All My Firsts Are You (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 8

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“But right… So isn’t it even more intriguing? The movie this person shot at this school—I mean, they said that exact spot there was the scene from that film. And the fact that the line hasn’t shrunk at all since we got here, just keeps getting longer—it really shows how famous this person is, doesn’t it?”

…The film Jun made featuring me.

I haven’t seen it yet, but Jun often suddenly pointed his camera at me out of the blue. So that movie must contain my raw, unfiltered self.

Jun had also promised to send me the final cut once he finished editing. That’s why I even wrote down my email address before returning to Korea. But I could only guess that, tired of waiting endlessly for my reply that never came, he’d eventually crumpled up that little note in his big hand.

Still, it’s strange—so many people have already seen the movie I’m in, even though I haven’t. It makes me feel a little disappointed, a little hurt, a little bitter, and a little lonely.

“Oh? Hey, noona. This person’s also a ‘first-love specialist.’ It’s that award-winning movie I mentioned. Look at this interview here. You should listen carefully, Ha Ru noona.

‘The film , which earned him the prestigious Hoshino Screenwriting Award—the most authoritative in Japan—breaks away from conventional portrayals that link first love with words like innocence, fluttering excitement, and youth. Instead, it likens first love to a train with its final destination predetermined from the start. Through this metaphor, the film powerfully amplifies the loneliness, emptiness, and heartache at the end of first love—proportional to its initial sweetness—earning acclaim not only from film critics but also the general public.’

Wow, Ha Ru noona! Since you experienced a failed first love, you really should watch this movie. I bet you’ll deeply relate to it.”

Hyun Su, completely oblivious to tact, suggested I find comfort in Jun’s film about the pain of parting caused by first love—even throwing in the word “failure” for good measure.

Yet, on the other hand, it pained my heart that Jun—who had always seemed far more suited to directing films celebrating the purity of first love—had instead chosen to spotlight its darker, melancholic side.

And the thought that I might bear some responsibility for that choice weighed heavily on my mind.

Eventually, my already sinking heart was crushed under the unbearable weight of a guilt I couldn’t even name.

“Without Jun around, I’ve lost all motivation to study Japanese.”

On the table lay my half-finished Japanese workbook and the pencil that had been wandering across its pages. Naturally, the book remained exactly as I’d first opened it—untouched, smooth, without a single mark from my idle flipping just moments ago while propping up my chin.

When Jun was beside me, I used to grumble every day about how he’d better not disturb my studying. But now that he’s gone to school, I lose interest after just a problem or two.

Then I remembered Jun. He’d always get absurdly jealous whenever I so much as opened a book.

“Wouldn’t it be better to look at my face once more instead of wasting time on your book? I really don’t get it.”

“…I don’t get what you’re saying even more.”

Although he’d often complain about how annoying it was to explain things, he’d occasionally be generous.

“Lee Ha Ru, stop reading that book. I’ll just teach you myself. Which part are you stuck on?”

“…Everything, from the very beginning.”

“You can at least read that character, right?”

“…No?”

“…Well, since you came all this way through so much trouble and at least met me, that’s enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean all of a sudden?”

“It just means your language study abroad wasn’t completely wasted.”

“You’re just teasing me because I’m bad at Japanese, aren’t you?”

“That’s included, too.”

“Hey, Kim Jun.”

A smile I hadn’t even noticed rising to my face instantly faded the moment I remembered Jun wasn’t here.

This house must stretch out like a yawn—widening horizontally and vertically—whenever Jun’s away. Was this living room always this spacious? I lay sprawled out on the tatami-covered floor, arms and legs fully extended.

Maybe because the sky was heavily overcast today, not a single ray of sunlight entered, even with the sliding glass door pushed fully open. I wanted to sweep the clouds away with my hands, but they wouldn’t reach.

In the dimly lit living room with no sun, I thought of Jun.

I wish he’d come home soon. I miss him.

I must have been lying there for quite a while. Instead of getting up immediately, I rolled around a bit before deciding to turn on the TV for some listening practice.

I flipped through the channels, again and again, until my hand stopped on one particular scene. A drama showing kids in school uniforms was the only thing that caught my eye.

Of course, just because I showed sudden interest today didn’t mean I’d suddenly understand their conversations, which normally never registered for me.

Still, perhaps people express their feelings more through expressions and gestures than I’d realized. As I sat steadily watching, I slowly began piecing together the drama’s main plot.

Ah, that high school boy has a crush on a girl in his class. Oh, and the girl likes him too? Then why are they both just hesitating and circling around each other like that? Oh, wait—that only seems obvious from my perspective; they probably don’t know how the other feels. How frustrating! I kept watching, guessing the story bit by bit like this.

