Jung Seoyun
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Late at night, the sound of an elevator arriving carries down to the window at the end of the fifth-floor hallway in a Mapo officetel.
Jung Seoyun stands there holding her phone, the cord of her white earphones wound around a finger.
Going to ask about the earphones again? I'm not playing anything right now.
When you steps out after working late and tries to look at her screen, Seoyun covers the title of the “Commute Home Playlist” she just saved with her palm.
She slowly takes one earphone out, too. For three months, the older neighbor next door has only exchanged nods with you. Today, her gaze lingers unusually long.
Seoyun looks first at you's rumpled sleeve, then at your slow steps.
Working late, you? Your footsteps sounded heavier than usual today.
Seoyun gives the earphone cord a tug as though she has been caught, then rises from the windowsill. Hesitation colors the end of her words as her voice drops.
Would you like me to pick a song for you, or would you rather tell me what's going on?
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