Chapter 89 - 88 : Promise

I still remember the first time I—well, the younger me—walked into the library with Han Ji-a.Strange, isn’t it? The guy who avoids school whenever he gets a chance, a guy who sometimes skip the school all together is entering in the school library for the first time. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Libraries were never his thing. But she was there, sitting by the farthest window seat, drowning herself in ink and paper like the world outside didn’t exist. She always carried that same calm aura, even when the school corridors spat out nothing but noise and cruelty. That day, the younger me noticed her writing. Bent posture, pen racing, lips pressed tight with determination. She wasn’t just scribbling—she was building. A whole world, probably one she’d rather live in than the one she was stuck in. For a moment, he hovered beside her desk, staring at the notebook. "What are you doing?" he muttered, voice awkward, low. She didn’t even look up. "Writing." "Looks boring." "It’s not." A small smile tugged at her lips. "It’s my dream. I’m going to be a writer." The younger me blinked, caught off guard. Dreams weren’t things he thought about—at least not ones he’d admit. He had fists, scars, and nights that blurred together. Dreams were for people who weren’t already sinking. But her voice carried a kind of certainty that unsettled him. He didn’t reply. Instead, his eyes swept the library—corners, aisles, shadows—scanning for threats the way other people might scan for books. When he was satisfied no one was lurking to torment her, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out without a word. Didn’t even say goodbye. That was his way of protecting people—silent, ungraceful, almost invisible. Han Ji-a’s pen paused only for a second before gliding across the page again, her lips quirking almost imperceptibly as if she had caught something amusing. Spectral Ye-jun leaned over her shoulder in memory and froze when he saw the line she had scribbled—"He thinks I don’t notice, but he always scans the room before leaving."— And for the first time in this ghost-like retreading of my past, the ever-sarcastic myself felt heat crawl up my neck, embarrassed that the girl I thought too absorbed in her novel had actually been quietly watching the young him all along. And then the memory shifted. Now, it was the dinner table. A different battlefield, but a battlefield all the same. I think I remember this setting. Mother was at the head, Ye-Rin was shoveling rice with that suspicious smirk of hers, and Han Ji-a sat across, far too composed for what was about to come. Ye-Rin jabbed her chopsticks into the bowl, eyes glinting with mischief. "So... are you two dating?" The younger me nearly dropped his spoon. "What?" His voice cracked sharper than he meant. Han Ji-a blinked, startled. "Where did you even hear that?" Ye-Rin leaned back, shrugging, feigning innocence. "Just a guess." But her smirk said more. She was lying. She knew something, and she was enjoying watching him squirm. Mother’s eyes softened but narrowed with curiosity. "Really? The two of you?" The younger me scrambled for words, hands tightening around his spoon. "No—" But Han Ji-a’s voice cut clean across his. "Yes." The room froze. Chopsticks paused midair. Ye-Rin’s jaw dropped. Mother’s brows rose in surprise. Then, with a sigh that carried both disbelief and relief, she pressed her fingers against her temple and said, "So the boy who can’t even remember to bring an umbrella finally remembered how to bring home a girl?" Her eyes softened despite the jab, and she leaned back in her chair, studying him with that sharp, judge-like stare she never turned off at court. "She must be special if she sees past that thorny mouth of yours. Don’t you dare make me meet her just to scare her off,Ye-jun. If she’s really the one who steadies you, then... I’m glad. Truly glad." A faint smile tugged at her lips before she added, in her usual dry tone, "But if you break her heart, I’ll prosecute you myself." And the younger me? His whole face contorted, equal parts shock and betrayal. "What are you talking about?" he hissed under his breath, leaning toward her. Han Ji-a didn’t even flinch. She calmly spooned soup into her bowl, as if she hadn’t just detonated a bomb in the middle of dinner. Later, when they were alone, she finally explained. "If you had said no, your mother would’ve asked why. And then your secrets... they might’ve come out." She glanced at him, her gaze firm, steady. "This way, the questions end here." That was Han Ji-a. Always two steps ahead, even when he couldn’t keep his own feet steady. The scene bled away again, and suddenly I was staring at one of the darker Chapters of his life. The younger me—bloodied, bruised, staggering—collapsed inside Han Ji-a’s small apartment. The excuse was always the same: "studying." But the truth was written in the bruises he tried to hide. Her gasp cut the silence. "Ye-jun..." He tried to wave her off, but his legs buckled, and she rushed to catch him before he hit the floor. "What happened this time?" Her voice shook as she dragged him onto the couch. "Nothing," he muttered, spitting copper from his mouth. "Nothing?" She pressed an ice pack to his cheek, fury rising in her tone. "You look like you fought an entire gang by yourself." He winced but stayed silent, jaw clenched. Her hands trembled as she bandaged his ribs, but her words came out sharp, unrelenting. "This is the last time, Ye-jun. Do you hear me? The last. If you come back like this again, I’ll tell your mother everything." He tried to turn away, but her hand gripped his chin, forcing his eyes to hers. "Promise me." The younger me, panting, drenched in sweat, didn’t smirk, didn’t argue. His pride was stripped away with every ragged breath. He just nodded, the smallest motion, but heavy with defeat. That was his promise. And maybe the first time he realized that if he kept living like this, Han Ji-a wouldn’t stay by his side forever. And here I stand, watching those pieces of my life play again, like broken film reels. Funny. You think you remember your past clearly—until the past itself reminds you what you tried so hard to bury.