The apartment smelled of cold takeout coffee and warm skin, the only light a blue TV glow across the rumpled couch cushions and discarded clothes. Kelsey stood in the kitchen, her phone propped against a bag of flour, her mother’s voice tinny through the speaker. “No, honey, you have to chill the dough for at least an hour. That’s where the chew comes from.”
“An hour?” Kelsey groaned, pressing her thumb into the butter and sugar mixture in the bowl. “Mom, I don’t have an hour. I need to practice.”
“Practice? It’s cookies, not a concerto.”
From down the hall, Maya’s voice echoed, strained and dramatic. “I look like a sparkly tube sock! Why do I own this?” A sequined dress sailed out of her bedroom doorway and landed in a heap on the hallway floor. It was the seventh garment to meet that fate in the last twenty minutes.
Kelsey ignored it, focusing on her mother’s instructions. “What if I just put it in the freezer for, like, fifteen minutes?”
“You’ll get puffy, sad discs. Is this about that boy?”
“What boy?” Kelsey said, too quickly, wiping her hands on her apron. It was her dad’s old BBQ apron, faded and stained. She always wore it for baking.
Her mother’s sigh was a familiar, knowing sound. “The one you’re baking for. The one you’ve been baking for since you were sixteen. The one whose concert is in four days.”
“It’s not for him. It’s for… the group. His friends. A welcoming gift.” The lie felt flimsy even to her. She scraped the bowl with a vengeance.
“Mhm. Well, his friends will get puffy, sad discs unless you chill the dough. Love you.” The call clicked off.
Kelsey stared at the mixture. She could see tiny flecks of vanilla bean. She’d splurged on the good extract for this. With a defeated exhale, she covered the bowl in plastic wrap and slid it into the fridge. The timer on her phone was set for one hour. She leaned against the cool stainless steel door, listening to the quiet hum of the appliance and the distant rustle of fabric from Maya’s room.
“Kels! Get in here! I need a tie-breaker!”
She padded down the hall, avoiding the clothing minefield. Maya’s room looked like a boutique had exploded. Every drawer was open, the closet was a cavern of empty hangers, and the bed was buried under a mountain of color and texture. Maya stood in the center of it all, wearing one black heel and one nude pump, holding two nearly identical little black dresses up to her shoulders.
“Left or right?” Maya demanded.
“They’re the same dress.”
“They are not! This one has a slightly lower back. This one has a slightly higher hem. It’s a vibe difference. Which vibe says, ‘I’m a cool, supportive friend who is definitely not trying to date any members of the world’s biggest K-pop group’?”
“The one you’re already wearing?” Kelsey said, nodding at Maya’s sweatpants and oversized t-shirt.
Maya dropped the dresses onto the pile. “You are zero help. Why aren’t you freaking out? Look at this!” She gestured wildly at the chaos. “I’ve been at this for two hours. You haven’t chosen a single thing yet either!”
Kelsey shrugged, crossing her arms. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Figure it out? It’s *Han*, Kelsey. Han Jisung. The guy you spent every lunch period with for a year. The guy who learned all the cheers just to embarrass you. The guy who cried when you guys watched *The Notebook*.” Maya’s voice softened. “The guy your mom still asks about. You’re seeing him for the first time in years, in front of thousands of people and his seven best friends. This requires a strategy.”
“I have a strategy. Cookies.”
Maya stared at her. Then she lunged forward, grabbing Kelsey’s wrist. “Nope. We’re going shopping. Right now. The dough is chilling. You are not.”
“Maya, it’s Tuesday night—”
“And the mall is open for two more hours. Move.”
An hour later, Kelsey found herself in the harsh fluorescent light of a department store fitting room, holding up a slinky red dress that felt like someone else’s skin. Maya had assembled a rack of “options,” which ranged from elegant jumpsuits to a top made entirely of lace.
“This is ridiculous,” Kelsey called over the stall door.
“Try the green silk one first!” Maya called back.
Kelsey looked at the heap of clothes on the bench. She felt a strange resistance, a tightening in her chest. This wasn’t her. Dressing up for Han felt like performing, and their entire friendship had been about the opposite of that. She thought of the photo on her phone, the one from high school: her in her cheer uniform, him in his exchange student hoodie, both of them grinning with ice cream cones. She wasn’t that girl anymore, but she wasn’t this red dress either.
