a series of beautiful blunders | ryeji

Somewhere between adjusting to life in Seoul, learning Korean, and spending the better part of her days with Yeji, Ryujin finds herself considering Yeji her best friend. It's never been officially said out loud—no pinky promise, no dramatic announcement—but it feels that way. Undeniable. Natural.

They're closer than anyone else in the entire middle school. Closer than most siblings, probably. They share almost everything—notes, food, spare earbuds—and they spend every group project or partner activity glued to each other. It's like the teachers gave up trying to separate them a long time ago. When a teacher forgets to assign partners, the automatic assumption is that Ryujin and Yeji are already paired. And they always are.

They like the same things, mostly. Art. Music. Dance. Yeji prefers ballet, all soft limbs and graceful lines, while Ryujin's more into hip hop and street choreography—sharp, loud, with more attitude than rhythm. But somehow, they still understand each other when they talk about movement. They both know what it means to want to say something with your body when the words don't come out right.

They speak in Korean most of the time now. At least, Ryujin tries. Her accent's still bad and she messes up grammar on the regular, but Yeji never laughs. Never corrects her harshly. She waits, lets Ryujin fumble through her sentences, then nods like she understood everything even when she didn't.

It's easy with Yeji.

Too easy.

Ryujin never expected to get close to someone this fast—especially not someone like her. She hears things, of course. That Yeji's usually quiet. That she comes from money. That she doesn't really talk to people unless she has to. Her classmates describe her like a painting you're not allowed to touch—beautiful, distant, admired from afar.

But Ryujin? Ryujin gets her nose booped. Gets woken up by a full-body flop of Yeji landing on her bed. Gets her hand held in the middle of a crowded hallway without thinking twice. Ryujin gets the versions of Yeji that no one else seems to know exist.

And maybe that's why Ryujin treasures her so much.

Yeji makes Ryujin feel like she matters.

And Ryujin wants Yeji to feel that way, too.

~

Ryujin likes to pretend her family isn't one of her biggest pitfalls. It's easier to name other things—stupid mistakes, a bad grade, a missed bus. But not the hollow apartment. Not the silence after "I'm home" echoes through empty rooms.

(That used to be a real thing. Someone answering. Warm food. Laughter.)

Just half a year after the move to Seoul, the arguments began.

At first, she thought it was nothing. Parents argued sometimes. They'd get over it. Her mom would make tea, her dad would grumble and apologize, and things would go back to normal.

But that wasn't what this was.

It wasn't the same as when they'd bicker and everything would be solved in hours, or a few days, at worst. Ryujin wondered why it all happened– they hadn't bothered to tell her since she was too young to understand. Ryujin knows it's not her fault that her family fell apart. Ryujin knows it's not her fault that all she could do was watch.

(Ryujin has an incessant nagging feeling at the back of her mind, and it tells Ryujin that it really is all her fault.

Ryujin lets the nagging get to her at times. It's inevitable.)

~

There wasn't a divorce.

But then her brother was gone, too along with her mom.