Chapter 87 - 86 : Unseen Threads

I watched the scenes of my past unfold like a film reel I couldn’t stop, no matter how much my fists itched to shatter it.Six months. That’s how long it had been since my mother first started inviting Han Ji-a over for dinners. Six months of torture for me—because back then, I couldn’t stand the sight of her sitting at our table, smiling that polite little smile, fitting herself into spaces I thought were mine. And yet, six months of something else too. A rhythm I didn’t recognize until it was already too late. The kind of quiet, casual gatherings where the clink of plates filled in for the words my family usually never bothered exchanging. My sister Ye-rin, usually half-buried in her phone, started greeting Ji-a with actual enthusiasm. My mother, of course, always fussed over her, pressing extra food onto her plate.She had that knack—pressing people together until they either cracked or pretended to fit. And Ji-a... she slipped into it all too easily. One evening is burned into me, even now as it plays in front of me. The rice cooker hissed faintly in the corner, the smell of doenjang stew rising thick in the air. The table was set neatly—Mom’s doing. I’d been halfway to my room when she caught my sleeve. "Ye-Jun. Sit. Eat." "I’m not hungry." "You’ll eat," she said simply. That tone was final, the kind you couldn’t argue with. I sighed, dropped into my seat. A few moments later, the doorbell rang. I knew who it was before Ye-rin even skipped to the door. "Ji-a unnie!" my sister’s cheerful voice rang out. And there she was, stepping into the apartment with her schoolbag slung over her shoulder, her uniform just a little wrinkled, eyes tired but brightening at the sight of my mother. "Sorry to intrude again, ma’am." "You’re no trouble at all," Mom said warmly. "Sit, sit. I made plenty." I stared at my bowl, jaw tight. Ji-a sat across from me, smoothing down her skirt politely. Ye-rin started chattering almost immediately, asking about school clubs, about homework, about silly rumors. Ji-a answered patiently, her voice soft but steady. "Eat more," Mom said, reaching over to put another slice of rolled omelet on her plate. "Ah—thank you," Ji-a said quickly, flustered. "Really, this is too much..." "Too much? Look at you. You’re skin and bones. Eat." And she did, quietly, gratefully. I remember sneaking a glance at her then. The way she chewed carefully, as though even eating was something she had to be cautious about. She wasn’t loud like Ye-rin, not messy like me. She carried herself like she didn’t want to take up space. And for some reason, that bothered me. "Why do you keep coming here?" I muttered without thinking. The table fell silent for a second. Ji-a blinked at me. "Jun," Mom warned under her breath. Ji-a only smiled faintly. "Because your mother insists. And... because the food is good." Her answer was light, but there was something under it—something that twisted in my chest, though I didn’t admit it then. And that’s when she started to notice. She saw what my family didn’t knew the way I carried myself after fights, the fresh bruises I tried to hide under long sleeves, the thin cuts that scabbed too neatly. At school, I was a ghost—attendance just high enough not to get flagged, grades perfectly mediocre, no loud incidents on school grounds. Enough camouflage to fool teachers and relatives. But not her. It was in the way her eyes lingered when I winced. The way she frowned at my hands when they trembled faintly from holding back anger. She didn’t say anything at first. Just... noticed. And then one day, she cornered me. It was after gym. I’d changed quickly, tugging my shirt on before anyone could see, but Ji-a was sharper than the rest. The shallow cut across my bicep peeked out for a second, red against pale skin. Her eyes narrowed. Later, when the classroom emptied, she came to my desk with the first-aid kit. "Sit." I frowned. "What?" "Sit. I’ll clean it." "Forget it." "You can’t leave it like that." "It’s nothing." "Ye-Jun." Her tone was sharper than I’d ever heard it. She wasn’t asking. She was telling. I opened my mouth to snap back, but then she said the words that froze me solid. "If you don’t let me treat it, I’ll tell your mother." That one sentence was enough to gut me. My mother could never know. Not about the fights, not about the life I’d built in the shadows. That was my kryptonite, and Ji-a wielded it like a blade. So I sat there and let her patch me up, gritting my teeth, pretending it didn’t matter. But it did. Her fingers were careful, her touch light as she pressed the bandage into place. She didn’t look smug or satisfied. Just... resolute. "Why?" I muttered finally. "Because your mom has been kind to me," she said quietly. "And I don’t want her kindness to be wasted." Simple words. But they burned. Because of that moment, my younger self carried a debt. An unspoken chain that wrapped around his chest. So when Ji-a was cornered in the cafeteria, those girls sneering, throwing words like knives at her, he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. He had to help. That was the pivot, wasn’t it? The moment where everything bent slightly off its course. One time, Han Ji-a’s shadow fell across the younger me. She wasn’t nervous or disgusted like last time, just... casual, as though it had already become natural to approach the school’s so-called delinquent. "Hey," she said softly, leaning just enough so the teacher wouldn’t hear. "Do you have that literature book? Mine’s at home." Now, my younger self should’ve scoffed, should’ve shrugged and said "Not my problem". That’s what everyone expected. But instead—without even looking at her—he slid open the desk, pulled out the thin paperback, and placed it on her notebook. No fuss. The silence that followed wasn’t from him or her—it was from the row of classmates around them. A couple of jaws actually dropped. One boy nudged another like he’d just seen a wolf handing out candy to kids. The younger me finally noticed the stares, his eyes narrowing. "What? Never seen someone lend a damn book before?" The class went back to their own papers instantly, as if survival depended on it. Han Ji-a, though—she only smiled. And watching that memory now, I—Spectral Ye-jun—realized it was the first time my younger self gave her something without being forced or cornered into it. Something small. Yet it rattled the room more than any fight he’d been in. After that, things... shifted. Not like we became friends. Not even close. But the silence between us thinned. We started speaking—small, shallow words, nothing meaningful. Just the kind of chatter that fills air instead of leaving it empty. In classrooms, we’d exchange a few sentences. On the walk home, we didn’t avoid each other anymore. We moved side by side, not together, but not apart either. A fragile routine, born of obligation and something unnameable. And then, The memory slammed into me like a knife twisting in old scar tissue. I remembered her, . A photo of me and Ji-a, walking side by side. Someone did it secretly. I hadn’t known back then. I thought it was just some anonymous cruelty, the way the photo spread, the way whispers poisoned the air. But here, watching through spectral eyes, I saw it. Hana’s fingers, Hana’s smirk. My blood boiled. Even now, even as nothing more than a shadow chained to memory, I wanted to tear that moment apart, to reach through time and rip the phone from her hand. It was her. The one who started it all. But Why? And my younger self, oblivious, kept walking.