When Kyungshin Unnie called me, I was dozing off on a train headed South. The sudden vibration of my phone, balanced precariously between my fingers, startled me awake. I glanced at the name on the screen. My first instinct was to let it ring. Then I asked myself, why would she be calling?

        I wondered if maybe something had happened to Kyungho, but the concern wasn’t enough to move me. It had already been six years, after all. While I had deleted Kyungho’s phone number from my contact list, I kept Kyungshin Unnie’s. He was the one I broke up with, not her. However ridiculous it might sound, I really did believe Unnie and I could remain friends. As long as we maintained a certain. . . distance between us.

        Distance was what I had needed back then, not an ending. I never once thought that Unnie would cut me out of her life. On the contrary, I worried that the reason I had delayed my breakup with Kyungho was because of Unnie—because it was hard for me to let go of her, because she cared so much for me, because I couldn’t say goodbye to her. Thinking back, I realized that wasn’t worry, but hope. However, after the breakup Unnie never initiated contact, and that hurt me.

        Even though it felt strange, I held on to that hurt. And all the while, I was also guilty of not reaching out. I was itching to know how she was doing, yet I was afraid that the moment Unnie heard my voice, she’d be able to read the true intention hidden behind my “How are you?” That she’d pick up her bags and stride back into the depth of my life (she was never the type to hang on the threshold). Then, somewhere along the way, that strange feeling turned to numbness, then quietness, and now I was doing alright. So why was she calling me now?

        I pressed the button to stop the buzzing. A few seconds later, my screen lit up with a missed call notification. Though I knew my stop was due any moment, I closed my eyes again. Three short vibrations made the phone shudder once more.

        I had no doubt it was Unnie. She always texted this way, 
cutting sentences into smaller fragments. I ignored her messages and only opened my eyes when the automated voice announced our arrival.

*    

That afternoon passed by in a blur. A liaison officer in charge of escorting us was waiting outside the station, standing in front of a car. My colleague and I had been sent on this business trip to learn the ins-and-outs of an international exhibition that had been successfully held for several years in S City. Basically, it was a field study.

        Our entire organization had automatically switched modes after a new mayor from a different party was elected. A number of ongoing projects were dismantled, and before long my department merged with another. For three years I had been handling banner regulations, when suddenly I found myself preparing for the Fourth Industrial Revolution Expo, one of the newly appointed mayor’s key campaign pledges.

        After our tour, we were dragged to an unnecessary dinner with the team leader of S City’s department. We ate a seafood samhap dish with a weird name—Yisunshin Samhap—and drank a bit of soju.

        When I finally arrived at our accommodation, a wave of exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I collapsed on the bed fully dressed. While absentmindedly tapping my messenger app, I was confronted once again with Unnie’s texts, which I had forgotten about.

        Hyejeong-ah

        I forgot you hate calls, sorry

        Just curious how you’re doing

        Fine, I typed. Then I deleted it.

        On a business trip. I deleted it again.

        Why would she even care how I was doing? Even if I answered that I was okay, what meaning would that have? My head spinning with thoughts, I got up and went to take 
a shower. I fell asleep right after.

        Once I was back from the business trip, I had already forgotten Unnie’s texts. Actually, I tried my best not to think about them. But a few days later, she texted me again.

        Busy?

        I hesitated for a moment before I answered.

        Yes. Busy.

I thought she wouldn’t contact me again after such a cold reply, but I was fooling myself. Unnie wasn’t the type to get hurt so easily. And even if she had been, she wouldn’t give up. Sure enough, as though she’d been waiting, Unnie began chatting.

        She started working part-time at a convenience store last spring.

        The stray cat she’d been feeding had given birth to two kittens.

        She had quit drinking but had become addicted to cola instead.

        My phone kept buzzing because she texted in bursts, one short sentence at a time. I muted the chatroom. Since I didn’t ask, Unnie never mentioned Kyungho. I had no way of knowing if she was still living with him or not. And I didn’t want to.

        From that day on, whenever I checked my phone after work, I found several messages from her, some including photos. Every time, curiosity got the best of me, and I ended up reading them all.

        She told me about the old man next door who, at exactly 7 a.m. every morning, would raise the national flag (his 
dedication and solemn demeanor were somehow moving). About a mosquito that had been flattened between the pages of a book she’d just bought (how many mosquitoes in the world could say they found their end this way?). About the recorder music coming from some unidentified house (despite intense practice, the musician’s skills never seemed to improve, but listening to it was weirdly comforting).

