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The autumn after the year Hyeju graduates, she picks up the phone and learns that her mother is gone.
Heart attack, says her sister. Just like that, all of a sudden. Right in the middle of the grocery store. It was already too late when the paramedics arrived.
Was it Walmart or Trader Joe’s, Hyeju wonders dimly.
So she finds the blackest clothes in her closet (not hard) and makes it home for the funeral. The will gets her an even fifty of the savings, a cardboard box packed with silverware, and one of the two junky cars parked to tennis balls on strings in the garage — half of everything except the house itself, which goes to her sister and the young family she has on the way.
Hyeju excuses herself early from the reception to buy a plane ticket on her phone. Then she guns up the Honda Insight left in her name and drives to DFW, where she boards the nonstop fifteen-hour flight to Incheon International Airport.
She’s dead asleep for twelve of them. During her waking three, she briefly considers guilt, until the flight attendant inevitably walks by and offers her a snack or soda and she has something else to divert her attention to.
It’s almost too easy. Almost being the keyword, because the second she has her feet on the ground and her phone off airplane mode, in comes the call.
“Where are you?” asks her sister.
“Korea,” says Hyeju. Her roller duffel trails behind her, still packed from the initial flight home.
“Korea? Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” Hyeju doesn’t feel like explaining herself. She might not even be able to.
“I can’t believe you’d just take off like that,” says her sister. “She was our mom, and there’s paperwork, and relatives, and—”
“It’s twenty-five cents a minute over here,” interrupts Hyeju. It’s too sunny in this terminal, too hot to still be dressed up for a dead person’s party. “Mom left us a lot of money, but not that much.”
Her sister is silent for a moment. She’s always been too civil for her own good. Then, finally: “Why now, Hyeju?”
The answer comes surprisingly easy. “If not now,” she replies, “when?”
-
Born Olivia Son, youngest of two daughters, nothing ever settled in quite right for Hyeju growing up. Her name didn’t fit, and her hand-me-down clothes didn’t, either, and she only did soccer for a stint in second grade before quickly quitting once the novelty of Capri Suns and gallon bags of orange slices wore off.
In her own defense, she wasn’t really offered the opportunity in the first place. Not that she was set up for failure, per se, but fish out of water could choose to either grow fucked-up lungs or die, and Hyeju went for the lungs. Then she spent the rest of her adolescence taking in ragged, spiteful breaths while her peers avoided her like the freak she was.
Don’t you think, her sister remarked at some point, that people would like you more if you made an effort to like them first?
Hyeju rolled her eyes. And what would be the point of that?
She was comfortable, or at least as close to the definition of the word as she could get, being the “scary” one. It was better than any of the other mean, cruel, and just plain false things she could have been pigeonholed into otherwise.
Classically, her home life was not much of an improvement. The gap between who she was and who her mother imagined her to be only got wider the older she got, so when she left the state for college, she wanted a fresh start. No more white person name, no more outfits straight from the catalog for good, well-behaved daughters. This, predictably, led to a fight.
Everything I gave you, all these years, her mother wailed, thrown away. I don’t even know who you are anymore.
You never call me Olivia at home anyways, said Hyeju. It was always the Korean name peppered into double-edged conversations, half in one language and half in the other.
It’s still meaningful. Your dad chose it for you.
And, well, that was all Hyeju needed to hear. Besides, halfway across the country, there was nothing her mom could say to really make a difference.
That was how her first year of college passed, then another, another, another. Throw in a year of job hunting while temping at a brunch place, and suddenly half a decade has gone by since Hyeju has last been honest with her mother.
Sometimes, still, she wonders.
Why have we never gone back to Korea? Hyeju once asked — a younger, dumber Hyeju, one with naive ideas and the not-yet-sprouted seeds of a growing cynicism.
Her mother laughed. For what? You have a good life here.
To see where you came from, said Hyeju. To meet people like us.
A pause. Hyeju still hasn’t forgotten the words that next came out her mother’s mouth. You’re not like them, she said. They can tell you’re American just by looking.
Hyeju was confused, wounded, angry. So, that’s a no?
No, her mom repeated, and just to drive the point home, over my dead body.
-
Hyeju ends up at a mall.
She read once that the best way to beat jet lag is to stay up, wear out the body, and finally sleep when it’s night where she is, so after she checks in at the hotel, she finds herself wandering up and down escalators and circling floor after floor of white, pristine tile.
A foolproof plan — with one caveat. Hyeju is no good at fighting sleep.
Despite all the time she spent knocked out on the plane, the sun is well below the horizon in every state of America, and her circadian rhythm is screaming at her to follow suit.
At the ground floor cosmetics booths, she can barely keep her eyes open, each heavy blink accompanied by the afterimage of a celebrity shilling lipstick from a bright LED panel. Then, in the luxury fashion area, she nods off against her own will and nearly walks into a mannequin displaying the latest Lacoste. By the time she gets to the food court, she’s basically a walking corpse.
Time seems to slow down. Her brain feels like it’s a beat behind, watching the world swim through molasses while her own body startles her with how fast it can move. She crashes into the side of a table and doesn’t even register the impact.
The occupant of the table does, though, and she gasps, watching what must be her lunch get jostled into utter disarray. Rice goes out of the bowl and onto the tray; utensils go out of the tray and onto the floor. A small trickle of spilled juice oozes towards the edge of the table, and Hyeju has the strange urge to kneel and catch it in her cupped hands.
Two wide, piercing eyes swivel away from the massacre and lock onto Hyeju’s face. Hyeju gapes, brain still under the covers of a twin bed on the other side of the planet.
There is one precious window of opportunity to apologize — a long one, too, if the other woman’s silence is anything to go by — and Hyeju just lets it slide closed, shut, fucked-up forever.
She stares at the woman. The woman stares back at her.
Hyeju runs.
Somehow, she manages to find her way down the block and back to her hotel room. At the end of an elevator ride and a long, carpeted hallway, the lock buzzes green behind her keycard, and she falls through the door and passes out on the ground.
-
The next day, Hyeju gets in the shower and begins the long, long process of scrubbing off over a day’s worth of grime and questionable decisions. Airport cooties, sticky sweat, the unwelcome but growing sense of doubt in her gut, all swirling down the drain.
The sound of water on tile echoes and drowns out her thoughts, making way for raw sensation. There’s warmth on her skin, the same warmth that breathes fog onto the glass. Slick shampoo slides from her hair to her shoulders and down her back.
Hyeju wrinkles her nose and reaches over to the ledge for more.
The wash smells of something she can’t place, aloe or cucumber or tropical rainwater. Familiar yet foreign, too cold to be a comfort, so inoffensive it becomes insulting.
Hyeju covers herself in the scent and becomes a stranger in her own skin.
-
Breakfast (really, lunch) is Hyeju’s next order of business, which she finds at a small bakery not far from the hotel. She steps through the entrance and freezes.
