— March, noon at the laundromat — The washer door was clear, so we never met each other’s eyes. 800 rpm, the scent of mint detergent. Our knees trembled at exactly that speed.
Junhyuk spoke first.
“Hyung, do you want to end it here?”
He never said where “here” was. A pair of crimson socks spun like four-leaf clovers behind the glass. I edged toward the hot dryer, hoping the heat might still the shaking. Eight years ago we had been like handkerchiefs folded together in a uniform pocket. Then, at the university job fair, we blushed for the first time. Sleepless nights worrying about employment; the beer can he handed me was so cold it froze my fingers. That was when the trembling began—not from cold.
Back door of the laundromat, 1:12 p.m. Sunlight laminated the window, flipping inside and outside. In the alley, the smell of grilled chicken skewers rose like cigarette smoke. We followed it, and our knuckles brushed. The hand that had once been as cool as a beer can now burned like a steam washer.
Junhyuk asked again.
“Just once… shall we?”
He didn’t explain what “shall we” meant. The moment the words fell, something detonated inside my chest—silent as a shadow. We looked away at the same time. The heartbeat was so loud it drowned the washer.
That afternoon, in Junhyuk’s studio. Curtains flapped at the window; only one of his pierced earrings remained—no one asked who had lost the other. We sat on the edge of the bed and wordlessly aligned our fingers. Each time our nails overlapped, eight years folded thinly: the half-used face mask we shared at the high-school sports day, the cheap tteokbokki we called “happiness” near campus, the trembling voice the day I bombed my first job interview...
Junhyuk lowered his head first. The breath on my forehead was sweet, then lips brushed—first sugar, then a fleeting bitterness. One taste, and I no longer wanted it to end.
We stayed on the bed for four hours. Even the second hand sounded like silence. When I closed my eyes, I smelled new uniforms on the first day of school. Then Junhyuk whispered:
“I think this is as far as we go.”
No one knew where “here” was. Tears fell on each other’s shoulders, soaking in, leaving stains that would never wash out.
Next morning, 6:41 a.m. Junhyuk rose first. Dawn air slipped through the half-open window. In the fierce light, the rims of his eyes were red. I pulled the blanket higher, wanting to feel the last of his warmth before it cooled. The door clicked shut—and never opened again.
A month has passed. I still go to the laundromat. At 2 a.m., an empty washer spins crimson socks like four-leaf clovers. 800 rpm, mint detergent—everything breathes of Junhyuk. A man beside me asks:
“You come alone?”
I don’t answer. I only watch my trembling lips reflected in the glass door—an unhealed wound, or a kiss we never finished.
So I ask:
If you once lay on a bed and kissed your “friend,” what would you call it?
Love? Friendship? Or simply… all we could manage.