Heemin stared at the steaming cup that Eun-kyung handed him with wary eyes.
Inside the delicate porcelain, an unfamiliar scent drifted up from the tea, something he had never smelled before.
"Doctor, what if I say something weird? This is all being recorded, right?"
Now that the hypnosis therapy was actually about to begin, his nerves were kicking in.
What if he accidentally blurted out his innermost thoughts?
What if he revealed something he would never, ever want anyone to know?
Like the fact that this was all just a novel, that he was a stranger inside Seo Heemin's body, and that he was only trying to be good to Cha Iheon out of pure pity?
That would be a disaster.
Last year, his second sister had gone for a medical check-up and had to undergo a sedated endoscopy.
Before the procedure, she had confessed her biggest fear—that while under anesthesia, she might babble about her actual hobby: watching gay porn.
She had been terrified she’d spill it all to the nurses.
Though hypnosis wasn’t the same as anesthesia, now that he was in a similar situation, he fully understood her fear.
His heart pounded.
He could already imagine himself blurting out something ridiculous.
"It’s okay," Eun-kyung reassured him gently. "I'll only ask questions relevant to the therapy, and you'll only answer those questions. Nothing else."
"But still..."
"I promise I won’t ask for your bank account password," she added playfully, winking.
Heemin nearly retorted that he didn’t have any money to steal in the first place but decided to just stay quiet and sip the tea instead.
He blew on it gently, cooling it slightly before taking a cautious sip.
Warmth spread through his body, easing the tension in his muscles.
"Close your eyes and take slow, deep breaths."
Leaning back into the plush chair, he followed her instructions.
As his eyelids drifted shut, his breathing evened out.
"From now on, this song will be your anchor. It will guide you into hypnosis and also bring you back out."
A soft melody flowed from the speakers—Bach’s Air on the G String.
Thirty seconds passed.
Eun-kyung turned off the music.
Then, her voice, low and steady, spoke again.
"In order to break free from trauma, you must face your past self directly. Today, since it’s your first session, let’s start with something pleasant—your happiest memory."
The rich, lingering notes of the violin seemed to echo in his mind.
Then, she snapped her fingers.
"Recall the happiest moment of your life.
One, two, three."
Like a pebble sinking into a deep lake, his consciousness drifted downward.
The darkness of night, the rush of a river, and then—
A flood of dazzling light.
Shimmering fragments rained down over him.
The happiest memory.
It was the day his eldest sister received her first paycheck.
She had taken the entire family out for grilled beef.
It was a restaurant she had visited once before, during a company dinner.
Up until then, they had only eaten samgyeopsal at cheap neighborhood restaurants, and only on rare occasions.
So when they saw the prices on the menu, their eyes had gone wide.
He had always thought the best part of eating meat was chewing it.
But when the beef melted in his mouth, he changed his mind.
For the first time, he understood why people made such a big deal about Hanwoo.
As the pieces of meat on the grill slowly disappeared, their excitement faded into reluctance.
Worried about spending too much, Heemin had lied and said he was already full.
He deliberately avoided ordering doenjang-jjigae or cold noodles for dessert.
He filled his stomach with unlimited refills of side dishes and pickled onions instead.
His mother and sisters must have had the same thought.
No one suggested ordering more meat.
They returned home, not quite satisfied, but pretending they were.
And that night—long after they should have been asleep—his third sister, unable to bear the lingering hunger, raided the fridge.
She tossed everything she could find into a giant mixing bowl and made bibimbap.
The smell of roasted sesame oil filled the house.
One by one, the family woke up and gathered around the table.
They all started eating together, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Someone had joked:
"This is more our style anyway. Next time, instead of wasting money on beef, let’s just eat samgyeopsal until we burst."
They didn’t have much, but they had each other.
They cried, laughed, fought, and made up.
Their tiny home was always chaotic, but their bond was unshakable.
They were the most precious people in his life.
Even if it was just a memory, being able to see them again—even like this—made him indescribably happy.
The light in his vision began to shift.