The interior is neat, and the bread looks appetizing, but it’s not any of these that make Hyeju stop in her tracks.
There’s a woman at the front of the line with eyes that Hyeju would recognize anywhere. She still remembers them from yesterday, because despite the way everything else slips in and out of a bleary fog, the memory of that gaze slices through the mist like a knife.
I’m so sorry, Hyeju thinks, belated and insufficient. Here, I can clean it up.
At the counter, the woman remains unaware of Hyeju’s presence. She points to the menu while the cashier takes note of her order. She smiles.
Right now, her eyes are round, even kind, but they send a shiver down Hyeju’s back nonetheless. The awe or innocence she normally expects is missing, leaving analysis without passion, observation without wonder. She’s reminded of dragonflies, giant squid, Martian rovers.
Hyeju wonders if she’ll berate her for ruining her meal. If she won’t trust her not to do it again. Maybe, most importantly, if she even remembers.
Too late, Hyeju realizes that the best course of action is to leave. There are other breakfast places in town, and no bagel in the world is worth calling this kind of attention to herself. She doesn’t want attention, period. Is it too much to ask, really, to just blend in with everyone else?
But forget what she’s getting — she’s neglected to remember that attention isn’t just a one-way street.
Hyeju doesn’t even notice she’s staring until the woman turns around with a terrifying glare and says, in English, “What the hell are you looking at?”
-
Her name is Hyunjin Kim, and she’s an English teacher at the hagwon fifteen minutes away by train.
“So,” she asks, “do you always make a habit of bumping into people’s tables, or am I just special?”
“It was an accident,” Hyeju mumbles. “I was jet-lagged. I’m really sorry.”
Her mouth splits into a huge grin. Hyeju notes, dimly, that her canines end in long, diamond points. “Jet lag. I knew it.”
Hyeju is suspicious. “Knew what?”
“That you weren’t from around here. But now I know — you’re really not from around here.” Hyunjin punctuates her sentence by chomping into her yuja-raisin muffin.
A feeling of vague unease tickles the back of Hyeju’s neck. “It doesn’t seem like you’re from around here, either.”
“You’re right. I’m not.” Hyunjin, in stark contrast, seems to take this in stride. “That’s why I get paid the big bucks to teach the younger generation’s finest minds. American accents are in high demand, you know.”
Hyeju doesn’t doubt that’s true, but it doesn’t make her feel any better to think about a third-grader that’s indisputably more bilingual than she is.
Hyunjin continues. “And anyways, only an American would take off from the scene of the crime like that. I can’t believe you expected that to work.”
“I already said I was sorry,” says Hyeju, face warm.
“How sorry?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said,” repeats Hyunjin, “how sorry?”
Hyeju isn’t sure what to make of that. But before she can properly answer, Hyunjin closes her hand with a crrrrsh, folding an empty wrapper into a ball of parchment paper and crumbs. Hyeju was convinced that it was an intact muffin not more than a minute ago.
“Hey, look,” says Hyunjin, “I gotta run. Have to run some errands before my shift starts.” Her eyes crinkle into mischievous crescents. “But if you really want to make it up to me, you can buy me lunch tomorrow.”
“What—” Hyeju starts, before remembering that she’s not really in a position to refuse. “Fine. When and where?”
“Same mall, same table, eleven-thirty. You won’t have any trouble finding your way back, right?”
Hyeju couldn’t forget even if she wanted to. “Yeah, yeah. See you then,” she says with a sigh.
-
Her name is Hyunjin Kim, and she’s made it her mission to try every single menu item the food court has to offer.
“It’s about the methodology,” she says, pointing at the Thai place furthest to their left. The rest of the dining options follow in line, curling around the wall in a somewhat blocky U-shape. “I started at the first restaurant and got the first thing they had listed. Then I went to the second restaurant and got their first thing. Then I went to the third restaurant, and the fourth restaurant, and all the other ones until I went all the way around the room. Then I started over at the first restaurant with the second dish and kept going like that.”
“Wow,” says Hyeju, partially because she’s actually impressed but mostly because she has no idea what else to say. “That’s… dedication.”
“Keeps life interesting,” Hyunjin says with a shrug. She loads a spoonful with noodles and broth before polishing it off with a loud slurp. “Ahh, that’s the stuff.”
Hyeju blinks, then frowns. She motions at the bowl between them with a nod. “And which one is this?”
“Tenth restaurant, seventeenth menu item. Canh bún.” Hyunjin gestures over her shoulder. “It’s run by a pair of Vietnamese immigrants. They’re the sweetest couple you’ll ever meet, you know.” She pauses. “Are you not getting anything for yourself?”
The table space in front of Hyeju remains conspicuously empty. “I couldn’t decide what to eat,” she lies. It’s an easier explanation than I just want to pay you back. I don’t want to make this a date, I don’t want to try and get to know you better. That’s it.
Hyunjin gives her an unreadable look. Most of her looks are like that, Hyeju is coming to learn — inscrutable and curious, as if she’s watching Hyeju through one-way glass. “I didn’t take you for the indecisive type.”
Hyeju shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “First impressions aren’t everything.”
“Very true. But,” says Hyunjin, leaning forward, “what about love at first sight?”
Something in Hyeju’s shoulders tenses up. “What?”
“Love at first sight. Fate, if you will.” Hyunjin doesn’t blink. “People meeting and changing each other’s lives right from the second they meet. Don’t you believe in that?”
This is way too deep for a Thursday afternoon, and more than that, she’s acting far too serious for someone with a little chunk of ground crabmeat stuck to her lower lip. Hyeju isn’t distracted by that fact in the slightest.
Besides, if Hyeju’s life has taught her anything, it’s that sometimes things happen for no good reason at all. She’s about to say as much when Hyunjin brays a wild, obnoxious laugh.
“I’m just messing with you,” she says, corners of her mouth curling up to reveal those spearlike canines again. “I don’t believe in that stuff, either. We’re all just idiot animals on a giant, spinning rock who fucked up enough to screw ourselves over with things like the economy and social media. Anyone who thinks there’s a bigger reason behind anything we do is only kidding themselves, so I’m going to do what I want, when I want, right up until I die.”
Okay, whoa. Hyeju isn’t an idealist or anything, but she’s also definitely not about to burn it all down and take her hands off the wheel.
“But whatever,” says Hyunjin, “enough about me. How long are you in Korea for?”
Good question. “I don’t know,” says Hyeju. “A while, I guess.”
“Hm.” Hyunjin takes this into consideration. “And are you opposed to spending one more day with me?”
“I’m not paying for another lunch,” is Hyeju’s immediate response.
Hyunjin snorts and shakes her head. “Nothing like that. I’m just saying, it doesn’t seem like you’ve seen much of anything yet besides this mall and the inside of your hotel.”
Bullseye. Hyeju doesn’t know what to make of being read like an open book, not when she’s used to being closed-off — locked, even, with big, gouging lines of permanent marker that spell, KEEP OUT!
