Heart -CHAENNIE-

Chapter 3

Scientists have identified individual neurons, which fire when a particular person has been recognized. Thus, [it is possible that] when a recipient's brain analyzes the features of a person, who significantly impressed the donor, the donated organ may feedback powerful emotional messages, which signal recognition of the individual. Such feedback messages occur within milliseconds and the recipient [may even believe] that [he] knows the person.

— "Cellular Memory in Organ Transplants."

Roseanne Park walks over to me, dark brows creased with concern, rag in one hand, the other reaching across the puddle of spilled coffee. "You okay?"

I nod, still coughing, though I'm far from it,

"Here, step over this way. I'll get it." She takes my elbow lightly, and I tense at her touch.

"Sorry," she says, dropping her hand quickly. "I... you sure you're okay?"

She's standing there, right there in front of me with a dishrag in her hand. Asking me if I'm okay. This should not be happening. This isn't what was supposed to happen, this—

I look away. Cough once more, then clear my throat and take a shaky breath in. Calm down, calm down. "I'm sorry," I manage. "So sorry. I just..."

"It's okay," she says like she might laugh. She glances over her shoulder at Tim, who looks like he's already making me a new cup.

"Fresh one on the way!" Tim calls.

"See?" Rosé says. "No worries." She gestures at the closest chair. "I got this. You can sit."

I don't move, and I don't say anything.

She crouches down to sop up the coffee with the rag but then looks back up at me and smiles, and it shocks me because of how different this smile is from the weak one in so many of her sister's pictures. Because she doesn't look like she did in the pictures. I don't think I would've guessed she was even the same person. Maybe not even if she'd walked right into her parents' shop.

The Rosé in the pictures was ill. Pale skin, dark circles, puffy face, thin arms. A smile that seemed to take effort. This person kneeling in front of me is vibrant and healthy, and the one who—

I want to look away, but I can't. Not with the way she looks at me then.

Her hand stills and hovers above the sticky floor like she's forgotten what she's doing. And then, without taking her eyes off me, she stands slowly until we're face-to-face and I can see the deep brown of her eyes as they search mine.

Her voice is softer, almost tentative when she finally speaks. "Are you... have you... do I..."

Her questions float, unasked, in the space between us, and for the moment they hold me there. And then panic comes rushing in.

When I say it out loud, the reality of what I've done—or come dangerously close to doing—hits me, sends me past her with a bump to her shoulder, and out the door before she can say anything else. Before we can look at each other a moment longer.

I don't look back. I walk as fast as I can down the sidewalk to my car, driven by the certainty that I shouldn't have come and that I need to leave now. Because mixed up with the certainty that I've done something horribly wrong is the overwhelming feeling that I want to know this person better. Rosé, with brown eyes and milky skin, and smiles like she knows me. Who seems so different from the person I thought I'd find.

The sound of the door behind me, and then footsteps, makes me want to run.

"Hey," a voice calls. "Wait!" Her voice.

Those two words.

They make me want to stop and wait, turn, and just look at her again. But I don't. I walk faster instead. Away. This was a mistake, a mistake, a mistake. I jam my hand into my pocket and click the unlock button on my key over and over, nearly frantic now. Just as I step off the sidewalk and reach for my door, her footsteps come right up behind me, close.

"Hey," she says again, "you left this."

I freeze, fingers curled tight under the handle.

My heart hammers as I turn, slowly, to face her again.

She swallows hard. Holds my purse out to me. "Here."

I take it. "Thank you."

We stand there, catching our breaths. Searching for more words. She finds hers first.

"I... Are you all right? You seem like... maybe you're not?"

Tears well up instantly, and I shake my head.

"I'm sorry," she says, taking a step back.

"That was—it's none of my business. I just..." Her eyes run over my face, searching again.

This is more than a mistake. I yank up on the handle and swing the door open, duck inside, and close it behind me with a shaky hand. I need to leave right now. I fumble with my keys for the right one, but they all look the same, and I can feel her eyes on me, and I just need to leave, and I should never have come, and— I find the right key, jam it into the ignition, and turn it. When I do, I look up in time to see her take a startled step out of the way, and back onto the sidewalk. I shove the gear into drive, turn the wheel, and hit the gas. Hard.

The impact is sudden and loud. An insult that comes out of nowhere. Metal and glass crunch. My chin smacks into the steering wheel. The horn blares, and in the stillness of the moment it sinks in, what I've just done. Everything I've just done. I close my eyes, hoping feebly that somehow none of it happened. That I just dreamed it, the way I dream about Jisoo, where everything is so clear and real until I wake up and realize that I am alone and she is gone.

Slowly, I open my eyes. I'm afraid to do anything else, but my hand moves automatically put the car in park. And then my door swings open.

Rosé is not gone. She's right there, looking at me with concern and something else I'm not sure of. She leans in and reaches across me to shut the engine off.

"Are you okay?" There's worry in her voice.

My mouth throbs, but I nod my head, avoid her eyes, and bite back tears. I taste blood.

"You're hurt," she says.

She raises her hand, just barely, like she might brush the hair away from my face, or wipe the blood from my lip, but she doesn't. She just keeps looking at me.

"Please," she says after a long moment, "let me help."