Following a furious flurry of meetings and emails that add to an ever-persistent throb in Haesu’s head, his secretary Min’s head pokes in through the doors. “Late lunch, boss?”

Haesu grunts a response from a leather armchair surrounded by a pile of documents to sift through. “Yeah. The usual, from that salad place.”

“She is here with a lunchbox for you,” Min says.

She does this often — come here unannounced with things to give him. He’s long since grown resigned to her fawning attention; it goes back all the way to when they met in college, when she would confess her undying love for him about thrice a week. He stopped apologizing for not reciprocating after the first two times. Her unrelenting persistence, and apparent immunity to rejection, became a well-known farce among classmates. Over the years, Haesu’s allowed something like a reluctant friendship to materialize between them, if only out of necessity. She never strays too far from his orbit, after all.

Haesu doesn’t bother to look up, unhesitant and dismissive. “Tell her I’m busy.”

Min’s response is a halting, “Are you sure?”

Distracted, Haesu mutters that he is. Min shrugs. “Not to push, but she... seems weird today.”

“She’s always weird,” Haesu growls, head finally snapping up to glare at his secretary. “You gonna keep wasting my time, Min?”

“No, I mean... extra weird,” Min insists.

Raking a giant hand through his hair in annoyance, Haesu relents. “Fine,” he says curtly. “Send her in. I’ll get rid of her myself.”

A moment later, she appears, one of her three-tiered bamboo lunchboxes clutched in hand. Haesu can’t help that even in his irritation, his stomach rumbles in anticipation at the sight of the tidily wrapped box. She is a mean cook, and her food will at least no doubt be better than whatever salad he would have gotten.

She places the lunchbox onto the table in front of him and fidgets with her hands. “Haesu,” she says quietly.

He leans back in his chair, greeting her coolly. “I told you to stop coming here like this. I’m busy.”

Min was right — there’s something odd about her today, a foreign sort of nervousness that's washed over her typically unfailing cheeriness. Most often, she's like a lost puppy wagging its tail whenever she sees him.

She swallows visibly, consciously squaring her shoulders as if trying to stand taller. Then she speaks shakily, voice smaller than usual. “I wanted to bring you one last lunchbox. Because I - I think it's time I let go. You know, of all... this. Of you. Sorry it took me so long. I - I wanted to thank you for the memories.”