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# Chapter 133: What Food Speaks
The restaurant Haeul chose in a dark Gangnam alley was unexpectedly ordinary. A green awning. A sign reading “Joong-Ang Gukbap.” No tourists—just office workers rushing in and out. Unlike the refined establishments of Sinsa-dong or Apgujeong, this place carried the feeling of a grandmother’s thirty-year-old legacy. The walls had yellowed with time, the table edges worn with countless scratches. That was why Haeul had chosen it, Seah thought. The least Gangnam place in all of Gangnam.
The two sat by the window. 7:05 PM. Early evening, but still quiet. Their order was decided quickly. Two bowls of gukbap. Egg rolls and pickled radish on the side. Water came in a bottle, not a glass. That kind of restaurant.
“What did Kang Liou say?”
Haeul asked. She wasn’t holding a fork. Waiting for the food. Her fingers tapped on the table—tattooed fingers, each one bearing a small star. Seah watched them. The rhythm of their tapping. Irregular, yet somehow patterned.
“That’s not the answer you want to hear.”
Seah said. She evaded. Directly.
“Then what answer do I want?”
Haeul asked. Her eyes pierced through Seah. Seah hadn’t looked directly into Haeul’s eyes in a long time. She avoided again this time. Instead, she reached for the water bottle. Not to drink. Just something for her hands to do.
“Kang Liou thought about suicide. In Berlin. And he might still be thinking about it now.”
Seah spoke slowly, precisely. Like testifying in court.
Haeul’s fingers stopped. On the table.
“And?”
“And I don’t know if it’s my responsibility or not.”
Seah answered. It was the truth. A present-tense truth. How was she supposed to feel about Kang Liou? A victim looking at her perpetrator—but what if that perpetrator was someone who’d tried to take his own life? What then? Should she keep her anger? Feel pity? Both at once?
The food arrived. Two bowls of gukbap. The aroma of beef broth. The scent of green onions and red chili. And the warmth beneath it all. Haeul picked up her spoon. Seah remained still.
“Eat.”
Haeul said—not a command, but an invitation. Yet Seah didn’t want to eat. There was no more space inside her.
“You know what you did for eight months?”
Haeul asked, lifting a spoonful of gukbap.
“No.”
Seah answered.
“Got a tattoo. Thought about Kang Liou. Waited for messages that never came. Couldn’t sleep at night. Lived like a corpse during the day.”
Haeul spoke, then took another spoonful. “And you’re still doing it. But the moment the verdict crept three days closer, you ran to the hospital. Why? Because you found out he was thinking about suicide?”
Seah didn’t answer. Haeul was right. That was exactly why she’d visited him. His hands trembled. His voice was hollow. His eyes looked somewhere far away. And the moment Seah saw that, she thought he might die. And she thought she had to stop it.
“Is this love, or responsibility?”
Haeul asked.
“I don’t know.”
Seah said the same thing again.
“Liar. You know. I can tell just by looking. You’re still in love with him.”
Haeul spoke, setting down her spoon. “And that’s the problem. Because he never loved you. He loved his guilt. Through you.”
Seah’s hands trembled. For the first time. Like Kang Liou’s hands. The hand holding the water bottle vibrated slightly.
“You’re shaking.”
Haeul observed. Not with medical curiosity, but with concern as a friend.
“Yeah.”
Seah admitted.
“Eat. Please.”
Haeul said. This time, it was a command.
Seah picked up her spoon. She spooned gukbap into her mouth. The broth filled her mouth. Beef and green onions, and beneath them, a rich, savory taste. A flavor from long ago. Maybe from childhood. Maybe her mother had made it. Maybe this was the first time she was tasting it at all.
Tears came. Suddenly. Without warning. Like a dam breaking.
Haeul quietly handed her a napkin. Without speaking. Just handed it over. That was Haeul’s way. Whenever Seah cried, Haeul didn’t talk. She acted instead. A napkin. Water. Or just sitting beside her.
“What do you think the verdict will be?”
Haeul asked as Seah wiped her eyes.
“I don’t know. I think guilty… maybe.”
Seah said. Her voice still trembling.
“But?”
“But I don’t know if it’ll help. Even if he goes to prison, I think I’ll still be like this. Still be here.”
Seah touched her chest. Where her tattoo was. Falling fire. And a hand below it, trying to catch it. A hand not yet complete.
“The verdict doesn’t decide that.”
Haeul said.
“Then what does?”
Seah asked.
“You do.”
Haeul answered. And took another spoonful of gukbap. “You have to decide. Who are you. And what do you want. Not for Kang Liou. For yourself.”
