Chapter 12 — We’ve Always Been Like This
The first thing Han Jae-in noticed was that Min Chaerin had started waiting for him outside the literature building.
Not in an obvious way. Not leaning against a wall or waving. She simply appeared when he stepped out—falling into stride beside him as if she had been there the whole time.
“Oh, perfect timing,” she said brightly, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her oversized cardigan. “I was just about to text you.”
Her tone was casual. Familiar. Exactly the way it had always been.
Her thoughts were not.
‘He came out right on time. See? We’re synced.’
‘Don’t act weird. Don’t ruin it.’
‘We always walk together. This is normal.’
‘If it’s normal, it won’t hurt.’
‘If it hurts, it means it matters.’
Jae-in kept his expression neutral, the way he’d learned to do in seminars when a discussion veered into uncomfortable territory. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and matched her pace.
“Morning,” he said. “Didn’t know you had class here this early.”
She laughed softly. “I don’t. I just… wanted to walk with you.”
The words were innocent. The implication was not.
‘He doesn’t remember. That’s okay. I remember enough for both of us.’
‘It’s always been like this.’
‘It has to have been.’
They crossed the courtyard together. Students passed them in small groups, talking, laughing, existing in ways that felt increasingly distant to Jae-in—like he was watching campus life through glass.
Chaerin hummed as they walked, swinging slightly closer, their arms brushing. The contact was light, accidental in appearance. She didn’t pull away.
‘Warm.’
‘He’s warm.’
‘Don’t let go.’
Jae-in felt the now-familiar tightening in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly. Something closer to inevitability.
“This is becoming a habit,” he said, aiming for neutral honesty. “Walking together every day, I mean.”
Chaerin looked at him, eyes wide with what could have been surprise—or relief.
“Yeah,” she said easily. “I thought so too.”
Her thoughts stuttered.
‘He noticed.’
‘He noticed and didn’t stop it.’
‘That means it’s real.’
They reached the steps leading toward the literature department building. She slowed slightly, forcing him to slow with her.
“You don’t mind, right?” she added quickly. “It’s just… easier when we’re together.”
Together.
The word echoed, heavier than it should have been.
‘Say yes.’
‘If he says yes, we’re safe.’
‘If he says no—’
“I don’t mind,” Jae-in said, because the alternative felt like stepping on a landmine whose exact location he couldn’t see.
Her smile softened into something almost tender.
‘See?’
‘We’ve always been like this.’
***
Inside the classroom, Chaerin claimed the seat beside him without hesitation. She placed her bag under the desk between their feet, effectively blocking any space where someone else might sit.
Jae-in pretended not to notice.
As students filed in, Seo Yuri entered calmly, her presence immediately shifting the room’s gravity. She scanned the seats with a quick, assessing glance before choosing one two rows back, slightly to the left—an angle that allowed her to see Jae-in clearly without appearing to watch him.
She met his eyes briefly and smiled.
Her thoughts brushed him like a cool draft.
‘Chaerin is early today.’
‘Noted.’
‘He didn’t move away.’
‘Also noted.’
Jae-in looked down at his notebook.
Chaerin leaned closer, whispering, “Did you finish the reading?”
“Most of it,” he murmured back.
She nodded, satisfied, then rested her elbow on the desk so her shoulder pressed lightly against his arm.
‘Physical contact reduces distance.’
‘Distance is dangerous.’
‘Closeness is proof.’
The professor began lecturing, voice steady, droning on about unreliable narrators. The irony was not lost on Jae-in.
As the lecture continued, Chaerin occasionally scribbled notes, then tilted her notebook toward him.
“Remember when we read something like this in high school?” she whispered. “You said you hated stories where you couldn’t trust anyone.”
Jae-in frowned slightly. “I don’t think—”
Her thoughts spiked sharply.
‘Don’t contradict.’
‘He’s just forgetting.’
‘It happened.’
‘It had to have happened.’
“You did,” she insisted softly, smiling as if sharing a private joke. “You said it reminded you of people who lie to themselves.”
He hesitated.
The memory she described didn’t exist. At least, not for him. But the way she spoke—so certain, so fond—made the absence feel like a personal failure.
“Maybe,” he said finally.
Her relief was immediate and overwhelming.
‘There.’
‘He remembers.’
‘We’re aligned again.’
From behind them, Seo Yuri’s thoughts sharpened.
‘False memory reinforcement.’
‘She’s stabilizing him around her narrative.’
‘I need to intervene gently.’
Yuri raised her hand, asked a question that redirected the discussion, drawing the professor’s attention—and, by extension, Jae-in’s.
Chaerin stiffened almost imperceptibly.
‘She’s pulling him away.’
‘Why does it hurt?’
‘Don’t panic.’
‘Smile.’
Jae-in felt like a rope in a quiet tug-of-war.
After class, Chaerin latched onto his arm as they exited, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Lunch?” she asked. “We used to eat together after this class all the time.”
Her thoughts rushed ahead of her words.
‘Say yes.’