        I see. Great. LoL. Even on days when I left no response at all she kept texting. I didn’t mind. Maybe I wanted to reconnect with her.

        Or maybe I was just lonely.

        Kyungho and Kyungshin Unnie were the first people outside my family that I had ever loved deeply. Of course, in the beginning, I had no idea I would come to care for her so much.

In the early days of our relationship, Kyungho and I once bickered about whether to go to my place or his. We were both quite drunk and didn’t want to part. The bar we’d been drinking at was near Kyungho’s apartment, but he insisted we take a taxi back to mine. Otherwise, we could go to a motel. Up until then, we had never been to a motel, nor did either of us ever suggest it. When I frowned, Kyungho averted my gaze and said,

        My sister is home.

        I knew he had a sister three years older than him. I also knew that she had dropped out of art college, that she had practically raised Kyungho after they lost their parents in an accident, and that she was now suffering from quite 
severe depression. That same sister had moved into Kyungho’s place a few months earlier. I wondered how the two managed to share the cramped space—he lived in a tiny apartment of thirteen pyeong, with two small rooms—but most of all, it irked me that he hadn’t told me about this until now, when he had no choice but to bring it up.

        I had my prejudices, too. I had heard too many times about sisters-in-law being even more difficult to deal with than mothers-in-law. After their parents’ death, Kyungho’s sister had left university and thrown herself into the frontline of the workforce to provide for them. She had done just about anything—manual labor at construction sites, factory work, housekeeping. Right now, however, her depression kept her from holding down any kind of job for long. Kyungho adored his sister.

        Our dark past caught up to her in the form of an illness, he said. She always seemed so strong, I never realized she was breaking down inside. I couldn’t see it. She’s only got me.

        Whenever Kyungho brought up the subject, I felt a little uneasy. A part of me was afraid his sister was using the sacrifices she had made to hold him hostage. And what if she’d eventually demand I repay that debt as well?

        At the same time, I felt sorry for her. She was over forty and had never really been able to settle anywhere, with no stable job, no partner to lean on, and now she was living in her little brother’s house. To be honest, I thought maybe depression was just an excuse.

        Aside from the issue of his sister (at the time I thought she was the problem), Kyungho was good husband material. 
He was a civil servant like me and had no extravagant spending habits. Back then he had never shown even the slightest aggression toward me, never cursed, and wasn’t much of a drinker. He wasn’t flawless by any means, but he was nice to me, and I liked him.

        Then one day, Kyungho asked me if I wanted to meet his sister. When I agreed, he said something that left me puzzled: I hope you won’t like her, or hate her either.

*    

I met her in the summer. We went to a samgyetang restaurant, even though it wasn’t the hottest day of the season. I thought it was an odd choice, but Kyungho told me his sister had done thorough research before landing on this specific place.

        Later, Kyungshin Unnie revealed she had considered that first meeting as a sort of pre-engagement introduction. 
After all, she was Kyungho’s only family. She thought samgyetang was the perfect menu for such an occasion—neither too expensive nor cheap, a dish you didn’t eat often but that at the same time didn’t require formal attire. Unnie said that while she wanted me to feel welcomed and taken care of, she had hoped not to pressure me. I was so struck by her thoughtfulness I almost felt guilty.

Unnie’s long, wavy hair was pinned up with a claw clip, and she wore a loose khaki summer knit through which you could clearly make out her bra top, a pair of jeans shorts that revealed her thighs, and flip-flops. Her attire felt almost too casual, even to the point of being inappropriate. As for myself, I had opted for a two-piece linen set. Even though we met right after work, I tried to dress for the occasion.

        Despite not wearing any make-up, she had an air of elegance. I could feel the people in the restaurant stealing  glances at her. It’s inevitable for beauty to attract attention, and Kyungshin Unnie was effortlessly stunning.

        For this reason, I must admit I was taken aback. I had always imagined she’d be a bit lackluster, with small eyes and a shadow cast over her face that make-up couldn’t conceal. Overall, someone that had no desire or interest in taking care of her appearance. But when she looked at me and smiled, there was no shadow on her face.

        Should I just call you Hyejeong? I heard you’re younger than Kyungho.

        Out of the blue, she dropped any formalities and called me by my name. I was torn, unsure whether I ought to let my walls down or build them up higher. While I don’t remember the details of our conversation, my heart began to thaw against my will, and eventually it melted completely. We left the restaurant and went to Kyungho’s place, where we drank until dawn. It was a relief that we had met on a Friday.

