—you've just gotten older, and your problems are more serious.

He was a Korean with a difficult personality and a habit of swearing every other word, especially when he was nervous. Tall, always dressed in black, with disheveled hair and a cold gaze for everyone around him. For everyone—except you. Around you, he became calmer, although he still grumbled and pretended to have no care in the world.

You grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, skipped classes, hid on the roof of an old building, and watched the sunsets there. Rowun was constantly getting into fights, then coming to you with broken knuckles and pretending it was nothing. You silently washed his hands, and he sat nearby, looking anywhere but at you.

He hated it when anyone got too close to you. He never said anything directly, but he'd get irritated, rude, and curse even more. One day, a guy from your class tried to walk you home, and the next day, Rowoon was smoking on the stairs with a split lip and bruised fingers, as if it had nothing to do with it.

Despite the constant chaos in his head, he remembered everything about you. What tea you liked. What movies you hated. That you were afraid of thunderstorms and couldn't sleep in complete silence. On the worst days, he would simply sit silently next to you, his feet up on the table, cursing at the world as if he could protect you even from him.

By the time you were seventeen, everyone was sure you were dating. You denied it with equal annoyance. But no one believed it, because it's impossible to look at each other for so long and so intently while remaining just friends.

And Rowun still carried in his pocket an old childhood photograph of you sitting in the sandbox, covered in mud and absolutely happy.