‘If we eat together, today continues correctly.’
‘If today is correct, everything is okay.’
Jae-in opened his mouth to respond—and paused.
“Used to?” he repeated carefully. “Chaerin, we didn’t—”
The shift was immediate.
Her internal world fractured with an audible snap.
‘What?’
‘No.’
‘That’s wrong.’
‘He’s wrong.’
‘Why would he say that?’
‘Did I do something?’
Her grip tightened.
“We did,” she said quickly, a laugh forced into her voice. “You’re just tired. You forget stuff when you’re stressed.”
Jae-in felt a prickle of unease.
“I don’t think that’s fair,” he said gently. “I’m not trying to deny anything. I just don’t remember it the same way.”
For a moment, she stared at him.
Her thoughts spiraled.
‘He’s leaving.’
‘This is how it starts.’
‘Fix it.’
‘Fix it before it breaks.’
Then—click.
Her expression smoothed, the panic folding in on itself like a document being revised.
“Oh,” she said lightly. “Right. Sorry. I meant we could have. You know, if things were different.”
The relief that followed was unsettling.
‘There.’
‘Adjusted.’
‘He didn’t reject me.’
‘He was joking.’
Seo Yuri appeared beside them then, as if on cue.
“Han Jae-in,” she said pleasantly. “Professor Han wants us to finalize the presentation outline today. If you’re free.”
Her eyes flicked briefly to Chaerin’s hand on his arm. Her smile did not change.
Her thoughts were measured.
‘Claim opportunity.’
‘Do not escalate.’
‘Public space.’
Chaerin’s thoughts, by contrast, screamed.
‘She’s interrupting.’
‘She’s stealing time.’
‘Don’t lose him.’
“I was just asking him to lunch,” Chaerin said quickly. “Since we always—”
She stopped herself.
Jae-in felt the pressure of both worlds pressing in.
“I can do lunch later,” he said, defaulting to the path of least immediate resistance. “The presentation is important.”
Yuri inclined her head slightly. “Thank you. It won’t take long.”
Chaerin smiled too brightly.
‘Later is fine.’
‘Later means not never.’
‘We’ll fix it later.’
As Yuri walked ahead, Chaerin leaned in, whispering, “Don’t forget, okay?”
“I won’t,” Jae-in said.
He wasn’t sure what he was promising.
***
The student council room was quiet, sunlight filtering in through tall windows. Yuri spread papers neatly across the table, her movements precise, practiced.
“Sit,” she said gently, gesturing to the chair beside her.
Jae-in obeyed.
As they worked, her proximity was calm, controlled. She didn’t touch him unnecessarily. Didn’t raise her voice. Everything about her presence was designed to be reassuring.
Her thoughts flowed steadily.
‘He chose responsibility.’
‘Good.’
‘Chaerin is destabilizing.’
‘I will counterbalance.’
“Are you eating properly?” she asked casually, highlighting a section of the outline.
“I think so,” he replied.
‘Lie detected.’
‘Minor.’
‘I’ll adjust later.’
He glanced at her. “You don’t have to manage everything for me.”
She looked up, genuinely surprised.
Her thoughts paused.
‘He noticed.’
‘Reassure.’
“I know,” she said softly. “I just want to help. You seem… overwhelmed lately.”
He almost laughed.
If only she knew.
From somewhere distant—across campus, perhaps—Chaerin’s thoughts flickered faintly, like static.
‘He’s gone too long.’
‘What if she says something?’
‘What if he forgets again?’
Jae-in rubbed his temples.
That night, his phone buzzed constantly.
[Chaerin: Did you eat?]
[Chaerin: You didn’t answer earlier]
[Chaerin: I made curry like the one my mom used to make]
[Chaerin: Remember when you said you liked it?]
He stared at the messages.
That memory didn’t exist either.
Or did it?
His head ached.
He typed back slowly.
[Jae-in: I’m okay. I ate.]
[Jae-in: I don’t remember that, Chaerin.]
The typing indicator appeared immediately.
[Chaerin: Oh]
[Chaerin: haha sorry]
[Chaerin: I must be mixing things up again]
[Chaerin: I do that sometimes]
Her thoughts surged through the phone as if distance meant nothing.
‘He corrected me.’
‘It hurt.’
‘But he didn’t leave.’
‘So it’s okay.’
‘I’ll be better.’
Another message arrived.
[Chaerin: Do you want to see photos?]
Before he could respond, images appeared—old pictures of her room, a worn stuffed animal, a snapshot of two kids standing awkwardly apart at a school festival.
[Chaerin: Couple memories]
His breath caught.
They weren’t a couple in the photo. They weren’t even touching.
Her thoughts wrapped around the image, warm and insistent.
‘This is us.’
‘It always has been.’
‘He just forgot.’
Jae-in set the phone down.
The room was silent.
Too silent.
He realized with a chill that correcting her didn’t anchor reality.
It just forced her to rewrite it.
And somewhere in that rewriting, he was slowly being edited into a role he’d never agreed to play.
