ONE
Edwin's POV
It was a Tuesday morning, and the Seoul sun, already belligerent for so early in the day, was seeping through the faded curtains of my rooftop studio apartment in Mapo-gu. The light cast long, distorted shadows of my haphazardly stacked books across the worn hardwood floor. The air, usually thick with the scent of old paper and dust, was a little fresher today, a slight breeze wafting through the open window from the dying mint plants on my tiny balcony. I never bothered to plug in the fairy lights out there; they were more of a forgotten promise than a decoration.
My floor mattress, a thin futon I’d dragged home from a secondhand store, offered little resistance to the persistent ache in my lower back, a constant companion from long hours hunched over textbooks and espresso machines. Beside it, my tiny desk was a fortress of forgotten mugs and scattered notes, my worn-out laptop serving as the centerpiece. It was open, a half-written essay on Korean modern poetry glaring at me from the screen. As a literature student at Seoul Central University, my days were a careful balance of academic pursuits and the more immediate need for a paycheck.
I stretched, a series of pops and cracks accompanying the movement, then swung my legs over the side. My first order of business was always coffee, instant, of course. My fridge, sparsely stocked with leftover takeout containers and an alarming number of instant coffee packets, was a testament to my uninspired culinary habits. There was a quiet, almost comforting imperfection to my living situation. It mirrored me, in a way. I was twenty-two, Korean-Filipino, and felt perpetually out of place, a silent observer in a city that vibrated with relentless energy. My voice, quiet by nature, often got swallowed in the Seoul cacophony. I tended to let others speak first, a habit born from shyness and a subtle insecurity that my thoughts weren’t worth interrupting for.
After a quick, cold shower – a necessary evil in the summer heat – I dressed in my usual uniform of comfortable jeans and an oversized t-shirt. I picked up my worn messenger bag, double-checking for my small poetry journal (which no one, save for Stacey, had ever seen), a handful of tissues, a band-aid, and an extra pen. "Just in case," I always thought, a low hum of anxiety often accompanying the simplest of preparations. I always overthought things, every decision a complex web of pros and cons, but once I finally landed on a choice, I was unwavering.
The walk from Mapo-gu to Chapters Café & Bookstore was my favorite part of the day. It was a quieter, more lived-in district, a labyrinth of small businesses, charmingly aging buildings, and the occasional rooftop apartment peeking out from behind a tangle of electrical wires. I liked the slow pace, the way the morning air smelled of fermenting kimchi and freshly brewed coffee. Sometimes, if it was raining, I would intentionally leave my umbrella at home, just to feel the quiet drizzle on my face, the world hushed around me. It was in these moments that my usually racing thoughts found a rare calm.
Chapters Café & Bookstore was a sanctuary. Tucked away on a leafy side street, it felt almost forgotten, a peaceful corner in the bustling city. The moment I pushed open the heavy wooden door, the scent of roasting coffee beans and old books embraced me, a warm, quiet balm. Hardwood floors gleamed under the soft morning light, and handwritten signs adorned the walls, whimsical little poems about coffee and literature. A fat, ginger cat named Cheolsu was usually draped across a sunlit windowsill, eyes half-closed in lazy contentment. I always stopped to scratch behind his ears, his rumbling purr a comforting start to my day.
My routine at the café was ingrained. First, I’d turn on the espresso machine, the gentle hum of its awakening a familiar tune. Then, I’d start grinding the beans, the rich aroma filling the air, a prelude to the day’s first cup. Wiping down the gleaming counters, arranging the display pastries, and tidying the rows of books on the nearby shelves – each task was a small act of meditation. It was here, amidst the quiet click of turning pages and the soft murmur of conversations, that I felt most at ease. I might be shy, but behind the counter, I was competent, efficient, and surprisingly attentive. I noticed the tiny things: the way Mr. Kim always ordered his americano extra hot, the new bookmark Ms. Lee was using, the precise moment Cheolsu decided to relocate from his windowsill perch to a more secluded corner.
