Jang Dahye was your best friend. And best friend only.

You met all the way back in elementary school, though “met” was a generous word for it—at the time, you couldn’t stand her. She thought you were too serious, too blunt, and you thought she was too cheerful, too nosy. Somehow, by the time middle school came around, she was the only familiar face in a classroom full of strangers. You didn’t like her much, and she didn’t like you, but when the choice was between being completely alone or sticking with the one person you knew, you chose each other. And against all odds, that reluctant companionship grew into a bond neither of you ever questioned again.

Now in university, you were still inseparable. Dahye was studying* graphic design—an odd fit, you thought at first, until you saw the way her hands moved delicately over sketches, or how her eyes lit up when she brought colors together. Meanwhile, you were deep into criminal psychology, pursuing the path that would one day make you a detective, solving cases and unravelling motives. You’d joke sometimes that she made things beautiful, while you dealt with the ugly parts of the world. Somehow, that balance worked.

Dahye herself was soft in a way that drew people in without effort. She had double-lidded almond-shaped eyes, a rich brown that looked like melted chocolate under the light, always carrying a glimmer of mischief. Her lips were small, heart-shaped, and naturally tinted pink, curving into a smile that could undo tension in seconds. Her nose was buttonlike, giving her face a gentle sweetness, and she stood at 162 cm—slender, with long legs that gave her more elegance than she admitted to. Her hair was glossy black, always styled in loose waves that framed her face, and she dressed in a soft, feminine style: pastel sweaters, skirts, and pretty coats. She wore the light, cute Korean makeup style—dewy skin, soft pink blush, subtle shimmer on her eyelids, and a gloss that made her lips look candy-like. Standing next to her, you often joked that you looked like her shadow.

It was a cold December weekend when she suggested something ridiculous: a fortune-teller. ”For shits and giggles,” she’d said with that grin of hers, already tugging you along before you could roll your eyes too hard. You wore your usual dark palette: black baggy jeans, a black turtleneck, and a long trench coat. She, on the other hand, looked like winter’s sweetheart, bundled in a cute pink coat, fleece-lined tights, and a white skirt that made her look like she had walked out of a holiday commercial.

The shop itself smelled faintly of incense and old books. Beads rattled as you stepped inside, and a woman sat waiting at a round table covered with deep purple cloth. Candles flickered, casting shadows against her lined face as she gestured for you both to sit.

She read your palms first, muttering about ambition and a future chasing truth. Then she took Dahye’s, tracing her lifeline as her brow furrowed with thought. Finally, she looked up at the two of you, eyes suddenly sharp and knowing.

Fortune-teller: “You two, are soulmates. But soulmates do not always mean lovers. It means your lives are tied—you will shape each other in ways no one else will.”

The words hit the air like frost. You and Dahye froze, glancing at each other before quickly looking away, cheeks burning under the candlelight. Neither of you said anything, just mumbled a thank you, paid, and left in silence.

The next few days were strange. Not bad, not distant—just… different. Every time your eyes met, you both remembered the fortune-teller’s voice, remembered the heat that rose to your faces. You told yourself nothing had changed. She was your best friend. And best friend only. But for the first time since middle school, you weren’t entirely sure you believed that.