An insufferably smug expression crosses Hyunjin’s face. “Thought so. Come on, that won’t do at all. You need someone to show you all the good spots.”
Hyeju allows herself one last-ditch attempt. “I was doing just fine by myself.”
“Until you ran into my table and I ruined your big plans, yadda yadda, I get the idea.” Hyunjin waves her hand. “It’s just one day. Trust me, I don’t bite.”
With teeth like those, Hyeju finds that hard to believe. Still, she nods along. “Just one. Is that a promise?”
“Pinky.” Hyunjin sticks out her little finger for effect. “Deal?”
Hyeju doesn’t know what compels her to reach across the table and link her finger in Hyunjin’s, but she does, pressing their thumbs together as ultimate confirmation. “Deal.”
-
Her name is Hyunjin Kim — Kim Hyunjin, if Hyeju wants to be pedantic — and she’s an absolute mystery.
She’s a year older than Hyeju, almost to the day. Her plank record is four minutes and forty-five seconds. She’s got two older brothers. There’s a scar in her left ear from the daith piercing that migrated out during her junior year of college. She’s a huge soccer fan, and she cried when the national team lost to Brazil in the last World Cup.
Hyeju knows all of this, was freely given the information like it was breathing, and yet she still doesn’t understand a damn thing about Hyunjin. Not really.
“This is the bookstore I go to when I don’t want to run into my students, which is always,” explains Hyunjin, taking the last of a series of turns through a long alleyway and stopping in front of a glass door — one of the many locales Hyeju has visited with her this morning. Any chance of seeing inside is blocked off by overlapping flyers taped all over the interior.
“Huh. You don’t like your students?” Despite the complete lack of a view, Hyeju scans the door anyway. There’s advertisements for embroidery lessons, old articles about math competitions, a local band’s desperate attempt to recruit a bass player.
“I teach elementary schoolers,” says Hyunjin. “They’re young and impressionable, quote-unquote, and their parents wouldn’t approve of the kind of entertainment I like.”
Hyeju raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Ha, ha. Get your head out of the gutter.” Hyunjin takes hold of the door handle and motions for Hyeju to follow. “I mean comics. Not exactly proper literature, as far as they’re concerned.”
“I wouldn’t know,” says Hyeju. She steps through the entryway, expecting some grimy hole-in-the-wall, but is instead greeted by clean cedar floors and tidy shelves, awash in warm orange light. “Oh, wow.”
“Pretty great, huh? Do you like to read?” asks Hyunjin.
Hyeju shrugs, half-embarrassed. “Not really.”
Hyunjin grins. “Me neither.”
They wander the stacks, talking about nothing in particular. For whatever reason, Hyunjin thinks it would be fun to go to space someday, and she thinks she would do well with the astronaut training. When Hyeju points out that astronauts usually start out in the military, Hyunjin says she’s plenty strong, no problem.
In return, Hyeju offers that she nearly flunked out of middle school PE when she could only do seven push-ups out of the required twenty.
Hyunjin laughs hard enough to get an annoyed shush from a man nearby. She makes a point of ignoring him. “By the way,” she says, “I never asked. Where are you from, exactly?”
The question grazes a wound that’s long been scarred over — not nearly enough to reopen, but just enough for the memory to make Hyeju frown. She remembers those words from playgrounds and classrooms, always from an American mouth, on American soil, expecting a distinctly non-American answer.
And yet, here she is, years and years later, staring back from the other side of the mirror. Through some act of serendipity or mocking fate, she’s found herself in the near-opposite situation. She reminds herself that Hyunjin doesn’t mean anything by it, that Hyunjin has probably gone through her fair share of the same thing herself, and shakes the feeling off.
“Dallas,” says Hyeju.
“Oh god, not Dallas,” says Hyunjin. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t want to be from Texas any more than you do,” grumbles Hyeju.
“Hey, there are worse things. I’m just glad you’re not from the East Coast. Or California.”
“Like I’d be able to afford California,” says Hyeju.
Hyunjin looks amused. “Same.”
“Where are you from, then, if it’s not Texas or California or the East Coast?”
“Take a guess. I was always surrounded by other Korean kids, if it helps.”
It doesn’t. “You said not the coasts?”
Hyunjin shakes her head. “Landlocked as all hell. The closest thing we had to a beach was the local reservoir, and it was really only warm enough three months out of the—”
She’s interrupted by a beep from her wrist. Hyunjin flicks back her sleeve, revealing an Apple watch with a gray utilitarian band (or, well, as close to utilitarian as an Apple product can get).
“Ah, damn,” she says. “One-thirty. That’s my cue to leave.”
“Wait—” Hyeju unconsciously reaches out a hand, finding it hard to process how quickly time has gone by. This was nice, she can’t seem to say, the truth caught on its way out her throat. “I don’t, we’re not… do you have plans tomorrow?”
Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said you only wanted to spend one more day with me?”
Hyeju goes rigid. “Uh…”
“I have some personal stuff to take care of, but you should take the chance to explore Seoul on your own. The city’s always more fun on the weekends, anyway.” Hyunjin is already on her way out the door. “Thanks for tagging along. And if I don’t see you again — bye forever, Hyeju.”
The finality with which she says it is deeply, deeply unnerving. Hyeju can only watch as she walks out of the bookstore and runs to catch her train.
-
In the absence of any other choice, Hyeju spends Saturday and Sunday alone. If she had a destination bucket list, it would look something like this: Her mother’s childhood home. Her mother’s elementary, middle, and high school. The locations where her mother had her first job, her first love, her first heartbreak. Her grandparents’ final resting place.
But Hyeju doesn’t know where those are. She never knew her grandparents and she never got the chance to ask her mom. As for her father’s side of the family, she won’t even bother.
So she drifts from tourist site to tourist site, staring at temples with a history she’s supposed to know but doesn’t, ducking between crowds that she inexplicably feels like she’s lying to.
The first day isn’t so bad. Hyeju figures out how to buy train tickets. She takes her meals in the back corners of food courts. It rains, and she hides out under an overhang, then walks through shallow, shiny puddles on her way back to the hotel.
The second day is worse. She needs more toothpaste, and contact solution, and to figure out where the nearest laundromat is. And she doesn’t even like talking to strangers back in America.
Here’s the thing: Every time she steps up to the counter and opens her mouth, it happens. Over the course of simple, polite small talk, the confusion on the cashier’s face morphs into something between pity and entertainment. Here’s a grown woman with juvenile sentences and rough syllables that don’t quite fit in her mouth, the universe seems to say. It’s me, Hyeju has to conclude.
Maybe she’s overthinking it. Maybe no one cares as much as she thinks they do, and that’s a kind of cruelty in and of itself — either Hyeju is a self-absorbed crybaby or the world really is so mean.
But there’s a unique awfulness in presenting herself, over and over again, to do nothing but disappoint and embarrass. She doesn’t want to be this sore thumb, the sheep in wolf’s clothing. She wants to go home and feel like she belongs there.
