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# Chapter 27: The Weight of Lies
The grandmother was a regular customer who visited often, but she had never learned Sae-ah’s name. She simply called her “the convenience store girl.” It was easier that way. Names created deeper connections, and she preferred to avoid them. After the grandmother left with her ramyeon, eggs, and milk, Sae-ah returned to the counter. 3:25 p.m. The slow afternoon hours between two and five continued their quiet march.
She picked up her phone again. Re-read Haneul’s message. “You’re not actually trusting that Kang Ri-u guy, are you?”
Sae-ah’s finger touched the screen. She started typing a response. Deleted it. Started again. Deleted again. She repeated this five times. In the end, she left nothing behind.
Instead, she thought of Ri-u’s words. “Don’t lie to me.”
Those words themselves sounded like a lie. When his father’s company tried to strip away her rights, there was no guarantee that Ri-u could stop it. The contract might be legally binding. His father, Kang Min-jun, would never listen to his son’s pleas. Sae-ah knew this. Yet while looking into Ri-u’s eyes, feeling his hand, hearing his voice—she pretended not to know.
Was that a lie? Or was it hope?
Around 4:30 p.m., Haneul walked in.
She always pushed the door with force, as if the convenience store were hostile territory. Today was no different. She shoved the door open and glared at Sae-ah. Tattooed pants, black hoodie, gold chain around her neck. Haneul always entered like she was delivering a warning.
“Hey, we need to talk.”
“I’m busy right now.”
She wasn’t actually busy. 4:30 p.m. was still a slow time. Sae-ah simply wanted to avoid this conversation. Even though she knew she couldn’t.
Haneul leaned against the counter, facing her directly. Her eyes had always seemed to pierce through things, as if she possessed the ability to uncover lies.
“You didn’t submit the contract, did you?”
“…”
“Answer me.”
Sae-ah fidgeted with the calculator. An unnecessary action. She just needed her hands to move. Moving them felt easier than speaking.
“It’s because of that Kang Ri-u guy, isn’t it? What are you doing, Sae-ah? Really, what are you doing?”
“Haneul.”
“What.”
“Thank you.”
Haneul fell silent. It was an unexpected response. Sae-ah rarely expressed emotion, especially not gratitude or apology.
“Thank you for what? You still have that contract, I’m still worried, and what is this situation even supposed to be?”
Sae-ah looked at Haneul. Her face was full of worry—the most honest expression Sae-ah had ever seen from her. Not the tattooist Haneul, but the friend who had protected her since high school.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Submitting feels wrong, but not submitting means I don’t know how to pay for Do-hyun’s academy fees. I don’t know what Ri-u can actually do. I don’t know anything.”
“So?”
“So… I decided to trust him for now. Trust Ri-u and buy some time.”
Haneul sighed. A deep sigh, like someone emerging from underwater. In that sigh, Sae-ah understood what she had done. She had betrayed Haneul. Haneul had tried to protect her, and she had rejected that protection for Ri-u.
“Does he really know what he’s doing, or is he just clueless?”
“He doesn’t know.”
Haneul studied Sae-ah’s face carefully, as if searching for something hidden within it.
“Is that okay?”
“What does it matter?”
“Sae-ah, what are you saying? You’re not submitting the contract, you’re not getting paid, and you’re trusting some guy. And what has he done? Held your hand? Said something warm? That doesn’t invalidate a contract.”
Sae-ah didn’t respond. Because Haneul was right. Ri-u’s warm hand and warm words had no legal standing. They were powerless against the authority of her father, Kang Min-jun.
“Who does Ri-u think he is, Sae-ah? You don’t know? He’s the son of JYA. JYA! The son of the company that shoved that garbage contract in your face.”
“I know.”
“And you trust him anyway?”
“Yes. I trust him.”
Haneul stood up from the counter and turned away. Without looking at Sae-ah.
“You’re insane. Really.”
“…I know.”
“What do you know? What could you possibly know?”
Haneul’s voice grew louder. The fluorescent lights of the convenience store echoed it. Other customers who had entered the GS25 a few days ago looked up, wondering if a fight was breaking out.