        That Saturday, we soothed our alcohol-filled stomachs with the bean sprout ramyun Unnie prepared for brunch, 
then proceeded to spend the day lounging on the sofa, dozing in fits and starts while reruns of some entertainment 
program played in the background. For dinner, we ordered fried chicken. If anyone had seen us, they’d have a hard time understanding how we could’ve gotten so close after only one day.

        As I was standing in the foyer of Kyungho’s apartment, Unnie chirped, If you two get married, we’ll have loads of fun, don’t you think?

        On my way back home, I kept smiling. A part of me couldn’t believe what had happened, while another found it refreshing. I felt like I had just witnessed something rare. Unnie’s words, her expression as she said them—she was devoid of all pretenses.

I don’t think we were ever fully sober after that weekend. Unnie liked her liquor, and she got drunk easily. As for me, I liked Unnie and almost never got tipsy. We met up to drink every other day. As time passed, Kyungho became less and less a part of our get-togethers.

        One evening, in a tiny, unknown bar on the third floor of a building, Unnie and I joined a group that was playing guitar. I was the type who held onto the tambourine like a lifeline during the karaoke sessions that inevitably followed company dinners, trying to get out of singing, but that night I bellowed out two whole songs on my own, following the guitar’s melody.

        For the first time in my life, I even went to a club. Unnie brought me a dress—a tiny scrap of fabric, really—and a few accessories. I changed in a subway station bathroom stall. Unnie applied glittering eyeshadow to my eyelids, then picked up an eyeliner and drew a sharp line that elongated the shape of my eyes. Standing in front of the mirror, we both burst into giggles. It felt like I was back in middle school, even though I had never done anything like that as a teenager. I was sure the men guarding the club’s doors wouldn’t let us in, but thanks to Unnie we made it through. The club was loud, chaotic, and overall a place I would never step into again, but I had fun.

        When I was with Kyungshin Unnie, I became a braver version of myself, even without the help of alcohol. Beside her, I felt free, though I didn’t know what from.

        As I lay in bed to sleep, thoughts of her filled my mind. It was as if I had a light fever, a feeling I’d never experienced 
with anyone—not with Kyungho, and not with any of my past boyfriends.

Every so often, when I went out to meet her, I’d find her already drinking with someone else. Sometimes it would be a friend of hers or an acquaintance, but there were also times when she’d only met them a few hours earlier. Among these random drinking buddies a few were surprisingly shy and reserved. Most introverts, myself included, would instinctively run if someone approached them out of the blue, but Unnie wasn’t threatening, nor did she push them out of their comfort zones. She was the type who’d seep through your barriers without you even noticing.

        She was considerate with everyone, and thoughtfulness came to her so naturally that those on the receiving end, without being aware of it, simply felt respected and at ease when they were in her company. In a group, Unnie would always make sure no one was feeling left out, spreading her attention and care to each, like a mother bird feeding her chicks. I believed that was Unnie’s special talent.

        Kyungho disagreed. In fact, he thought the opposite. He said Unnie had a habit of lowering herself, which made others feel superior to her. That was why people gravitated toward her.

I took his words as a criticism of me. By then, we were arguing much more often.

Do you know you’re acting strange lately? Kyungho said one day, when Unnie wasn’t around. I’m not sure if you’re dating me or my sister, to be honest.

        Thinking he was joking, I laughed and said, I guess you’re right!

        Be reasonable, he continued, turning serious. You’re not special to her. She acts the same with everyone.

        I felt hurt, maybe because deep down I already knew it. As I fell silent, Kyungho sighed and rubbed his face.

        Hyejeong-ah, he said with a sweeter tone, hoping to comfort me, You said it yourself before, didn’t you? That you liked Kyungshin because she had no walls. The thing is, no walls means she has no defense either. She gives her all to everyone, always laying her cards on the table. You need to protect her, not get swept away in her wind.

        I got angry. I thought he was being unfair. I wanted to tell him I loved Kyungshin as much as he did. I believed he was trying to control Unnie under the guise of protecting her.

        I shouted at him, You may be the one protecting your sister, but I’ll help her live her life the way she wants! If she shows all her cards, I’ll show mine, too.

That was how I felt at the time.

*    

Imagine a plain glass bottle, with no decoration at all, that keeps catching your eye.

        With its transparent walls, you can see right through it. The bottle has no intention of hiding anything about itself, and even if it did, it’d fail. How could a glass bottle conceal its interior? It may look sturdy but there’s no guarantee it won’t break.

        If you look closely, you’ll spot tiny bubbles scattered throughout the glass. The light passing through them is beautiful. Are those flaws? Beauty marks?