Hyeju can’t do this anymore.
That night, she sits in her hotel room with its view of the sprawling city lights and opens her phone. In her URL bar, the Google domain ends in .co.kr instead of .com — the same but not at all, a subtle spot-the-difference. She winds up on a Wikipedia page with a promising title: “List of U.S. cities with significant Korean American populations”.
Hyeju clicks in, scrolls to number six.
There it is, she thinks. I’ve got you.
-
“Aurora,” says Hyeju, slamming her hands down on Hyunjin’s table. “Aurora, Colorado. That’s where you’re from.”
“Jeez. Whatever happened to ‘good morning’?” Hyunjin blinks, annoyed, and sets down the mini croissant she was just about to bite into. “And how did you know I’d be here?”
It’s the same bakery from last week. “Lucky guess,” says Hyeju.
Hyunjin makes a skeptical expression, but apparently decides to roll with it. “Yes, I’m from Aurora. Do you know where that is? Do you even know anything about Colorado?”
“If I say something about skiing and weed, you’ll get mad, right?”
“Forget it. I don’t know anything about Dallas, either,” says Hyunjin. “What do you want?”
“I—” I can’t stand being alone here, and you’re the only person I can talk to. I’m lost and I need your help. You’re like me, but you made it, and I need you to show me how. “It’s boring without you around,” Hyeju manages.
“Some vacation you’re having.” Hyunjin lets out a short, barking huff. “Tripadvisor, anyone?”
“No, that’s not it. I don’t want to go to all the popular places. I don’t care what’s ‘must-see’ or ‘must-try’ or anything.” Hyeju runs a frantic hand through her hair. “I just, I just want—”
Hyunjin’s eyes widen. “Hey, hey, hey, you don’t have to say it.” She stands and claps Hyeju on the shoulder. “Deep breaths, in and out. If you liked my company that much, you should have just told me.”
“Um.” The panic replaces itself with a wholly different kind of anxiety. “That’s not what this is,” says Hyeju.
“Really?” The corner of Hyunjin’s mouth quirks upward. “I mean, you know what they say about the third date.”
“I am not,” Hyeju emphasizes, “trying to flirt with you.”
“And if you were, I wouldn’t mind,” says Hyunjin. She’s unnaturally calm, despite everything. A silence passes between them. Finally, she says. “Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up every morning, eight AM sharp.”
Strange relief washes over Hyeju. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you so much.”
Hyunjin throws her head back and laughs. “Why are you thanking me? You’re the cute one.”
-
Spending time with Hyunjin is easy. Hyeju doesn’t feel weird (because Hyunjin is weirder), and she doesn’t get tired (because with Hyunjin, there’s always something new).
Hyeju spends five and a half hours with Hyunjin everyday, from eight in the morning to one-thirty in the afternoon. They always get breakfast and lunch together, but if she’s still feeling hungry, she’ll walk Hyunjin to the train station, then pick something up from the GS25 nearby. After that, she goes back to the hotel to fuck around on her laptop until it’s time for dinner, at which point she walks to the closest Lotteria and places a kiosk order, eats it, and goes back to her room to shower and sleep.
A period of three blissful days passes like that — short, sweet, and not quite long enough for the Ria Miracle Burger to start wreaking havoc on Hyeju’s digestive system. Come Friday morning, though, Hyunjin locks eyes with her over a shared cup of gelato and asks, “What do you do every night while I’m at work?”
Hyeju can’t tell what she’s trying to get at. Either way, she has no reason not to answer with the truth. “Nothing. I watch YouTube and I play Pokémon Emerald through an emulator on my computer. I eat dinner when I need to, and I always wash my hair, and I go to bed.”
“Oh my god,” says Hyunjin. “You’re so… lame.”
“What?” Hyeju leans back defensively. “I don’t have anything better to do.”
“You’re not a nightlife person? Not even a little bit? You’re telling me you’ve never once thought to yourself, man, this blows, I should go drink my weight in soju and sweat it out to Blackpink on the dancefloor until I puke on someone else’s shoes?”
Hyeju makes a face. “No. Also, what the hell is Blackpink?”
“What the hell is—” Hyunjin doesn’t even deign the question worthy of answering. “You can’t be for real. You haven’t lived until you’ve gone out at least once. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”
To Hyeju, chronic homebody, it sounds like a total nightmare. She’s been doing just fine with her party-free existence, after all, and there’s no need to fix what isn’t broken. “I don’t know…”
There’s no changing Hyunjin’s mind. “Tonight, ten o’clock. I get off my shift then, so come find me and I’ll take you clubbing.”
Hyeju sighs. “As long as the puke stays far away from me.”
-
The hagwon is an ugly, skinny little building jammed between an advertising agency and a stationery store. There’s not much in the way of an entrance, just a gate of looping steel arches blocking the way to the front of the school. Hyeju takes one look at it and shudders.
She can’t imagine spending more than an hour in there, much less eight, much less at the age when she’d rather be worrying about snacktime and coloring pages.
Whatever. At least she’s not the one in charge of teaching them.
Hyeju decides to stand a good distance away from the gate, and she watches as students come out, one by one, either to be picked up by a waiting mother or to walk home on their own. They look pretty okay for children who have been pulling thirteen-hour school days all year long. They’re tough ones, or maybe Hyeju just can’t compete.
She looks down at her outfit, and, god, she really hopes she doesn’t look like a prospective kidnapper. Just to be safe, she scoots further down the sidewalk.
After what feels like an eternity, a light flicks off on the seventh floor, and a few minutes later, Hyunjin is striding out the double doors and out through the gate. She finds Hyeju immediately, despite the way she’s been trying to melt into the alley shadows out of shame.
“Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Hyunjin says. Her cream-colored cardigan looks good on her. Hyeju already knew that when she saw it this morning, but she feels the need to say it again.
“I like your outfit,” she says, thickly.
“Oh.” Hyunjin looks surprised, at first, before her expression shifts to a wry smile and she lightly punches the side of Hyeju’s shoulder. “Not in front of the kids.”
Hyeju feels the blood rush to her ears, and she scowls. “I don’t mean it like that. What, I’m not even allowed to give you compliments anymore?”
“You never did in the first place,” points out Hyunjin, “and anyways, this isn’t what I’m wearing out. I have a change of clothes.” She tilts her head to the side, pointing. “Follow me.”
The change of clothes in question doesn’t happen until they’re several train stops, a line transfer, and a brief walk away. Their alleged destination is tucked away under what looks like a fire escape and the door is unmarked. Before they go in, though, Hyunjin stops and grabs Hyeju’s shoulders.
“Whatever happens,” she says, “promise me you won’t freak out. I need you to be cool in there.”
“Am I normally not cool?” Hyeju asks.
“Sometimes I think you have the face of a brick wall and the heart of a Chihuahua on 5-Hour Energy, that’s all.”
