Déjà Vu.

04. drunken confession.

Park Chaeyoung thinks that it's crazy to be back in South Korea, yet alone be back in the Blue House after all these years. She had a lot of fond memories there, where her father would give her a tour of the various offices and rooms, and how she'd later play around on the lawn with the security guards, blowing bubbles in the air when the wind allowed.

But years passed since she was a little girl, and now Park Chaeyoung was a woman, a woman who swore she'd never get into politics.

She spends her lunch sitting out at the picnic table in the back lawn area, a place where she'd used to wait for her father often as he talked business with other politicians. Her eyes stare blankly into the baby blue-coloured sky, a faint smile spreading across her lips.

Park Chaeyoung feels eternally grateful, she feels free.

Had she not gotten the job, she wonders where she'd be.

Probably teaching, she thinks.

Yet there's nothing more that she hates than theory, and she knows that as much as she has a passion and heart for the young generation, being confined to a classroom and booked would probably kill her faster than the lack of love in her life did. And as much as she'd never say it out loud, the idea of being on the ground and helping with policy-making and speeches that moved and told a story excited her more than drugs could ever.

"Are you okay, Chaeyoung?"

By instinct, she turns her head, surprised to see Jeon Jungkook, the president of the country, looking at her with concern.

"Jun– Mr. President," she almost forgets to use the proper honorifics because of how startled she was, quickly getting up to bow, "... I'm sorry, did I go over my break time?"

She looks at her watch, a gift from her mother to see that she still had fifteen minutes left.

Perhaps there was an emergency where he needed her to write something up quickly.

"No, it's not that," he clarifies before pointing to the seat across from her, "... may I join you?"

She nods, wondering why she suddenly feels nervous.

"Have you been crying?" He questions her, noticing the slight dampness on her eyelids as she looks to him, "... is the work too much?"

She sheepishly shakes her head, "... no, no, I love it here. I'm just– really happy."

"So happy that you want to cry?" He teases, a grin forming on one side of his lips, "... you haven't changed since you were small– you used to cry from laughing so much on the swings, right in this very spot."

She hums, vaguely recollecting the memory.

"It's a long story," she finally breaks the silence, "... but I'm happy to be working here."

"And why's that?" He questions her.

"Maybe we can talk about it another time, I don't think I can fit the entire thing within a short lunch break," she half-jokes, "... and you? Why are you here?"

"I like to go for a walk here when things are tense," he explains, "... sometimes seeing the beauty in the small things, helps put things into perspective for me."

"Did something happen?" She questions him, "... I'm sorry, it must be confidential."

"Intelligence from the US says that North Korea is planning an attack," he explains, "... not sure whether we should act, and back channels don't seem to know anything."