The early hours were always the best. A few regulars would drift in, mostly students with tired eyes and professors buried behind stacks of papers. I’d offer a quiet greeting, maybe a small, dry comment about the absurdity of early morning classes, earning a tired chuckle. I wasn’t one for loud jokes or boisterous laughter, but my humor, when it surfaced, was often unexpected, a quiet wit that sometimes took people by surprise. I remembered once, a customer had accidentally knocked over a display of artisanal teas. Before they could apologize, I’d simply stated, “Looks like the chamomile had an existential crisis.” They’d blinked, then laughed, a genuinely surprised sound.
Around ten-thirty, just as the café started to hum with a bit more life, the bell above the door chimed with a joyous, almost violent enthusiasm. I didn’t even need to look up. Only one person entered Chapters with that much fanfare.
“Eddie!”
Stacey Yoon, my best friend since high school, exploded into the café like a supernova. Her bright, expressive face was alight, her vibrant pink hair a stark contrast to my muted world. She was wearing an outfit that probably cost more than my month’s rent – a perfectly tailored blazer over a graphic tee, chunky sneakers, and enough silver jewelry to set off a metal detector. Stacey was a fashion student, always on the cutting edge, and occasionally, a freelance stylist assistant, which only fueled her drama radar.
“Stacey, you’re early,” I said, already anticipating the chaos. I felt a small, genuine smile tug at my lips. She was the only person who could consistently pull me out of my shell.
“Never early, just fashionably prompt!” she declared, sweeping dramatically towards the counter. She clutched a designer tote bag to her chest, a tell-tale sign she was either on a mission or had just returned from one. “And you, my dearest Edwin Seo, look like you haven’t slept in a week. Are those new dark circles or did you just get into an argument with a raccoon?”
“Hilarious,” I deadpanned, already preparing her usual order – an iced caramel macchiato, extra caramel, extra ice. “What brings you to my humble abode of caffeine and literary despair?”
“Oh, just checking on my favorite barista, of course!” she chirped, hopping onto a stool. Her eyes, however, were already scanning the shelves, probably looking for a new K-pop magazine she could read while I worked. “And I have important news. Very, very important news.”
I placed her drink in front of her, the caramel swirling invitingly in the cold milk. “Is it about your latest styling gig? Did you finally convince that model to wear something other than a potato sack?”
Stacey gasped, feigning outrage. “Eddie! How dare you! Potato sacks are in this season! But no, it’s bigger than that. Much, much bigger. Have you heard? VXON is having a concert!”
I blinked. “VXON? Again? Didn’t they just have one a few months ago?”
Stacey stared at me, aghast. “Edwin Seo, you truly are the most uncultured human being on the planet. This isn’t just a concert, it’s the concert! Their first stadium tour kick-off! It’s going to be epic! Everyone’s talking about it. Tickets sold out in minutes!”
I shrugged, wiping down the counter. “Good for them. Means more peace and quiet for me when all the fans are busy screaming at a stadium.”
Stacey threw a soft paper napkin at my head. “You wound me! My soul aches for your lack of passion! How can you not be excited? River Kwon will be there! Eren Min! Theo Nam! Jace Yoo! The entire VXON lineup, live! Their ethereal visuals, their haunting vocals… it’s going to be a transcendent experience!” She then leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m already planning my outfit. Something chic, but subtle, you know? So I can blend in and still look like I belong in the VIP section, even if I’m in the nosebleeds.”
I chuckled. “You, blend in? That’s rich.” I knew Stacey followed every idol group religiously, especially VXON. She knew all their songs, all their choreographies, and all the gossip. My non-fan status was a constant source of exasperation for her, but she respected it, keeping my secret out of loyalty when others gushed about their idols.
“Oh, you’re just jealous of my innate fabulousness,” she declared, taking a large sip of her macchiato. “Seriously though, it’s next week! I’m still trying to figure out if I can score a last-minute ticket. My friend’s cousin knows someone who knows someone who works for NovaMuse Entertainment…”
She prattled on, her excitement infectious. I listened, nodding occasionally, occasionally interjecting with a sarcastic remark that she would playfully bat away. Our dynamic was comfortable, built on years of shared history. She knew about my strained family dynamics, my quiet anxieties, and my secret poetry journal. She guarded my poems like a national treasure, always encouraging me to write more, even when I felt my words were inadequate.
“You know, you could come with me,” Stacey suggested, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “I might even have an extra ticket. Wouldn’t that be wild? You, at a VXON concert? It would be good for you. Broaden your horizons beyond dusty books and lukewarm coffee.”