Hyeju tries not to show her annoyance. “Look, I don’t even know where we are right now. Is this the kind of place I can even stay ‘cool’ in, or what?”
“We’ll see. Litmus test,” says Hyunjin, and takes off her shirt.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Hyeju scrambles to cover her eyes, only to realize that Hyunjin has something on underneath her cardigan — a crop top? A tank? A… camisole?
“This is the 21st Century,” says Hyunjin. “You can look.”
Hyeju looks. She might not know what to call the top, but it’s nothing close to anything she’s ever seen before. It’s made of black leather with only one shoulder strap, showing off Hyunjin’s midriff under a studded edge.
In a word: damn.
“Uh…” says Hyeju.
“Uh…” imitates Hyunjin. “Seriously, you’re not in any place to judge.”
This is true — Hyeju is wearing a secondhand Jack’s Mannequin t-shirt and a pair of stupid cargo pants. She doesn’t even bother trying to look sheepish. “It’s comfortable, okay?”
Hyunjin’s eyes drift down to the shirt. “And not even their best album. I mean, come on. Everything in Transit?”
“How dare you,” says Hyeju. “What do you know about ‘Miss Delaney’?”
A smirk blooms across Hyunjin’s face in the dim alley light. “I’ve always preferred People and Things.”
“You would.” Hyeju shoves her hands in her pockets to hide the way they’re shaking. “Enough of this, let’s go inside already.”
“All right,” says Hyunjin, and she turns to lead the way.
Through the door and down a flight of neon-lit stairs is the sound of voices and thumping bass. It grows louder as they descend, rising like a tide, until the corridor finally opens up into a boxy room with a low ceiling, where bodies crowd around tables and nimbly weave their way across a floor that’s sticky under Hyeju’s feet. It’s, well, a club. A small club. A cramped club. A—
“Gay club!?” says Hyeju, before she can stop herself.
Hyunjin shoots her a look. “What, were you expecting something else?”
“No, no,” Hyeju tries to backpedal. “It doesn’t matter for me. I’m nobody here. But you,” she says, “you’re a teacher. You could, I don’t know, get in trouble, lose your job—”
“One, if a coworker or a parent recognizes me here, they’re just as guilty as I am,” says Hyunjin. Pulsing lights reflect off of shiny leather and the dark irises of her eyes. She drifts closer. “And two, they’d never be able to fire me. Not if they tried.”
A static hum tickles the back of Hyeju’s neck. “What… what does that mean?”
“Whatever you want it to, Hyeju.” Hyunjin reaches out and laces their fingers together. “What I mean is, you don’t have to worry about me. Don’t hold back.”
“I don’t understand,” says Hyeju.
“Dumbass.” Hyunjin rolls her eyes, smiling, before pulling Hyeju in by the collar. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. Now come on, are you going to grill me all night, or do you actually want to get up and dance?”
Hyeju can’t help it. Here, under alternating magentas and greens, Hyunjin is hypnotizing, like bioluminescent plankton, like fireworks.
“Yes,” she breathes, “let’s dance.”
-
Hyunjin’s apartment. It’s dark and Hyeju is tipsy, fumbling for a light switch when she doesn’t have the first idea where it is.
“Forget about it,” mumbles Hyunjin, arm wrapped around her waist. “Bed. This is a studio. It’s right in front of you, can’t miss it.”
She’s right, because Hyeju stumbles forward for — how many feet? Ten? Twenty? — and nearly trips over the giant mattress on the floor.
“Fuck,” she says, trying to get her bearings.
“That’s the idea,” Hyunjin replies.
Somehow Hyeju manages to get out of her clothes and onto her back. Hyunjin straddles her, breath warm with the smell of alcohol and artificial strawberry.
“You’re so beautiful,” slurs Hyeju. “I… I like you a lot.”
It might just be her imagination, but Hyunjin stills. “Hey,” she says, voice sounding oddly distant, “I like you, too, but let me make one thing clear: this isn’t serious, okay?”
“Not serious.” That doesn’t sound so hard. Hyeju can do that. Probably.
“Good.” Hyunjin leans down for a kiss, and oh, yeah. Hyeju can definitely do that.
-
Hyeju wakes up to the sound of oil hitting a pan. She opens her eyes, and there Hyunjin is, standing at the kitchen counter in a sweatshirt and shorts.
“What…” she croaks.
Hyunjin turns. “You’re up.”
God, her throat is so dry, and the room is so bright. Hyeju squints and swallows and tries again. “What time is it?”
“A little past noon.”
“A little past—”
“It’s Saturday.” Hyunjin uses a wooden spoon to gesture towards a small door on the other side of the room. “Bathroom’s over there. Go wash up first, and then we’ll have brunch.”
Reluctantly, Hyeju obliges. She drags herself off the mattress and across the floor, expecting the worst, but a hot shower turns out to be just what she needs. Hyunjin has left her a change of clothes, too, and she exits the bathroom feeling just about good as new.
“How’s the head?” asks Hyunjin, when she reappears.
“Okay.” Hyeju rubs at her temple. “Could use some water, though.”
Hyunjin turns down the heat on the stove and starts filling up a glass at the sink, then slides it over to Hyeju. “Here you go,” she says. “By the way, I hope you like fried rice.”
“Fried rice sounds great,” says Hyeju.
“Don’t get your hopes up. All it has is a couple eggs and some wilty-looking green onion I bought three weeks ago.”
Hyeju takes a sip of her water and shrugs. “I’ve never had anyone cook me food the morning after, so it’s not like you have competition.”
Hyunjin snorts. “Glad to hear it.” She clicks the burner off and loads rice into two mismatched bowls — one with a small chip in the rim and the other with a teal design around the edge. Hyeju gets the second one with a spoon tucked inside. “Bon appétit.”
“Thank you.” The smell of food makes Hyeju’s stomach growl, and she digs in. Sure, it’s nothing fancy, but at this moment, it might as well be the best meal she’s ever had. She looks up. “And, uh, thanks for letting me borrow your clothes, too.”
The shirt is a size too big for either of them, emblazoned with University of Colorado in peeling yellow print. Hyunjin takes one look at it and laughs.
“I got it for free during some freshman orientation event,” she says. “It’s nothing special.”
“It saves me from having to re-wear what I had on last night.” Tactfully, neither of them mention that that set of clothes is scattered in various piles around the bed. Hyeju peers down at her borrowed shirt again. “Do you miss it?”
Hyunjin frowns, mid-bite, before swallowing. “Do I miss what?”
Hyeju meets her eyes. “Colorado. Home, I guess.”
“I try not to.” Hyunjin sets down her spoon. “I work and live here now, so. It is what it is.”
It’s a weird answer, but something in her tone makes Hyeju feel like she shouldn’t push. “I didn’t know you went to college in-state.”