        No, more like a glimpse of something unknown. Maybe that’s why the person looking at them feels uneasy.

That day, Unnie seemed oddly unstable. She kept drinking, unable to resist the alcohol, and looked a little sad, despite trying to hide it with an awkward laugh.

        We were at a cocktail bar we frequented, and she continued dozing off. She had changed her antidepressant prescription, and she said as a side effect drinking made her sleepy. I made a joke, saying that as a result she’d probably drink less, so in the long run it wouldn’t be a negative side effect anymore.

        While I drank my three gin tonics, Unnie kept sleeping. Then, she jerked awake, messaged someone on her phone, and said she was going to a friend’s house. I asked the bartender for a cup of water and watched as Unnie drank it all down.

        After leaving the bar, Unnie smoked a cigarette, and I bought two hangover drinks from the convenience store. We each gulped one down, and I walked her to her friend’s house, which was in an old building. Unnie said she would 
go in after seeing me off. When I turned around, she waved her hand and smiled. I walked to the main road and took a taxi.

At four in the morning, I received a call from Kyungho. Unnie hadn’t come home. I told him she went to a friend’s house, so she was probably still there.

        Which friend?

        I don’t know the name.

        He sounded resentful, saying I should’ve at least phoned 
him if I wasn’t going with her. As I explained to him that I had accompanied her to the entrance of the building and shared with him its location, I wondered why the hell I was making excuses.

        I was about to tell him he was the one being unreasonable 
now, that maybe she didn’t want to go home because he suffocated her, but I stopped myself in time. Instead, I chose sarcasm.

        Do you even know how old your sister is?

        Kyungho remained silent for a long while, then hung up. I went back to sleep, then woke up and got to work. At the end of a meeting, I checked my phone. Kyungho never contacted me during work hours, but I found three missed calls and a text saying he was waiting for me in the lobby on the first floor.

        Once I went down, I saw Kyungho beyond the security gate, staring into the void. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept at all. He’d been contacted by the police. Someone had called them saying they found Kyungshin Unnie sleeping on a park bench near a subway station.

        If that person hadn’t reported it, if something had happened to her. . . Kyungho was speaking in a murmur, but I could sense the boiling anger underneath. For the first time, I was afraid of him.

        I thought you would at least. . . but he trailed off. I wasn’t sure if he was holding back tears or something else. Then he said he wanted to break up.

        I said, Okay, and that was the last time we saw each other.

*    

By the end of the summer, Unnie said she wanted to meet and talk. Had I been waiting for her to say it first? I was both worried and happy. To be honest, during our text conversations, a baseless confidence had sprouted within me. I was sure this time around I’d be able to maintain the proper distance. It had been six years, and during that time, no matter how long or short it may have felt, we had matured.

        We met at a sushi restaurant near my office. I’d thought she was joking when she told me she’d stopped drinking, but Unnie didn’t order any alcohol. Maybe that was why she looked a bit dull. She had been texting me non-stop about every little thing, but now that we were face-to-face, she wasn’t speaking much. She was limp as a toilet paper roll without its center.

Once we were done with our food, we walked to a nearby park. The days were still long, and the sun shined on the streets despite it being seven o’clock in the evening. As if sensing the summer’s end, the cicadas were louder than ever, their buzzing pouring down from the lush zelkova trees.

        As soon as we sat down on a bench, three pigeons flew over. The birds didn’t seem to expect anything from us, judging by the way they pecked at the ground. I couldn’t tell if they were eating bugs or something else.

        When, a while later, Unnie rummaged through her purse, a few other pigeons and sparrows circled us. She took out a packet of candy and offered me one. Mint flavored. She said she was in the process of quitting smoking.

        Why? I asked.

        Why? she repeated, then she burst out laughing. The candy had melted and was stuck to the wrapper, which wouldn’t budge. At the rustling sound, the birds ran to my feet in anticipation.

        I wouldn’t be able to face Kyungho if I got cancer or something, Unnie said. I took the opportunity to ask her how he was doing.

        Is he okay?

        Yeah. He’s gotten into biking. He doesn’t only ride outside, he also bought an indoor one. This fall he’s going to do a cross-country trip with his friends. All the way down to Busan.

        That wasn’t what I was curious about, but I nodded anyway. Kyunghshin Unnie seemed to have read my mind, because she said she’d moved out. Kyungho paid for her deposit. Now she was teaching an art class two times a week 
at a kindergarten. In the evenings she spent at home she liked to draw, even though it was nothing more than doodles. 
She was still on antidepressants, but her symptoms had gotten much better. I kept nodding my head.

