The Algorithm of Spring

52

Maya ran her fingertip along the edge of her wine-red lipstick, perfecting the line. In the mirror, the woman staring back at her looked familiar—but only just. She studied the reflection a moment longer, trying to decide if she looked composed or like someone auditioning for composure.

Music drifted up from the street below—some indie band tuning guitars in the alley, half-formed chords drifting upward like smoke.

She'd chosen a black dress she hadn't worn since her last gallery opening, back when her work still hung in Seoul's better spaces. Back when her life still had momentum—before it began its post-Florence stutter.

The silver rings Jun-ho had given her flashed once as she moved—still unfamiliar on her hand, like a habit she hadn't earned yet.

The taxi would be here soon. Ji-young's message glowed on her device:

Everyone's already on their way!

For a moment, she could pretend. Old friends. Too much wine in a high-rise apartment. The growing erosion of her access to the city, the invisible fingers peeling apart her life—none of it belonged in this version of the evening.

She slipped on her well-worn engineer boots and Jun-ho's leather jacket—a subtle rebellion against the more polished success of her oldest friends.

Outside, Hongdae swelled with movement. Students flowed toward underground clubs, their laughter jagged with anticipation. Young people wove through the alleyways like neon-coloured threads, disappearing into the city's stitching.

Her device vibrated.

Min-seo: Still analysing the worst of the files. Need to show you something tonight. Stay reachable.

Maya deleted the message and reached for her wine instead. She needed one night off.

She tapped her Kakao T app.

Transaction failed.

Of course. Another small reminder of her shrinking world.

She messaged Ji-young that she might be late. Her work queue still sat empty on the plexiglass screen—no commissions, no invitations, just static.

A new message lit up.

Ji-young: Car service on its way. Already paid. Don't argue.

Maya exhaled. Even this—crossing the river, getting across town—now required favours from friends who didn't know why she needed them.

She took a last sip of wine and gathered her things: device, small bag, a bottle she'd been saving for a real occasion. Bringing it felt wrong now, like carrying thin glass into a storm.

Descending the building's narrow stairs, she glanced at her neighbour's door, where their cat usually lounged. Nothing tonight. Not even a flickering TV behind the wall. The silence felt staged, like someone had pressed mute on the whole floor.

She shook off the unease. Dinner. Old friends. Nothing visible had changed.

The car slid to the curb—sleek, discreet, expensive. The driver stepped out, white gloves and a bow.

"Ms. Kim? To Apgujeong?"

She nodded and slid into the back seat.

The interior smelled of leather and some mild fragrance designed to reassure. A privacy screen rose. As they pulled away, Hongdae receded—its chaos swapped for cleaner lines, broader streets.

Past Itaewon's international clutter, Hannam-dong's embassy quiet, and into Apgujeong—where the city smiled with too many teeth—polished, white, and never warm.