“Of course I did. If you’re not exceptional and you’re not just trying to run, you go to the big flagship university with everyone else and that’s that,” says Hyunjin. “Anyways, their education program is all right.”
“Why not stay and teach in Colorado, then?”
Suddenly — silence, like Hyeju has crossed a line she didn’t even know was there. Hyunjin’s face is unreadable, back to square one, back to when Hyeju didn’t know a thing about her. She takes a long while to speak, then finally, simply: “It was hard to get a job.”
“Oh. Sorry,” says Hyeju.
Hyunjin makes a sort of noncommittal noise and returns to eating. Hyeju doesn’t see much choice but to do the same, busying herself with spoonful after spoonful of friend rice to avoid making eye contact.
She’s not Hyunjin’s lover, she knows that. She’s not even really Hyunjin’s friend. But for some reason — one Hyeju would rather not think too much about — being iced out like this stings beyond belief.
Hyeju finishes her meal and starts taking her bowl to the sink.
“Leave it,” says Hyunjin. “I’ll take care of the cleaning myself.”
“…Okay,” Hyeju says, slowly. She sets the bowl down, making a stark clink against the countertop. If it bothers Hyunjin, she doesn’t mention it.
Instead, she gets up and opens the door. “Here, I’ll show you the way out.”
Hyeju gathers up her things and they go down four flights of stairs in silence. The steps are coated in peeling rubber, some with layers stripped away entirely, revealing cold, bare concrete underneath. At the ground floor, Hyunjin stands at the entrance of the apartment complex and holds open the front doors. As Hyeju passes through, an unfamiliar sense of urgency seizes her.
She turns. “This isn’t it for us,” she asks, trying not to sound so much like she’s pleading, “right?”
Hyunjin stares back at her from the other side of the doorway with those wide, achingly beautiful eyes. So alive, and yet they betray nothing. They’re the deepest brown Hyeju has ever seen — how has she never noticed that before?
“I mean,” says Hyeju, shooting her vulnerability in the head, “I have to return this shirt to you sometime.”
“Monday night,” Hyunjin decides. “Not in the morning. Come find me after school again.”
Hyeju, despite all better judgment, fights the lump in her throat and nods. “Yeah, of course. See you then.”
-
Sundays are for church.
(That’s a joke if Hyeju’s ever heard one.)
She hasn’t attended one in years, much less of her own will, but now she’s wandering into a quiet chapel and hoping no one will notice her. There’s not many people here, aside from a few stragglers and elderly couples. Still, she’s not in the mood to answer any questions.
Hyeju takes a seat in the dark wooden pews and gazes up at the cross in the center of the room. Sunlight drifts in behind it through floor-to-ceiling windows, throwing its silhouette across the seats in jagged peaks and valleys.
Her mother was a big believer. She was always trying to get Hyeju and her sister to be the same. A failure, by all accounts — Hyeju’s sister only goes to church on Easter and Christmas, and Hyeju herself couldn’t care less.
For the first time in her life, she starts to wonder if she’s made a mistake.
Faith isn’t magic, and it wouldn’t have stopped her mother from dying, but maybe it would have saved their relationship. Maybe it would have done something for the insistent void in Hyeju’s chest, the one that screams out in overwhelming despair when she asks herself, what the fuck am I doing here?
…Or she could just go to therapy.
At any rate, the one thing church has on counseling is the fact that Hyeju doesn’t have to admit anything out loud. As she wrestles with her thoughts in the half-light, she pictures her mom watching from up above. It’s hard to imagine her anything but disappointed.
Sorry, Hyeju mouths. For what, she’s not sure. Probably for coming all this way just to sleep with an American English teacher.
She gets up, exits the church, and doesn’t look back.
-
As promised, Hyeju meets Hyunjin again on Monday night. They pick up a six-pack of cheap beer from the corner store and go back to Hyunjin’s apartment.
It’s methodical, almost transactional: Crack open a can. Kiss. Shed an article of clothing. Rinse, wash, and repeat. Hyeju doesn’t feel anything, and she doesn’t want to. There’s a dam in her heart, and only the electrochemical haze of booze and human touch is keeping it steady against the waves.
It works, until it doesn’t.
The first crack starts to show when Hyunjin laughs at something stupid and meaningless, flashing the canines Hyeju has unwittingly come to fall for. The second forms when Hyunjin slips out her stiff white shirt, undoing each button with long, slender fingers. By the time Hyunjin is pressing Hyeju down into the mattress, long hair delicately brushing against her cheeks, the wall bursts open with a fury, spilling seawater like lifeblood through gaping wounds.
“Stop,” rasps Hyeju, voice hoarse with sudden, devastating grief. “You — I can’t. Please.”
Hyunjin stops. She sits back. “What’s wrong?”
Hyeju can’t answer, and she pushes herself away until she’s heaving with her back to the wall. She clutches her head and starts to sob.
In the dark, it’s hard to tell what face Hyunjin is making. Concern? Indifference? She doesn’t close the space between her and Hyeju. Hyeju doesn’t know if she wants her to. “If it’s something I did—”
“I like you too much,” Hyeju chokes out, the admission wrenching itself free from her mouth, “and I know you don’t feel the same. You don’t want the same. It’s just not going to work.”
Fragile stillness fills the room, at once suffocating and sharp. This is no weight off of Hyeju’s chest. This is the opposite, a mistake, a miscalculation, a barbell slipped out of her overconfident palms and straight onto her brittle ribcage.
Finally, Hyunjin says, “I see.” She wraps a shirt around herself and stands. For a brief moment, she looks awkward, unsure, before her features harden and she turns away. “I… I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. But I’m not going to make you leave. I’ll sleep on the other side of the room.”
“On the floor?” Hyeju says, dumbly, through tears.
“Yes.” Hyunjin takes a pillow with her and lays down. Her back is to Hyeju, and her pillow is tucked between her arm and her head.
“I’m sorry,” says Hyeju.
“Don’t be. You’re right.”
That only makes Hyeju cry more. Hyunjin is nothing more than a shadow at the edge of her vision, blending in and out of the dark. In return, she makes no effort to acknowledge Hyeju at all.
Slowly, Hyeju crawls out from under the covers and puts on her worn jeans, her sports bra, her t-shirt. She goes into the bathroom and splashes water on her face, and lets it drip down her chin into the basin, then wipes off the rest with her sleeve.
When she flicks off the light and comes back out, Hyunjin is still motionless by the wall. Hyeju almost thinks she’s asleep, so she returns to the mattress and closes her eyes, until she hears a toneless voice.
“You know why I don’t want anything serious, Hyeju?”
Hyeju isn’t sure if she’s imagining things. She says nothing.
Hyunjin continues. “You asked me if I miss home. You asked me why I didn’t just stay to work there.”
It’s true. Hyeju did ask. Now that the truth is so near, though, she has the unshakeable feeling that she should get away, cover her ears, refuse.