Then one particular scene held my attention longer than I expected, leaving me momentarily entranced.

On graduation day, the boy kept glancing shyly at the girl sitting by the window before finally gathering his courage to give her the second button from his uniform.

I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but even though it was just a tiny, insignificant button on a uniform, I could clearly feel how nervous both the giver and receiver were.

That thrilling, heart-pounding tension unique to that age.

Could it be that giving someone the second button of your uniform on graduation day means you like them?

As that thought crossed my mind, I suddenly grew curious. Did Jun’s uniform even have a second button? Or… did he perhaps want to give it to someone?

Lying on the tatami floor, I gazed up at the distant, gently drifting clouds.

Kkorororok.

The sound of running water instinctively opened my eyes. The clouds now in my view looked fainter than the ones I’d seen earlier.

Wait—did I just hear water?

I turned my head resting on the tatami to the side. Jun, his hair still damp from a recent shower, had paused mid-reach for a glass of water and was now staring at me.

Trending

“Oh, you’re awake. I tried to be quiet, like I said I would.”

I smiled faintly and shook my head. Given that I hadn’t even woken up by the time he finished showering, Jun’s claim about trying to be quiet was probably true.

I sat up. As I rose, a thought I’d been pondering right before falling asleep surfaced in my mind again.

“Lee Ha Ru, are you hungry?”

Jun was still standing in the kitchen, watching me. I shook my head and offered him the thought that had just come back to me.

“Jun-ah.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you… um…”

Jun watched me silently, as if urging me to just say it already.

“Your uniform—the one you wore back then—the second button… is it still there?”

I couldn’t bring myself to ask outright if he’d given it to a girl he liked in high school. Instead, I’d awkwardly framed my question around the well-being of his button. “Is it still there…?”

Jun’s eyes rolled playfully to the right. Then a soft chuckle slipped through his slightly parted lips.

“Why don’t you just ask directly? Like, ‘Did you give your second button to a girl you liked in high school?’”

My face instantly flushed.

“You’ve seen my uniform yourself. Every button’s right where it belongs—even the second one.”

Perhaps deep down, that was exactly the answer I’d hoped to hear. My lips, which I’d tried so hard to keep still, curled up noticeably in a smile.

“But why? Do you need a button or something?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

Suppressing my embarrassment, I glanced sideways at Jun.

“But, Jun-ah.”

“Yeah?”

Jun walked over toward where I was sitting. As he came closer, my gaze, which I’d deliberately kept lowered, lifted upward.

“But why does it have to be the second button of the uniform?”

At that moment, Jun’s expression turned unusually serious. He looked at me intently, as if he had something important to say.

Maybe he noticed the flicker of awkwardness in my eyes. Just as I was about to look away, fearing the steady eye contact had gone on too long, Jun spoke.

“Because that button is closest to the heart.”

I had a rough idea of where the school library was, so getting there wasn’t difficult.

I’d simply told Jung Eun and Hyun Su I’d be going to the library for a bit and raced off without looking back. Their stunned expressions did trouble me a little, but I didn’t have the luxury to worry about that now.

Because there was something I absolutely had to do here and now—something I couldn’t afford to regret for the rest of my life.

Not like I did nine years ago.

As a public university operated by the city, the central library allowed outside visitors.

I stopped walking right in front of the library and stood there for a moment, catching my breath. After exhaling deeply a few times to steady my racing heartbeat, I stepped inside. The dry, autumn-leaf scent of old books seemed to calm my restless heart just a little.

My destination was the audiovisual room. I’d already checked its location on the floor map right by the library entrance.

I followed the signs to the audiovisual room, grasped the handle of the thick door, and stepped inside—glancing around nervously, feeling out of place without a student ID.

Scanning from right to left, I spotted three computers for catalog searches tucked into the far left corner. I took the least noticeable seat in the very back.

Maybe the boldness that had carried me all the way here vanished the moment I plopped down, because before I could even type “Kim Jun” into the search bar, my heart was pounding wildly—as if I were about to do something forbidden.

Just typing his name alone threw my breathing completely off rhythm.

I searched his name in English: KIM JUN.

On the trembling screen, the first result was —the film that instantly established his reputation as a director.

My eyes automatically moved to the next line. The moment I read the words there, I covered my mouth with the back of my hand.

My mouth hung open beneath it. Tears welled up instantly, blurring my vision. My breath fragmented into shallow gasps under the sharp ache in my chest.

Beneath , the next work listed was titled in Japanese as . Beside it, the English title read: .

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