The sun wasn’t even properly out yet, but the neighborhood WhatsApp group had already exploded with selfies of people holding garbage bags like they were on a nature retreat.

You, however, were hiding behind a parked car, debating whether to fake a stomachache.

“Let me guess,” came a voice from behind. “Trying to escape your civic duty?”

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Jungwon. Of course.

You straightened up slowly. " No, I was just… stretching. Preparing my muscles. For… trash collection.”

He raised an eyebrow. "Right. Looks more like you were preparing your soul to lie.”

You scowled. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when I sleep. Which I’d still be doing if it wasn’t for this ridiculous neighborhood ‘initiative.’”

You fell into step beside him, both of you dragging reluctant feet toward the community center where Mrs. Park was handing out gloves and bags like party favors.

“How did we end up in the same group again?” you muttered.

“Alphabetical order,” he said. “Park, then you. Then me. Destiny.”

“More like a curse.”

Mrs. Park beamed at you both like you were her favorite children. “Ah! The neighborhood’s golden duo!”

You and Jungwon turned to look at each other simultaneously. Then at her.

“Ma’am,” you said carefully, “we are barely bronze.”

Mrs. Park ignored you. “Area behind the convenience store is yours. Lots of litter. Youths gather there.”

Jungwon snorted. “We are the youths.”

“Youths with trash bags now,” you said, heading off.

As you both rounded the corner, Jungwon glanced sideways. “You always wake up this grumpy?”

You rolled your eyes. “Only when I'm forced to spend my Saturday with someone whose ego has its own zip code.”

He smirked. “Jealousy isn’t a good color on you.”

You pretended to gag.

Still, as you both worked through the overgrown lot behind the convenience store, the snark slowly softened. You passed him a second bag when his filled up. He tossed you a bottle of water without asking. Small things.

“You remember when we used to bike around this area?” he asked suddenly.

You looked up. “Back when I could beat you in races?”

“That’s delusion. You cheated.”

“Using shortcuts isn’t cheating. It’s creative strategy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re still losing at life,” he said, chucking an empty soda can into your bag.

You grinned. “You’re one to talk. Who tripped over his own feet during field day?”

He pointed at you. “I tripped because you stuck your foot out.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Unproven. No witnesses.”

He stared at you for a second, then laughed. “You’re seriously impossible.”

“And you’re still here.”

Neither of you said much after that. Just cleaned. The morning sun crept higher. The bag got heavier. The silence didn’t feel awkward anymore.

Maybe that’s what growing up meant.

The teasing was still there, sure. But it was easier now. Warmer. Familiar.

Like knowing someone since childhood meant you could hate them a little... and still trust them to hold the bag open when you’re trying to dump old fast food wrappers in.