Too late. “I have a record — second degree assault,” says Hyunjin. “Did a year of time, paid three thousand bucks in fines plus the guy’s hospital bills.” She pauses. “Any school in the country would have to be out of their mind to hire me. And,” she says, sounding so far away for someone so close, “anyone would have to be out of their mind to want to be with me.”
The Hyunjin that Hyeju knows is observant and generous. Capricious, sure, but never with ill intent. Never with the capability to hurt someone.
And yet — this Hyunjin lies just a few feet away from Hyeju now.
“Scared of me?” asks Hyunjin. When Hyeju doesn’t answer, she supplies her own. “Most people are.”
Hyeju stays awake for a long, long time after that. Sleep can’t seem to find her, nor does she try very hard to let it, so she watches the lights of passing cars float across the window. She imagines herself as one of them, roaming around the city like a ghost, watching life go by through transparent eyes.
It’s not until she hears the soft sound of snoring that she rolls over and pulls the covers to her chin. She takes a breath and says, into the quiet dark, “No, Hyunjin. I’m not afraid.”
-
In the early hours of the morning, Seoul is as quiet as it gets. There are still students and long-haul commuters and seniors doing their dawn exercise in the parks, but a deliberate hush hangs in the air, matching the drowsy gray wash of the clouds in the sky.
These days, Hyeju mostly wanders through side streets with her hands jammed tight in her pockets. The weather is beginning to grow cold, and she’s woefully underprepared. Still, she’ll always take the bite of the wind over the ache that throbs beneath her throat, behind her sternum.
She hasn’t seen Hyunjin since that night. She made the choice to leave before Hyunjin even opened her eyes.
Now, in a city of almost ten million people, Hyeju is back to being on her own.
It’s not all bad. She no longer cares about her visible strangeness or her amateur grasp of the language. As loath as she is to admit it and prove her mother right all along, her pronunciation does get better with practice — and anyway, it doesn’t matter what people think of her when she won’t be around for much longer.
She’s already booked her ticket home. “Home” meaning Dallas, where she has no apartment, no job, and one less family member. “Home” meaning a place she doesn’t belong in and yet fits more than anywhere else.
Yeah. She can’t wait to be back.
The sound of crackling from a nearby street vendor’s cart catches her ear. Hyeju stops, hesitant, before turning to watch. The man is in his fifties or sixties — old enough to be her father, if he had stuck around instead of running off to a flashy life somewhere in New York. She wonders if he has any kids.
Behind the cart, the man carefully prepares chestnuts, scoring each shell with a cross-shaped mark before tossing it into a drum roaster. A pile of finished ones sits in a basket out front, hulls darkened by flame and peeling up at the inner corners of the cross, revealing the tender yellow meat within.
The smell reminds her of winter evenings. Her mom used to roast chestnuts at home, too, using their creaky oven and grease-stained glass pans. Hyeju can’t remember the last time she had one.
She buys a bag for the road. The vendor’s smile is as warm as the heat rolling off his cart, and he throws in a few extra without mentioning it. Hyeju pushes down the pang of emotion and gratefully accepts.
-
“These are yours.”
Hyeju holds out the t-shirt and sweatpants, both freshly laundered and folded into neat rectangles. Hyunjin stares at her, hand tightening around the strap of her shoulder bag. Behind them, the last few students and the rest of the hagwon teachers are milling about, talking to each other, heading home.
“This isn’t a good time,” Hyunjin says.
“I’m just returning these to you,” says Hyeju. She’s exhausted, having worked herself up all day to have the courage to face Hyunjin now. “Just — take them. You won’t see me again.”
Hyunjin’s expression doesn’t change. She accepts the clothes, flips through the stack like she’s expecting some kind of secret, then looks back up at Hyeju. “So that’s it?”
“What do you mean, ‘that’s it?’”
“Nothing. I just figured you of all people would have something else to say.”
“I don’t, okay?” Hyeju runs a weary hand through her hair. The longer she drags this out, the more she knows it’s going to hurt. “Thank you, I guess. For showing me around. For taking the time to help me. I don’t want to bother you anymore.”
“I’m pretty selfish, and you know it,” says Hyunjin. “No need to thank me.”
Hyeju doesn’t know what comes over her, but all she wanted was something akin to closure, and this isn’t it. She scowls and snaps, “You know I still like you, right?”
Hyunjin frowns. “If you’re trying to—”
“I’m not done talking.” Hyeju doesn’t recognize the anger in her own voice. “I still like you, even with your crabby attitude and your emotional constipation and your stupid fucking criminal record, okay? So I don’t know who you think you are, treating me like this, but I guess that’s my bad for ever thinking I was someone to you.”
Only the slight upward tilt of Hyunjin’s eyebrows betrays how startled she is. She opens her mouth to say something, but Hyeju turns away.
“Whatever. I’m finished. Enjoy the rest of your life.”
She gets halfway down the sidewalk before Hyunjin sprints in front of her, blocking the way. Hyeju tries to sidestep, but Hyunjin gets all up in her face, jaw set in determination.
“I’m sure you don’t want to listen to me,” says Hyunjin, “but let me say this one thing.”
“Get it over with,” mutters Hyeju, leaning away.
“You’re a good person, Hyeju. I wanted you to know, even if I never got around to telling you before and I… I’m sorry.” An uncharacteristically timid flicker passes through the look in Hyunjin’s eyes, and she backs off. “I really am. I mean it.”
Hyeju can already feel her ire simmering down. She hates that she’s such a bleeding heart, and she knows she should sever the tie before it takes part of her with it, but this is something she only gets one chance at. She doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life wondering.
“Okay, fine.” Hyeju looks down. “But the least you can do is give me an explanation.”
“An explanation?” Hyunjin seems taken aback, before shrugging, somewhere between surprised and solemn. “I can’t promise you’ll like it, but if it’s what you want, I’ll do my best.
Hyeju shrugs. “Let’s find somewhere a little more private than this.”
The best choice of location ends up being the bar on the ground floor of Hyeju’s hotel. It’s posh, almost sparkling, with the white light of the liquor shelves warping glossy and amber through the rows of bottles. Better yet, it’s empty, save for the bartender, so Hyunjin and Hyeju get the place all to themselves.
Hyunjin orders an overpriced soda water. While the bartender pours it out, she starts, only half-watching him screw the cap back on with nimble fingers. “It was my senior year of college. I had actually graduated early, but I was finishing out my student teaching until the end of the spring semester. I was hoping to make a good enough impression to work there.”
The bartender slides Hyunjin’s glass over and turns his attention to Hyeju, but she shakes her head. She’s only interested in one thing.
“The elementary school I was assigned to was nice,” Hyunjin continues. “I mean, it was small, and it could have used more funding, but the other teachers really cared and I… I got attached to the kids. I told myself not to, that I’d be gone soon enough, but I guess it’s unavoidable sometimes.”
She pauses to take a long draw of her drink, knocking back most of the glass. Hyeju allows herself to stare at the way her throat bobs up and down with each swallow.