She emerged in her own clothes—a worn band t-shirt and jeans. “Nothing’s working.”
Maya, who was now wearing a giant floppy hat she’d plucked from an accessory display, assessed her. “You didn’t try anything on, did you?”
“I looked at them. They’re not me.”
“Who are you, then? For him.”
The question hung in the air between them, mingling with the scent of new polyester and floor cleaner. Kelsey didn’t have an answer. Or she had too many. The girl from the convertible. The friend on the video call. The woman waiting on a balcony, counting down the days. Which one was he expecting?
“Let’s just… look somewhere else,” Kelsey said, her voice quieter.
They ended up in a more casual store, all soft cottons and denim. Maya, undeterred, began pulling items with ruthless efficiency. “Okay, new tactic. We find *you*. Not a costume.” She thrust a simple, cream-colored knit top into Kelsey’s hands. It was soft. Then a pair of high-waisted, black denim shorts. “And it’s February, so tights. Black boots. Your uniform.”
Kelsey blinked. “My what?”
“Your off-duty uniform. From senior year. When you weren’t in your cheer uniform, you were in a top like this, shorts, tights, and those beat-up black boots you loved more than some people. It’s what you were wearing the day I met you. And him, probably.” Maya’s gaze was suddenly gentle, knowing. “Be that girl. The one he knew.”
A lump formed in Kelsey’s throat. She took the clothes into the fitting room.
When she stepped out, she faced the mirror. The reflection was familiar, but older. The soft top, the skirt, the sheer black tights. It was simple. It was her. It felt like a truth.
“Yes,” Maya said, appearing behind her. “That’s it. That’s you.” She grinned. “Now, for the pièce de résistance.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “You have to wear that jacket. The one you hide in the back of your closet.”
Kelsey’s blood went cold. “What jacket?”
“The jean jacket. The one he left at your house after winter formal. The one you ‘forgot’ to give back before he moved. The one you brought with you to California.”
“Maya. Stay out of my closet.”
“I was looking for a belt! And I saw it. It’s practically a relic. You should donate it to the Smithsonian. ‘Item of clothing belonging to K-pop idol, cherished by his best friend for two years.’”
Kelsey turned away from the mirror, her cheeks burning. “It’s just a jacket.”
“It’s his jacket.” Maya’s voice lost its teasing edge. “It’s the perfect thing. It’s casual. It’s a piece of him. It says everything without you having to say a word.”
“That’s the problem,” Kelsey whispered, staring at her own hands. “What if I’m ready to say the words?”
The fitting room hallway seemed to grow very quiet. Maya stepped closer, putting a hand on her arm. “Then you wear the jacket,” she said softly. “And you let him see you in it. And you see what he says.”
Kelsey bought the clothes. They drove home in silence, the bags in the backseat. The apartment was dark when they returned. Maya went to put her own purchases away, calling out a goodnight.
Kelsey went straight to her room. She didn’t turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp on her nightstand. She walked to her closet, opened the door, and pushed past the hanging clothes to the very back. There, on a lone hook, it hung.
A simple, light wash denim jacket. The cuffs were slightly frayed. She took it down, the fabric soft from age and countless washes. She brought it to her face and inhaled, deeply. The scent was faint now, just her laundry detergent and the ghost of her own perfume. But for years, it had smelled like him. Like Seoul rain and the gum he always chewed and something uniquely, comfortingly Han.
She slipped it on. It was still a little big on her. She buttoned it halfway, her hands trembling slightly. She looked in the full-length mirror on the back of her door. The girl staring back wore a simple outfit and a boy’s old jacket. Her strawberry blonde hair was messy from the day. Her green eyes were wide, unsure.
This was it. This was who she was going to be for him. Not a fan. Not a spectacle. Herself. Wrapped in a piece of their history.
The kitchen timer buzzed, a loud, insistent sound in the quiet apartment. The dough was ready. Kelsey took off the jacket, folding it carefully over the foot of her bed before walking to the kitchen. Her hands worked on autopilot: rolling the dough into balls, pressing them with a fork, sprinkling them with sea salt.
As the first batch filled the apartment with the smell of brown sugar and butter, she felt a strange calm settle over her. The anxiety was still there, a low hum in her veins. But beneath it was a current of certainty. She knew what she was wearing. She knew what she was bringing. She knew who she was.
Now, she just had to see if he would recognize her.