Chapter 3 — Childhood Friends Don’t Need Permission
Min Chaerin reentered Han Jae-in’s life the way she always had—without asking.
It happened outside the literature department building, in the late afternoon lull when the campus briefly pretended to rest.
The sun leaned low between concrete and glass, the air warm enough to make people linger but not warm enough to feel kind. Jae-in had just stepped out of his seminar, head still buzzing from metaphor analysis and the residual echo of Seo Yuri’s neat, quietly possessive thoughts fading as she walked away in the opposite direction.
He was telling himself—again—that it was stress.
That everyone had intrusive thoughts.
That assigning voices to people was a known dissociative symptom and not, in any way, proof that something was fundamentally wrong with him.
He was halfway down the steps when something slammed into his side.
“Oof—Jae-in!”
Arms looped around his left arm with practiced familiarity, fingers hooking into his sleeve like they belonged there. The impact wasn’t hard, but it was sudden enough to jolt him out of his spiral.
Min Chaerin beamed up at him, eyes bright, hair slightly frizzy from humidity, backpack slung too low on one shoulder like she’d never quite adjusted it since high school.
She looked exactly the same.
That, more than anything, was unsettling.
“Chaerin,” he said automatically. “What are you—”
“You’re done already?” she cut in, peering past him at the building. “Ugh, unfair. My class ran over because Professor Kim wouldn’t stop rambling about narrative voice. Like, we get it, the author exists.”
She laughed, light and airy, already tugging him toward the path without waiting for an answer.
This was normal.
This was safe.
This was—
The noise hit him like a dropped tray of glass.
‘He’s here. He didn’t disappear. Okay. Okay. Breathe. We’re fine. We’re dating. Of course we are. Why does my chest hurt?’
Jae-in’s steps stuttered.
The voice wasn’t calm like Yuri’s. It wasn’t smooth, or structured, or quietly confident. It was loud in a way that had nothing to do with volume—raw, overlapping, contradictory. It didn’t speak in clean sentences so much as emotional fragments that slammed into each other, tripping over themselves.
He swallowed hard.
Chaerin kept talking, oblivious.
“I was gonna text you, but then I thought, what if you’re busy? But then I remembered you always forget to check your phone during class, so I waited, and—oh! Did you eat yet?”
She leaned closer as she spoke, cheek brushing his shoulder, her grip tightening just a little.
‘He’s warm. I missed this. Don’t think about the other girls. There aren’t other girls. There can’t be. If there are, it’s my fault.’
Jae-in felt dizzy.
This wasn’t like Yuri at all.
Yuri’s thoughts had felt like being catalogued—unnerving, yes, but comprehensible. A list. A system. Something he could rationalize as projection.
Chaerin’s mind was a storm with no center.
“Chaerin,” he said again, more carefully this time. “You’re—uh—you’re squeezing.”
“Oh! Sorry!” She laughed and loosened her grip immediately, hands flying up in apology. “I didn’t realize. I just—habit, I guess.”
Habit.
The word settled strangely in his chest.
They started walking, side by side now, though she kept drifting closer with each step like a magnet slowly giving up the pretense of resistance.
‘Don’t pull away. If he pulls away, it means I did something wrong. I always do something wrong.’
He clenched his jaw.
“Are you heading home?” she asked, peering at his face. “Or to the café? Or—or wait, you probably have plans, right?”
The question came out casual. Light.
Her thoughts did not.
‘If he says yes, I’ll smile. If he says no, I’ll smile. If he says someone else’s name, I’ll die. Not really. Maybe really.’
Jae-in’s mouth felt dry.
“No plans,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “I was just—walking.”
Her face lit up instantly, relief washing over her features so fast it was almost frightening.
‘See? He’s free. For me. We’re fine.’
She slipped her arm back through his, gentler this time, as if testing whether he’d object.
He didn’t.
He told himself it was because pushing her away would make things awkward.
He did not examine the small, traitorous warmth that came with being wanted so openly.
They walked in silence for a few steps, broken only by the distant chatter of other students and the rustle of leaves along the path.
“So,” Chaerin said, swinging their joined arms slightly. “You looked tired lately.”
“I’m fine.”
“Mmh.” She hummed, unconvinced. “You always say that.”
‘I should take better care of him. I should have noticed sooner. If he breaks, it’s because I wasn’t enough.’
The guilt hit him harder than any accusation could have.
“I really am,” he said, softer now. “Just… classes.”
She smiled at that, the kind of smile that suggested she’d been waiting for him to say exactly that.
“Well, then you’re coming with me,” she said brightly.
“To where?”
“My place,” she replied without hesitation. “I made too much curry yesterday. You’ll help me eat it.”
He stopped walking.
She took another step before realizing he wasn’t beside her anymore, then turned back, blinking.
“What?”
“I didn’t—Chaerin, I didn’t agree to—”
‘He’s hesitating. That’s okay. He always hesitates. He’ll come. He always comes.’
