Chapter 7 Unexpected Friendship

Yerin had braced for polite distance. She’d expected Hazel to acknowledge her existence with a few civil words before seamlessly reintegrating Elliot into their shared world, leaving Yerin on the outside where she belonged.

The opposite happened.

It started the following week. Yerin and Elliot were heading out for their usual Wednesday lunch when Hazel’s voice chirped from behind them.

“Hey! Stealing my boyfriend for lunch again?”

They both turned. Hazel was smiling, her arm looping easily through Elliot’s. Her tone was light, teasing. There was no accusation in it, only warmth.

“We were just—” Elliot began.

“—Grabbing food. I know.” Hazel finished for him, her smile widening. “Mind if I crash? I’m starving, and my meeting just got cancelled.” She directed the question at Yerin, not Elliot.

Yerin blinked. “It’s a public restaurant.”

“Great!” Hazel said, as if Yerin had issued a heartfelt invitation.

The lunch was… different. Hazel filled the silence with easy chatter about her work, a funny story about a client, questions about the menu. Yerin answered in monosyllables, focusing on her food. Hazel didn’t seem to mind. She’d turn to Elliot, drawing him into the conversation with a touch on his arm or a shared laugh at a memory Yerin wasn’t part of.

But then Hazel asked her a question directly. “Yerin, you’re in strategy, right? What’s the weirdest brief you’ve ever gotten?”

Caught off guard, Yerin looked up. “A company that wanted to market a new brand of tofu as ‘macho.’ For ‘manly grill masters.’”

Hazel’s laugh was loud and genuine, drawing looks from nearby tables. “No! What did you tell them?”

“I showed them the data on their target demographic’s actual purchasing habits. They fired us.”

Elliot chuckled. “She’s not great at telling clients what they want to hear.”

“She’s great at telling them what they need to hear,” Hazel corrected, smiling at Yerin. “I like that.”

The praise, so direct and unexpected, left Yerin with no response. She gave a tight nod and went back to her meal.

It became a pattern. Hazel would “just happen” to be nearby. She’d text Elliot and somehow the invitation would extend to Yerin. “Hazel’s joining us,” Elliot would say, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The weeks passed, and a strange new routine settled. Yerin found her defenses slowly, imperceptibly worn down not by force, but by a relentless, sunny persistence. She started to notice the little things about Hazel—the way she always ordered a dessert and then insisted everyone have a bite, the way she could remember the name of every barista and server, the way her phone was always filled with photos of stray cats she’d encountered.

Hazel was genuinely, infuriatingly kind.

One afternoon, they were in a café, a steady rain pattering against the windows. Hazel stared out, stirring her latte absently. “I used to hate days like this. Always ruined my hair. But Elliot…” She smiled to herself. “He loves it. Says it makes the city feel clean. Like a fresh start.”

Yerin sipped her black coffee. “A fresh start from what?”

Hazel’s smile turned a little wistful. “From everything, I guess. From all the mistakes. He’s a very ‘wash it all away’ kind of person.” She looked at Yerin. “You’re not, are you? You’re more of a ‘study the mistake, file it, and never repeat it’ person.”

It was so accurately observed that Yerin almost choked on her coffee. “The second one is more efficient,” she managed.

Hazel laughed. “See? Brilliant.”

In these moments, Yerin felt her guard drop. She’d offer a dry observation, and Hazel would laugh. She’d mention a problem with a project, and Hazel would listen with genuine interest. It was… nice.

And that was the problem.

The guilt would arrive later, a cold wave that washed over her without warning. It happened when she saw Elliot casually tuck a stray strand of hair behind Hazel’s ear during a movie the three of them were watching at his apartment. Yerin would sit there, a silent spectator to their intimacy, and feel like a fraud. She was harboring a secret love for him, all while pretending to be the happy couple’s quirky third‑wheel friend.

One evening at a restaurant, the illusion was particularly painful. Hazel stole a fry from Elliot’s plate without asking. He pretended to scowl, then laughed, feeding her another one. It was a tiny, intimate ritual born of years together.

Yerin watched, her own food forgotten.

Hazel caught her staring. “You okay, Yerin? You’ve gone quiet again.”

Yerin jerked her gaze away. “Just thinking about work.”

Hazel rolled her eyes affectionately. “You need to stop doing that during dinner. It ruins the digestion.”

Elliot smirked. “Good luck. She once drafted a full campaign pivot on a napkin while eating ramen.”

“It was a necessary recalibration,” Yerin defended herself, slipping into the familiar banter.

Hazel laughed, shaking her head. “You two are impossible.” She said it like you two were a unit. A pair. And she, Hazel, was the amused observer.

The cognitive dissonance was dizzying. That night, walking home alone through the glistening streets, Yerin felt a profound sense of loneliness. She was letting the wrong person in. Every lunch, every coffee, was another thread tying her into a knot she could never unravel.

The next morning, a coffee was waiting on her desk. Her usual order. Stuck to the side was a bright yellow sticky note.

Heard the Henderson meeting is today. Go get ’em. – H

Yerin peeled the note off, staring at the cheerful, looping handwriting. H. Not Elliot. Hazel.

The gesture was so simple, so kind. It made her chest hurt. She held the warm cup in her hands, a tangible symbol of a friendship that felt both real and like a profound betrayal.

She made a decision. She needed distance. This had to stop.

But later that day, her phone buzzed. It was a text in a group chat Hazel had made, named “Lunch Squad.”

Hazel: Sushi place on 4th? My treat. I just closed the Thompson deal!!!

Below the text was a ridiculous, celebratory GIF of a dancing cat.

Yerin stared at the screen, her resolve crumbling. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, poised to type a refusal.

She hesitated.

Then she typed a single character.

Yerin: K.

She wasn’t ready to let go. Not of him. And, she realized with a sinking heart, not of her either.