        Then we fell into silence for a while, both rolling the candy in our mouth, staring at the birds. Unnie pointed at one of the sparrows and said, It looks exactly like one of the toddlers I teach.

        Oh, that’s adorable.

        The sparrows running around were cute. For the first time, I thought I would like to be friends with a bird.

        I imagined it springing up into the air and sitting on my finger. Walking while it rested on my shoulder. My foolish fantasies were broken by Unnie’s sudden request.

        Can you lend me some money?

        I felt a stinging pain somewhere around my chest. I hadn’t been expecting much, but. . .

        How much do you need?

        One million won.

        Are you sick?

        She shook her head no. If anything, I’m too healthy, she said. I wondered what “too healthy” could mean, but I didn’t ask.

        I’ll give you the money. No need to pay me back.

        When she heard my answer, Unnie stared at me with vacant eyes.

        I had forgotten about this habit of hers, the way she turned to look at you, her gaze blank. Quite literally, it was impossible to read any emotion or intention in her eyes, and that still stare made you look back at yourself. Is there something on my face? Did I say something wrong?

        Maybe others would dislike that habit, but I didn’t mind. I always thought it was a good gaze—if a gaze can even be judged as good or bad.

        How was Kyungho’s gaze? Good? Bad? His eyes were incredibly clear, almost strangely so (like the glossy black stones on a Go board), yet every time they met mine, I liked myself a little less. Maybe because of my crooked feelings that had been there from the start.

        Sitting on that park bench, I sent Unnie the money without thinking twice.

        I’ll pay it back, I promise, she said firmly.

        Right then, a sparrow landed with a flutter on her knee. Her gaze turned to me, as if to say, Look at this!

        Her face lit up with pure delight, like she’d already forgotten I had just lent her a million won.

*   

Starting the next day, I couldn’t get in contact with her. Or rather, Unnie’s texts, which had been a constant flow lately, came to an abrupt end.

        I got angry when I realized she’d only reached out again to get the money. She could’ve just asked by text and I would’ve given it to her, no questions asked. That way, she would have spared me this hurt.

        Thinking back to our conversation, Unnie hadn’t asked anything about me. All I got was that single How are you doing? the first time she texted me while I was on the train. Kyungshin Unnie had talked about herself the whole time, while I simply nodded or offered a laugh now and then.

        Kyungho had been right. I was nothing to her. At that realization I didn’t feel anger, but sadness. And not because I’d been abandoned a second time, but because I realized the one who was abandoned had never been me.

That fateful night, when everything went astray, Unnie slept at the cocktail bar’s counter, her arms crossed and her head bobbing. I remember thinking she looked so peaceful. A part of me wanted to believe that she could sleep so soundly because she trusted me, but deep down I knew that she would’ve slept the same with just about anyone else, whether I were there or not. That thought saddened me.

        Unnie’s back arched lower inch by inch, like ice cream melting. I pulled my seat closer so she could lean on me. Her body grew heavier by the minute. A round pool of warmth formed where our shoulders touched.

        As I listened to her heavy breathing, a knot formed in my throat, overwhelmed with the feeling of one life weighing me down, heavier than Earth itself. A thought flashed in my mind. I want to protect this person. I won’t let her crumble. Though I may not be able to fully understand her, I can love her with all my might.

        And then I realized—that was how Kyungho had felt all along.

        I ran.

*

A few months later I received a call from the receptionist on the first floor of my building notifying me that, just a couple hours earlier, someone had left something for me. On my way home from work, I stopped to retrieve it. The receptionist told me that, for security reasons, they usually didn’t pass along items this way, but the woman’s pleas had been so earnest that they made an exception.

        He handed me a pink envelope with a floral pattern. On the front it said To Hyejeong. Inside, there were twenty fifty-thousand-won bills.

We never contacted each other after that. But who knows, in another six years I might get another call, Hyejeong-ah, it’s me.

        If Kyungshin Unnie hadn’t been born, I might’ve married Kyungho and by now we’d have a couple of kids. If Kyunghshin Unnie hadn’t been born, I wouldn’t have cried on the streets holding a pink floral envelope.

        For a long time, I believed my break-up with Kyungho was because of her, but I was wrong. We broke up because of who we were, just like Unnie couldn’t have been anyone but herself. I thought she had left me on the road like a hit-and-run driver, but maybe I was the sparrow who had rested on Unnie’s knee that day.

        Sometimes I think back to that sparrow. And to the candor of my feelings, as weightless as the little bird.     

Translated by Giulia Macrí