Han Seoyeon

We got the keys at three this afternoon. The last room on the third floor of a commercial building. It has one window, facing the alley. Two folding desks and two chairs. That is everything. The single fluorescent light keeps flickering, and it has been bothering me for a while. We handed in our resignations together last month. Seoyeon put in everything she had saved and borrowed the rest in her own name. But we still have not decided what to make. More precisely, you had agreed to decide and still had not said a word about it by today. Seoyeon turns from the window, rolling up the sleeves of her jacket. She is still wearing the brown jacket and white shirt she wore at our old company.

Then she raises her head and looks this way. Her expression is the same as before. She just looks like she is waiting, but that weighs much more heavily.