Another scene was forming.
Eagerly, he waited for the memory to take shape.
"You’re there now, Heemin?"
Eun-kyung’s voice echoed faintly.
Still lost in the memory, Heemin nodded without opening his eyes.
Shapes flickered across his closed eyelids like an old film projection.
"What do you see?"
"...A desk.
...A chair.
...A chalkboard.
Loud kids talking."
Not home.
Not the kitchen.
Instead, he found himself in a familiar classroom.
This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.
The students were all wearing winter uniforms—a light gray blazer with navy piping along the collar.
The uniform of his high school.
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Which meant...
The season in this memory was winter.
"It looks like school," Heemin murmured. "What are you doing there?"
He lowered his gaze.
A 4B pencil, a drawing pad, and an eraser lay on the desk.
...Huh?
This... wasn’t his memory.
It was Seo Heemin’s.
Somehow, under hypnosis, his body’s original memories were resurfacing.
Fascinated, he looked down at the sketchbook in his hands.
Even in his own world, he had never been good at drawing.
But Seo Heemin had spent all of high school sketching.
He would sit quietly at his desk during breaks, drawing anything in sight.
Backpacks.
Pencil cases.
Mechanical pencils.
Fans.
Clocks.
Umbrellas.
Brooms.
Dustpans.
He had drawn everything around him.
"I’m drawing," Heemin said.
"What are you drawing?"
"Hmm..."
The lines were still forming.
Slowly, the sketch took shape.
Broad shoulders.
A strong, upright back.
Long legs.
Even with just a few strokes, the silhouette of a boy was unmistakable.
"I’m doing a figure sketch."
"Who’s the model?"
"...Cha Iheon."
Even without seeing the face, Heemin recognized the subject immediately.
Seo Heemin, who had refused to draw people even after becoming an artist—
This was the only man he had ever sketched.
His dearest friend.
His first and last love.
Cha Iheon.
"How do you feel?"
"I’m happy.
Like all my worries are gone.
Like the air around me is warm.
My heart is fluttering... and it feels full."
"Is it because you love drawing?
Or because of who you’re drawing?"
"That’s..."
He couldn’t say for sure.
Eun-kyung’s voice softened.
"Focus on the feeling. Let’s see what happens next."
The scene continued.
The drawing was almost complete.
Just as Seo Heemin lifted his head to check the folds in the clothing—
—"Are you drawing me again?"
Cha Iheon turned around, grinning.
Heemin’s heart pounded.
A strange, bittersweet emotion rippled through him.
In the memory, Seo Heemin flushed, hastily slamming the sketchbook shut.
His face and neck were burning.
—"Why are you hiding it? Let me see."
Cha Iheon excused himself from his conversation and strode over, stretching out his hand.
—"...Because it’s terrible."
—"You always say that, even when it’s not true."
He dragged over a chair and sat beside Seo Heemin.
Flipping open the sketchbook, he studied the drawing.
His sharp eyes curved in amusement.
— "When are you finally going to draw my portrait? You always sketch my body, but never my handsome face. I’d make a great model, don’t you think?"
Inside Seo Heemin’s bag, tucked away, there were undoubtedly multiple sketches of Cha Iheon’s face.
Drawings done not from observation, but from memory.
He had never shown them to Cha Iheon.
At the time, Heemin had assumed it was just pride—Seo Heemin was meticulous, unwilling to reveal incomplete work.
But now, seeing this moment unfold, he realized.
It wasn’t because of skill.
It was because his feelings had seeped into those drawings.
If Cha Iheon had seen them, he would have known.
That every pencil stroke, every careful line—
Was filled with something that couldn’t be hidden.
— "Once I get better at it."
— "Alright. Then practice hard and promise to draw me one day?"
— "Mhm. I will."
When Seo Heemin nodded, agreeing softly,
Cha Iheon ruffled his hair, fingers slipping through the strands.
His touch was warm.
Heemin, caught in the memory, could almost feel it—
That quiet, fleeting tenderness.