“I think I’ll pass,” I replied, my voice softer than usual. “Someone has to keep this place running while Seoul descends into idol-induced madness.”
She sighed dramatically. “Fine, be boring. But seriously, Ed, you’re allowed to want something impossible. Like, say, a normal life without having to work two jobs to pay rent, or maybe even… a hot idol to fall in love with you.” She winked.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re obsessed.”
“And you’re in denial,” she retorted, then checked her watch. “Shoot! I have to meet a client for a fitting. Tell Cheolsu I said goodbye!”
With a flurry of movements, Stacey gathered her enormous bag, gave me a quick, dramatic hug over the counter, and swept out the door, leaving behind a lingering scent of expensive perfume and a faint echo of laughter. The café felt noticeably quieter without her, a familiar calm settling back in. I smiled, shaking my head. Stacey was the comic relief, the emotional support, and the only person who could slap sense into me when needed.
The rest of the morning passed in a predictable rhythm. Students came and went, the scent of coffee intensified, and Cheolsu snored peacefully in his sunbeam. I was alone on shift, which was normal for a Tuesday afternoon. Chapters was known for its quiet, almost forgotten charm, a haven for those seeking solitude.
But then, something shifted. Around two o’clock, the usual trickle of customers turned into a steady stream, then a flood. The café, usually a peaceful murmur, started to buzz with unfamiliar chatter. More people were coming in, not just for coffee, but scanning the shelves, looking around with a certain excited tension. It was unusual, to say the least.
My polite, shy demeanor began to fray. I bit the inside of my cheek, a nervous habit, as the orders piled up. The espresso machine whirred almost continuously, the hiss of the milk steamer joining the growing din. I was pulling shots, pouring lattes, taking orders, and making change, my movements becoming more rushed, less precise. My mind, usually a quiet sanctuary, became a chaotic battlefield of incoming orders and outgoing cups.
“Two americanos, a caramel macchiato, and a green tea latte!”
“Coming right up!” I called, my voice a little higher than usual.
A small bead of sweat trickled down my temple as I juggled three cups at once, the heat from the machine adding to my discomfort. I wished my co-worker, Minjun, was here, but he was off today. I was entirely alone, drowning in a sudden, inexplicable rush. Why was Chapters so packed? It felt like everyone in Mapo-gu had decided to get coffee at the exact same moment.
Just as I thought I might finally catch a breath, the bell chimed again, and a customer at the counter placed a rather large order. “Can I get three iced lattes, two cappuccinos, and a hot chocolate? For delivery, just two blocks down, building with the blue awning.”
A delivery. Now? With the café this packed? My shoulders slumped, but only for a second. The customer was waiting, and I prided myself on efficiency. Taking a deep breath, I started preparing the drinks, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. The hot chocolate was particularly tricky, requiring careful steaming of milk and a swirl of whipped cream.
Finally, all six drinks were lined up in a cardboard carrier, precariously balanced. I glanced around the packed café, longing for an extra pair of hands. Taking a moment to wipe my hands on my apron, I took the carrier and pushed through the small crowd, mumbling apologies as I navigated between tables. The cool air outside was a welcome relief, even for a moment, as I stepped onto the bustling sidewalk.
I focused on the two blocks ahead, trying to block out the noise of the city, the honking cars, and the incessant chatter. My mind was still back in the café, picturing the long line of customers, already dreading my return. I clutched the carrier tightly, each step a careful calculation.
I was halfway there, nearing the corner, when it happened. A sudden blur of movement from my right, a loud, sharp voice calling out, but too late. A force collided with my side, jarring me, sending a shockwave up my arm. My carefully balanced carrier tipped, then twisted, the drinks sloshing violently.
A strangled cry escaped my lips as my feet tangled, and I felt myself falling, the world tilting precariously. The hot chocolate, the lattes, the cappuccinos – they flew from the carrier in a chaotic, brown and white explosion.
And then, a sickening thud as I hit the pavement, the plastic cups scattering around me, the spilled liquids spreading rapidly, a sticky, bitter puddle staining the concrete. My elbow screamed in protest, and a sharp pain shot up my knee. I lay there, stunned, amidst the wreckage, a sudden, cold silence replacing the city's hum.