The certainty in her thoughts made his stomach twist.
“I should probably go home,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I’ve got reading to do.”
Her smile wavered. Just for a second.
Then she laughed, light and a little too loud.
“Oh. Right. Of course. Sorry, I just assumed.”
She rubbed the back of her neck, eyes darting away.
‘I assumed because that’s how it’s always been. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Why would it change?’
The hurt threaded through her thoughts was sharp and immediate, and Jae-in felt it like a hook behind his ribs.
He sighed.
“I can walk you part of the way,” he offered. “If you want.”
Her head snapped up.
“Really?”
‘He cares. He always cares. I knew it.’
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean—yeah.”
They turned down a side street together, the campus noise fading into something quieter, more intimate.
Chaerin’s mood shifted instantly, buoyed by the smallest concession. She started talking again, faster now, filling the air with stories about classmates, complaints about professors, half-finished thoughts about nothing in particular.
He listened, nodding when appropriate, but his attention kept snagging on the undercurrent beneath her words.
The constant emotional recalibration.
The way every smile she gave him was reinforced internally with relief, every neutral response met with anxiety, every perceived warmth magnified into devotion.
‘He chose me. Even now. Even when he didn’t have to.’
They stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light.
Chaerin leaned into him without thinking, shoulder pressed against his chest.
‘Don’t leave. Don’t drift. Stay like this forever. If it hurts, that just means it’s real.’
The light changed.
They crossed.
Halfway down the block, she stumbled suddenly, toe catching on uneven pavement.
“Oh—!”
Jae-in caught her by reflex, hands gripping her arms to steady her.
She froze.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Her face was inches from his, eyes wide, breath shallow.
‘He’s holding me. He won’t let go. This is it. This is what love feels like. It’s tight. It hurts. I don’t want it to stop.’
Her thoughts surged so hard he had to fight the urge to let go just to make it stop.
“Careful,” he said, voice strained.
She laughed weakly, cheeks flushing.
“Wow. I’m really clumsy today, huh?”
He released her immediately, stepping back.
She didn’t look offended.
If anything, she looked relieved that he’d touched her at all.
‘He didn’t pull away because he hates me. He just doesn’t know yet.’
They reached the corner where their paths diverged—his route toward his apartment, hers toward her neighborhood.
Chaerin slowed, then stopped entirely.
“So,” she said, rocking slightly on her heels. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right? We’ve got that class together.”
“Yeah.”
“And maybe after?” she added quickly. “We could—study. Or just hang out. Like usual.”
Like usual.
Her thoughts pressed in, hopeful and terrified all at once.
‘If I don’t ask, he might forget me. If I ask too much, he might leave. There’s a perfect way to say it. I never find it.’
“Sure,” he said, because saying no felt like pushing her off a ledge.
Her smile bloomed, full and radiant.
‘See? We’re okay. We’re always okay.’
She stepped forward suddenly and hugged him.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t tight. It was the kind of hug they’d shared a hundred times before, back when it hadn’t meant anything dangerous.
Now, it felt loaded.
Her arms lingered a second longer than necessary.
‘I could stay like this forever. I could disappear into him. Would that be bad? He wouldn’t mind. He’d understand.’
“Chaerin,” he murmured, uncertain.
She pulled back immediately.
“Sorry!” she said, hands flying up again. “Habit.”
There was that word again.
She waved, already backing away.
“Text me when you get home, okay?” she called. “So I know you’re safe.”
He nodded.
She smiled.
Then she turned and walked away, ponytail bouncing, posture light.
The noise did not leave with her.
It followed him.
Not in words, exactly—more like an echo of emotional pressure that clung to his thoughts even as the physical distance grew.
By the time he reached his apartment, his head ached.
He kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag by the door, and leaned back against it, staring at the ceiling.
The silence here was thin. Fragile.
He pulled out his phone.
Three messages already.
[Chaerin: Did you eat?]
[Chaerin: I’m reheating curry anyway haha]
[Chaerin: You don’t have to come over if you’re busy!! Just saying!!]
His phone vibrated again as he watched.
[Chaerin: Did I say something weird earlier?]
He typed, erased, typed again.
I’m fine. Just tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.
The reply came instantly.
[Okay! Rest well 💕]
He set the phone down face-up on the table and sat on his bed, rubbing his temples.
This was different from Yuri.
Yuri’s presence had been heavy, yes, but contained.
Chaerin’s affection was a tide that didn’t know where to stop.
He lay back, staring at the darkening ceiling.
Somewhere in his chest, beneath the discomfort and the fear, something warm stirred.
He hated that it was there.
He hated that part of him had relaxed when she smiled.
He hated that, for a moment, being needed had felt like proof he existed.
The noise didn’t stop.
It hummed softly, insistently, like a heartbeat that wasn’t his.
And for the first time since the thoughts began, Han Jae-in realized something worse than hearing them.
He realized how easy it was to let them in.