Seah took another spoonful. This time without crying. Just eating. One spoonful, then another. The sensation of her body slowly, but surely, filling up. Like she was beginning to live again.
“Why is Kang Liou’s hand shaking?”
Haeul asked now, with curiosity.
“Because of a friend. In Berlin. A friend who killed himself.”
Seah answered.
“Why did he?”
Haeul asked.
“Lost a piano competition. Couldn’t bear it.”
Seah said.
Haeul’s spoon stopped. Over the gukbap bowl.
“So Kang Liou sees his own hands as punishment? For not being able to play piano anymore.”
Haeul spoke—not as a deduction, but as if she already knew.
“Yeah.”
Seah admitted.
“And you?”
Haeul asked.
“Me?”
Seah repeated.
“What punishment are you giving yourself? For you.”
Haeul asked. And it was the most important question. Seah knew it. The fact that she’d visited Kang Liou was proof that she was punishing herself. And she’d wanted to share that punishment with someone.
“I don’t know.”
Seah said the same thing again. But this time it sounded different. This time it was a beginning. Not knowing wasn’t an ending—it was the start of a path to find.
“Then you have to look.”
Haeul said. Simply. Like it was the most natural thing.
“How?”
Seah asked.
“By eating. By having meals.”
Haeul answered. And took another spoonful of gukbap. “See? You’re eating now. Different from thirty minutes ago. You’re already changing. Slowly. But you’re changing.”
Seah looked at her bowl. Half of the gukbap was gone. She had eaten it. Without thinking, but she had. And her body needed it. Wanted it.
“What about Kang Liou?”
Haeul asked.
“I don’t know what’ll happen after the verdict. I don’t think he knows either.”
Seah said.
“That’s his problem. Not yours.”
Haeul said. And that was the end of it. Haeul didn’t ask anymore. They just ate. In a restaurant down a dark Gangnam alley. Beneath a green awning. In a place a grandmother had kept for thirty years.
Outside, it was becoming 8 PM. The crowds leaving Gangnam Station were thinning. Instead, people enjoying a late evening were beginning to appear. Seah looked at the street. It still felt like another country, but now it wasn’t so frightening. Like she had become a little more solid. A single bowl of gukbap couldn’t have made her more solid, but that’s how it felt.
“What will you wear on verdict day?”
Haeul asked. After finishing the meal, while waiting for the check.
“I don’t know. What should I wear?”
Seah asked.
“You’re a victim. And a witness. And above all, you’re alive. Don’t forget that. So it doesn’t matter what you wear. But…”
Haeul paused.
“But?”
“But you have to wear yourself. Until now, you’ve dressed for someone else. For your mother. For Dohyun. For Kang Liou. This time, wear it for you.”
Haeul spoke.
Seah heard those words. Heard them exactly. Like they were being engraved on her chest.
The bill was 28,000 won. Two bowls of gukbap, egg rolls, pickled radish, and soju. Haeul had never ordered soju, but the owner left a small bottle. “On the house,” she said. Seah almost cried again at the small gesture. But she held it back. This time, she held it back.
When they left through the Gangnam Station exit, Haeul took Seah’s hand. With tattooed fingers. Fingers bearing stars. And Seah took Haeul’s hand. Reflexively. Without thinking, but firmly.
“No matter how the verdict comes out, you’re not alone. You know that, right?”
Haeul said when they reached the subway entrance.
“Yeah.”
Seah answered. And it wasn’t a lie. For the first time in a long while, Seah felt it was true.
Descending the subway stairs, Seah looked at her own hands. They weren’t trembling anymore. But it didn’t scare her now. Trembling wasn’t weakness. Trembling was proof of being alive. Like Kang Liou’s hands, her own hands trembled too. And that was okay.
Three days until the verdict. What would Seah do in those three days? Probably go to another restaurant with Haeul. Eat another meal. And slowly, but surely, fill her body and heart again. One bowl of gukbap at a time. And that was enough.
When they arrived at the platform, Seah didn’t count the time until the next train came. She just waited. Standing beside Haeul. And it was the first time. That Seah could wait for something while being present in the moment. Without fearing the future. Without regretting the past.
The subway came. The Gyeonggi Line. The route from Gangnam to Hongdae. Seah and Haeul boarded. And Seah looked at the darkness beyond the window. The black inside the tunnel. And her reflection in that black. Looking somehow different.
Three days until the verdict.
During that time, there wasn’t much for Seah to do. Review evidence. Final consultation with her lawyer. And a conversation with herself. Sorting out her relationship with Kang Liou. Understanding what it was, and what it wasn’t. And most importantly—finding what she wanted.
Haeul would be there for those three days. Without words. Just present. Like her tattoo. Something permanent.