“I’m sorry.”
Sae-ah spoke quietly. Haneul didn’t turn around.
“You’re apologizing to me? What is this? I was trying to protect you. I read that garbage contract, explained it, told you not to sign it. But you signed it anyway. Why? For Do-hyun? For money?”
“…”
“And now you trust that guy? Sae-ah, what does he think you are? Why would he betray his own father’s company just to protect you? His conscience? Love? Do those things even exist?”
Sae-ah watched Haneul’s back. Her shoulders were trembling. With anger. Or worry. Possibly both.
“I’m telling you this now because I know what you’re going to do later…”
Only now did Sae-ah understand the meaning of Haneul’s message. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Haneul already knew what Sae-ah would do. And she knew there was nothing she could do to stop it.
“I don’t care anymore. Do what you want. But you’re really not actually trusting that Kang Ri-u guy, are you?”
Now Sae-ah finally understood the true meaning of that question. It wasn’t “Are you really trusting him?” It was “Can you really trust him?” And she couldn’t answer that with certainty.
“Haneul, I…”
“Forget it. I’m leaving.”
Haneul walked toward the door. Sae-ah wanted to stop her. But she didn’t. Because the moment she did, everything would crumble. She would have to face that her choice was wrong.
The door closed. Haneul was gone. Sae-ah remained at the counter. Under the fluorescent lights. Alone.
4:47 p.m.
Sae-ah’s phone rang. A call. From Ri-u.
She didn’t answer for a while. The phone kept ringing. Once, twice, three times. Haneul was already gone. She wouldn’t see Sae-ah answer. Still, Sae-ah didn’t want to. Answering the phone felt like her choice would become final.
The fourth ring. Sae-ah tapped the screen.
“Hello?”
“What are you doing?”
Ri-u’s voice sounded urgent. Or rather, it sounded that way. Sae-ah detected something in his tone. Haste. Anxiety. Or resolution.
“I’m at the convenience store.”
“Leave now. Do you have time?”
“… Yes.”
“Between Gangnam Station and Sinnonhyeon Station, on Gangnam-daero. Do you know a café called ‘Artè’?”
Sae-ah didn’t. Gangnam wasn’t her world. Places like Gangnam belonged to people with money.
“No.”
“It’ll show up on Google Maps. Can you get here in thirty minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Ri-u hung up. Without any goodbye. Sae-ah put down her phone and looked at Jong-ho.
“Jong-ho, I’m sorry, but I need to leave.”
“What? Now?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”
Sae-ah removed her apron. The gray apron of GS25. When she took it off, she became Na Sae-ah again. Not #2847. But who Na Sae-ah actually was remained unclear.
The path from Gangnam Station to Sinnonhyeon Station was the most foreign part of Seoul Sae-ah had ever seen. Glass storefronts of luxury brands. Expensive clothes on young women. Pricey cafés and restaurants. Walking down this street, Sae-ah felt how small she was. Her clothes were a five-year-old black hoodie. Her shoes were fifteen-thousand-won sneakers. On this street, she would have looked like a ghost. A transparent ghost.
Café Artè was smaller than she expected. She almost walked past it. But Ri-u was waiting outside the door.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a cardigan. A gray cardigan. The fabric was in an entirely different league from her clothes. Sae-ah tried to imagine its price. It probably cost as much as ten of her outfits combined.
“Let’s go in.”
Ri-u opened the café door. Music was playing inside. Classical. A piano piece. As Sae-ah listened to the melody, she looked at Ri-u. His face was tense. As if the music caused him pain.
They sat at a table by the window. She could see vehicles flowing down Gangnam-daero. Many cars. Expensive cars. And the people inside them. Sae-ah wondered where they were all going.
“Sorry for calling you out of the blue.”
“It’s okay.”
Ri-u opened the menu. Then closed it again. Neither of them ordered anything.
“I talked to my father.”
Sae-ah looked up.
“There’s no way to invalidate the contract.”
