Homeboy

“Is it because I’m a guy?”

“Neither. You’re just not my type.”

His blunt answer rendered my dramatic resolve pointless. Perhaps sensing he was growing tired of my questions, Jung-in waved his hand dismissively—a clear signal to drop it. But his reply only intrigued me further.

Would Jung-in ever know about the countless nights I spent worrying whether it was my age or gender that made him reject me? Regardless, I felt a sense of relief from finally voicing the question that had long weighed on me. At least it wasn’t the worst-case scenario.

After all, taste was something I could change to suit Jung-in a hundred, a thousand times over.

“Then, what is your type?”

I quickly asked, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Jung-in, now slightly more interested, smirked, the corners of his mouth curling up. Leaning back lazily in his chair with his arms crossed, he gave me a mischievous look, as if comparing his ideal type to me.

His blatant gaze started at the top of my head, passing over my forehead, eyebrows, and eyes, then skimming my cheekbones, lips, and down to my neck. As his slow, downward glance continued, the smile tugging at his lips gradually disappeared. When his gaze finally stopped at my hand resting on the table, Jung-in’s expression was completely neutral—devoid of any amusement.

“…Crazy bastard.”

After a long silence, the sudden insult caught me off guard. I stared at him, wide-eyed, confused and startled. Thankfully, he didn’t seem displeased with me; instead, his expression was unusually serious, as though he was lost in thought.

“So… your ideal type?”

My question was a reasonable deduction, but Jung-in frowned as if I’d said something ridiculous, his face growing even more annoyed. However, after a small sigh, he nodded slightly and finally raised his gaze from my hand.

“Someone older rather than younger, petite, with a curvy figure, healthy skin tone, prefers dresses over jeans, heels over sneakers—a sexy style overall. That’s my type.”

“You? I’ve never seen you date anyone like that.”

I answered firmly. Without a doubt, I was the ultimate authority on ‘Cha Jung-in’s past and potential girlfriends.’ Since the moment I vaguely understood the gap between Jung-in’s affection for me and my feelings for him, I’d paid close attention to his girlfriends, memorizing everything about them. Even as a child, I instinctively knew my feelings were similar to theirs. With over ten years of accumulated data, I was practically a walking archive of Jung-in’s romantic history.

“The person I’m seeing now is that type.”

“You’re seeing someone now?”

I blurted out in surprise, the possibility never crossing my mind. There was no way. Absolutely no way. When I shot him a skeptical look, Jung-in simply nodded once in response, offering no explanation.

“When did this start?”

“Do I have to tell you?”

“You broke up with that flight attendant less than a month ago.”

“…How do you even know I broke up with her—or that we were dating in the first place?”

“Your phone and her Instagram.”

At my seamless response, Jung-in looked like he wanted to say something but just ended up laughing. He probably didn’t realize it, but figuring out whether he had a girlfriend was ridiculously easy. For one, Jung-in was the type of person who had never set up a password in his life. His phone didn’t even have a basic lock screen, and he left it lying around carelessly, often forgetting where he’d put it.

Additionally, Jung-in saved everyone’s contacts using their full names—except for family and girlfriends. He saved girlfriends by their first name only and would add their last name back or delete the contact entirely after a breakup. The former applied to situations where they still needed to stay in touch, like shared social circles, but these cases were rare. Most of the time, the latter happened.

Two weeks ago, while picking up Jung-in’s phone from the living room couch, I’d noticed a contact in his recent call history that had started as ‘Kim Ji-hye,’ briefly became ‘Ji-hye,’ and was now reduced to an eleven-digit number. Through her social media, I’d discovered that the reason for their breakup was Jung-in’s increasing indifference due to his busy schedule.

Jung-in, simply put, was a café owner—or more accurately, the owner of High Noon, a café chain specializing in coffee and all-day brunch. He had around ten locations nationwide, all directly operated. Prime locations, single-story buildings with high ceilings, and premium pricing were the brand’s signature. Jung-in called it ‘paying for the atmosphere.’

Recently, he had expanded his business by launching a new franchise, a second-tier brand focused on takeout, using the same beans and ingredients as High Noon. In short, Jung-in was genuinely busy—so much so that he didn’t have time to spare on weekdays or weekends. As amazing as he was, creating a new relationship within two weeks seemed physically impossible. This left me with only one conclusion.

“You’re two-timing.”

“And you’re a stalker?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“There’s no need to explain.”

This time, my guess must have hit the mark because Jung-in consciously avoided answering. A wave of gloom swept over me. The reason I had been able to remain indifferent toward Jung-in’s relationships was that he had always maintained a sense of moderation.

Jung-in allowed his girlfriends just enough closeness to drop the surname from their names, investing a reasonable amount of time and affection. But they were always a lower priority than his work. That didn’t mean he looked down on his partners or took relationships lightly. Naturally kind-hearted and surprisingly strict when it came to ethics, Jung-in never lied or cheated. His approach to dating was logical, mature, and lukewarm.

I was satisfied with his view on relationships. After all, I was always his top priority above work, unlike those who were bound to come and go. Plus, after years of observing him, I knew that Jung-in, despite appearances, was a reliable person. When I eventually became his final partner, I wouldn’t have to deal with messy complications. To sum up, I couldn’t tolerate Jung-in being infatuated with someone else, but I also couldn’t accept him being the kind of lowlife who juggled multiple partners.

Two-timing? The thought itself was jarring. Why on earth would a 32-year-old man, who hadn’t done such a thing even in his teens, start now? I couldn’t understand it and refused to believe it.

“Did you really cheat?”

“…..”

Anxiously, I asked again. Jung-in remained silent, and his silence was as good as a confirmation. Having the truth cemented was like a final blow—it was true. Jung-in had really cheated. A strange fear began to rise from the ground beneath me. Why would he go through the trouble of two-timing? A Jung-in who acted out of character was dangerous.

Jung-in had been dating Kim Ji-hye. Then, his perfect ideal type had appeared—someone who fit his preferences as if drawn from his imagination, someone undeniably attractive. She had shattered every principle he’d upheld about relationships. For the first time in his life, Jung-in cheated. Two weeks ago, he broke up with Kim Ji-hye under the pretense of being too busy. Now, he was dating his dream woman.

My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might leap out of my chest. A flashing red light filled my vision, and loud warning sirens blared in my head. This was an emergency. The vague fear in my mind began to take shape. For the first time, Jung-in might have a love that was irrational, childish, yet burning hot—a love I couldn’t compete with.

I felt like crying. I couldn’t bear how pathetic I was, having arrogantly entertained the idea of being his final partner. My ridiculousness made me feel wretched, and I hated Jung-in for making me feel this way. But more than anything, I hated myself for still loving him so much that I would have gladly died for him if he asked. The whirlwind of emotions settled, childishly, on anger.

“Take back what I said about you being a pervert earlier. A pervert would be wasted on you.”

Jung-in, rubbing his temple as if troubled, turned his gaze toward me.

“I thought, despite your constant nagging, at least you had some sense in that head of yours.”

As always, when expressing displeasure, Jung-in raised his eyebrows in a crooked arc and met my gaze. But without hesitation, I spat out my final words and left my seat.

“You’re just trash, after all.”

***