At 6:30 in the evening
"Thank you so much!" you greet Ho Yeon's daycare attendant with basic courtesy.
"Of course. But she didn't eat again today," the woman informs you, her tone casual but slightly concerned—a common enough occurrence, though thankfully not frequent.
"Not at all?" you ask, your brows knitting together.
"Just a few bites. Might as well be nothing," she clarifies, and you turn your gaze toward Ho Yeon.
"Why?" you ask her, trying to keep your tone neutral.
"I was full," she replies, nonchalant, her response nudging your annoyance upward.
"I'll make sure she eats," you assure the attendant. She nods politely, and the two of you take your leave.
--
Once home, you quickly freshen up and begin preparing dinner.
"Imoya!" Ho Yeon calls out, her voice lilting with excitement.
"What is it now?" you ask, glancing at her while stirring the pot.
"Do you know the fan-date results are coming out tomorrow?" she announces gleefully.
"You've already told me," you respond, barely looking up.
"But it's so exciting!" she adds, her enthusiasm bubbling over as you nod absentmindedly.
The truth is, you know almost nothing about TXT. You haven't followed K-pop since your Blackpink phase. Life's been too chaotic—your days consumed by office work, and your nights split between chores and caring for Ho Yeon.
Time for yourself? A luxury long forgotten. But at least tomorrow is Sunday, and the thought of sleeping in leaves you momentarily elated, like a kid dreaming of candy.
"Alright, Yeon-ah, go brush your teeth," you instruct after dinner. She obeys, leaving you to tackle the dishes.
--
With the chores finally done, you collapse onto your bed, reveling in a rare moment of bliss. Tomorrow's Sunday. The sheer thought feels indulgent—almost euphoric. Maybe comparing it to an orgasm is a bit much, but still... good night.
--
"Imoya! Imoya! Imoya! Imoya!" Ho Yeon's shrill cries shatter your peace, the weight of her small body bouncing on your bed.
"What!" you groan, burying your face deeper into the pillow, lamenting your ruined Sunday morning.
"Imoya!!!" she squeals, undeterred.
"What is it, Yeon-ah?" you grumble, irritation spilling over.
"The results are out!" she announces, practically vibrating with excitement. It takes you a second to process. Results? Ah, right—TXT.
"You're shouting like you won the date," you reply with a sarcastic edge, determined to ignore her as you try to reclaim your sleep.
"No, but you won!" she says quietly. That gets your attention.
"What did you say?" you sit up abruptly, your grogginess dissolving.
"The age limit was 19+, so I couldn't apply. That's why I put your name—and you won!!!!!!!" she exclaims, her excitement as contagious as it is unwelcome. Honestly, a lottery win would've been preferable.
There's no going back to sleep now. Your Sunday is officially ruined.
"Why'd you do that, Ho Yeon? I don't even know these guys!" you exclaim, trying to keep your voice steady.
"I'll introduce you," she offers, as if that were the obvious solution.
"That's not the point, Yeon-ah! You shouldn't have done it!" Your frustration boils over, though you struggle to keep it in check.
"But I'd be so happy if you went," she counters, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout. Your patience is hanging by a thread. She entered you into this ridiculous fan-date nonsense without your consent, drops the bombshell on you now, and expects you to go along with it happily?
"And what about me, Lim Ho Yeon?" The words spill out, your anger getting the better of you.
Her bright, cheerful face crumples the moment you utter her full name. Her eyes well up, and she collapses to the floor in tears.
That's your cue: you've crossed the line. Everytime you're too angry at her, you'd end up calling her by her full name.
"Yeon-ah, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry," you murmur, pulling her into an embrace and repeating your apologies like a mantra. But six-year-olds don't forgive easily, not without a token of reconciliation.
And in this case, the token is clear: the fan date.
You sigh in resignation. "Fine. I'll go to the fan date."