Sae-ah didn’t respond. She already knew that. Ri-u probably knew it too. But hearing it directly felt different. Felt real. Like someone stabbing her chest with a knife.
“Legally, it’s a valid contract. My father guaranteed it.”
“… So submitting it is…”
“I was just talking. About buying time. But in reality, what time are we buying?”
Ri-u fell silent. His hand was on the table. Clenched into a fist. The hand that had unfolded at the subway station now made a fist again.
“I lied to you.”
“…”
“I told you not to lie to me, and I lied first.”
As Sae-ah heard this, she felt something. Anger? Betrayal? No. It was a more complex emotion. A mixture of her own feelings of being lied to and his feelings of lying.
“Why… did you lie?”
“Because…”
Ri-u looked at her. His eyes had lost their previous warmth. Like broken amber glass.
“Because I thought I had to protect you. Even with lies. And I wanted to give you the feeling that I could do something.”
“But you can’t.”
“No. I can’t.”
Silence flowed. The café’s piano music filled it. Someone’s fingers pressing keys. A sad melody. As Sae-ah listened, she thought about what she needed to do.
“Then I need to submit it.”
“…”
“I need to submit the contract. I need to get that 2.5 million won. Then I can pay for Do-hyun’s academy, buy Mom’s medicine…”
“Sae-ah.”
“I’m going to submit it.”
Ri-u slowly opened his hand. His fingers unfurled one by one. Like at the subway station.
“I can’t protect you. Not legally, not financially, not in any way. I’m just an employee at my father’s company. And…”
He stopped.
“And?”
“And the more I try to protect you, the more harm you’ll suffer. Because my father will use you. Use our relationship against you.”
Sae-ah understood. It meant that because she trusted Ri-u, her weakness would become more apparent. Kang Min-jun would know this. His son’s weakness. The vulnerability his son showed when trying to protect someone.
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Submit it. The contract.”
“… But…”
“Don’t trust me. I can’t protect you.”
Ri-u’s voice trembled again. More severely. Like something breaking apart.
“Instead… trust yourself. Trust your music. That’s the only way. Submit the contract, take the 2.5 million won, go into JYA and survive. And someday… sing under your own name.”
“Is that possible?”
Ri-u didn’t answer. Instead, he took something from his pocket. A USB. A small black USB.
“What is this?”
“Your songs. The songs you sang in the club. I recorded them secretly.”
Sae-ah looked at the USB. It contained her music inside. The songs she wrote. Her voice. Her music.
“Why did you…”
“It’s proof. Proof that your music exists. Someday, when someone denies you, you’ll need this.”
Ri-u placed the USB in Sae-ah’s hand. His hand was warm. Still warm. But now Sae-ah knew that warmth could be a lie. A lie, yet necessary. A lie that sustains someone.
“I… my chest hurts.”
Sae-ah said.
“I know. Mine does too.”
“Do I still have to trust you?”
Ri-u laughed. But it wasn’t laughter. It was the expression of someone trying to hold back tears.
“No. Don’t trust me now. Trust yourself. Please.”
The café’s piano music continued. Someone’s fingers continued pressing the keys. And in that music, Sae-ah realized something. That lies could be a form of love. That imperfect protection was still protection. And what she had to do.
Sae-ah put the USB in her pocket. And stood up.
“I’ll submit the contract and come back.”
Ri-u nodded. He said nothing more.
At 8 p.m., Sae-ah arrived at the JYA Entertainment office.
Producer Park In-chul was sitting at his desk. As if he’d been waiting. When Sae-ah pulled out the contract, he smiled. A smile of victory.
“You’ve made your decision.”
Sae-ah didn’t respond. Instead, she signed the contract. This time with deeper pressure. Then she submitted it.
Park In-chul organized the documents. And handed her a check. 2.5 million won.
“Congratulations. You are now officially a JYA artist.”
Sae-ah took the check. But she felt nothing. It was weightless. Like holding air.
And in that moment, Sae-ah realized she had lost something. As she submitted the contract, something inside her went dark. Like a flame. Slowly, quietly, but certainly.
Her voice.