When she’s done, Hyeju crosses her arms over the counter. “What’s wrong with getting attached to your students?” she asks. “You’re supposed to care about them.”
Hyunjin laughs — a low, pessimistic sound. “Being a teacher is all about goodbyes. Every year, it’s a new batch of kids, who you teach and get to know and learn to love, before you send them off and hope for the best. Sometimes you get to see them grow up. Sometimes you wish you didn’t.”
“Oh,” says Hyeju, at a loss for words. “I, uh… really?.”
“Really. There’s even a required class for it.” Hyunjin takes another sip of her soda water. “EDUC 4010: Psychology of Graduation. The professor was great and it was an easy A, but I slept through most of it.”
Hyeju stares blankly. “What—”
“I’m kidding.” For a second, Hyunjin cracks a fleeting grin, before it disappears back behind the tight, grim lines of her mouth. “Honestly, I wish that was true. Maybe it would have helped.”
“Sorry,” says Hyeju, more out of habit than anything.
Hyunjin ignores the apology. “So there was this boy in my class. Eli. Really sweet, sort of on the quiet side, but he wouldn’t play with the other kids and he’d always show up to school in these thick sweaters and long pants, even when it was ninety degrees out. He’d never roll up his sleeves. We did temporary tattoos once and he completely refused.”
A bad feeling forms at the bottom of Hyeju’s stomach like a dense, leaden weight. She doesn’t know if she can bear to look at Hyunjin’s face, so she focuses her attention on the condensation sliding the sides of her glass and forming a dark circle on the coaster below.
“I started keeping an eye out when his dad would come to pick him up. He was a big guy, never made small talk, not very smart. They’d be walking back to his truck and he’d already be pushing Eli around.” A hard edge of rage forms around Hyunjin’s words. “I hated him. My old man used to do the same.”
Hyeju has never heard Hyunjin talk about her family before. It’s not hard to understand why.
“I knew it wasn’t my business. Or at least, I should have told someone.” Hyunjin wraps her hand around the glass so tightly it may as well crack. “But it kept happening, and then I was sitting in on parent-teacher conferences, and there’s Eli, and his dad is pulling at his ears, and I just… I just lost it.” In one fluid motion, Hyunjin downs the rest of her drink and slams the empty glass on the counter. “I picked up the first thing I saw — the teacher’s stapler — and went to town on his hand. Over and over and over.”
There’s no part of Hyeju that sympathizes with this man, but she still winces. There’s a light behind Hyunjin’s eyes that brings to mind splintering bone and mangled flesh. Somehow, this capability for violence is both at odds and completely fitting with the person Hyeju knows.
“I only ever regretted one thing,” says Hyunjin. “That… that Eli would never see me the same way again. That I might have only made things worse for him.” Her face takes on a bitter grimace. “I don’t know if I can forgive myself for that.”
Hyeju has never been good with reassuring words. She tries anyway. “What’s done is done,” she finds herself saying.
Thankfully, it seems to land. “That’s true,” says Hyunjin. “But obviously it meant I couldn’t get a job back in the states. I thought a lot about where else to go, and, well.”
“You came here,” finishes Hyeju.
“I got lucky. My great-grandfather founded the hagwon I work at and my uncle still runs the place today. ‘Family is family’ and all that.” Hyunjin manages a cynical laugh. “I guess it helps that I’m actually good at my job.”
“You know that doesn’t make you, like, irredeemable, right?” Hyeju says. “People make mistakes.”
Hyunjin shakes her head. “One bad decision and it’s changed the entire course of my life.”
“That’s how decisions work, good or bad.” Hyeju doesn’t realize what it sounds like until it’s spoken aloud. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be where we are.”
The look Hyunjin gives her isn’t callous, not even resentful. Just sad. “There’s no future for me in America,” she says. “I’m not sure if there’s a future for you here. Better not to set ourselves up for disappointment.”
“It’s not about me,” says Hyeju, even though it is.
“Think about it, Hyeju. You have your whole life ahead of you, and there’s no point in closing doors on yourself. Let me be a nice memory or a story you tell your kids someday. Not someone you waste your time chasing.”
“It’s my decision,” says Hyeju.
Hyunjin looks her straight in the eye. “And it’s mine, too.”
Hyeju wavers. She’s never been able to fight that piercing gaze. “So this is it?”
“This is it,” Hyunjin confirms.
Simple almost to the point of being insidious — decision, door, the continuation of life. Hyeju stares at Hyunjin, trying to learn every detail of her face by heart, before realizing it still won’t be all that she is. Nothing compares to the beautiful strangeness of Hyunjin in motion.
And maybe, she realizes, nothing has to.
“Okay,” she says. Breathing in, letting go. “At least let me walk you to the door.”
Outside the hotel, Hyunjin gives Hyeju a chaste kiss, quick enough to escape anyone else’s notice, but tender nonetheless.
“I’m glad we met,” says Hyunjin.
“Me too,” says Hyeju. “Thank you for everything.”
Hyunjin gives her one last smile, pointy canines and all. “Bye forever, Hyeju.”
Then she steps away into the luminous night, and she’s gone.
-
“Nice of you to finally call,” greets Hyeju’s sister, after only half a ring. “Enjoying your little trip?”
Hyeju rolls over on the hotel carpet and fiddles with the tag on the side of her luggage. Her duffel is open on the floor, surrounded by piles of things yet to be packed. She presses the phone closer to her ear. “I’m coming home.”
Her sister must pick up on the agitation in her voice, because her annoyance is immediately replaced by concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Please don’t lie to me.” In the background, there’s the sound of a washing machine starting up and her sister closing a door. “I know you’re not a little kid anymore, but I still worry about you sometimes.”
A long moment passes in silence. Hyeju doesn’t mean to change the subject, but she clears her throat and asks, “Can you tell me how you met your husband again?”
“What?” asks her sister.
“I know it sounds silly,” says Hyeju, “but just… can you?”
“If you insist.” A pause. “We had both just started grad school,” she starts, having told this story so many times before, but with the same undeniable fondness that she always recounts it with. “I was living with mom and commuting from home, and he was an international student with a visa that would last him until the end of the school year. We didn’t hit it off right away. I couldn’t stand him at first, actually.”
Hyeju smiles at this. She remembers the calls she would get, griping about some mystery guy in between the regular stresses of labs and assignments and grocery store job shifts.
“But I was an idiot. He was so patient with me, and by the time I realized I liked him, his time was up and he was going off to do field research in Australia for three years. So I told him, and we did our best to keep in touch, and you know the rest.”
The rest being several years of long-distance calling, flights back and forth, and the nonsensical red tape of the US citizenship process, which Hyeju remembers and doesn’t need her sister to dredge back up. “Right. Yeah.”
“Why do you ask all of a sudden?”
Hyeju doesn’t really want to answer. “I don’t know. I just needed the reminder, I guess.” She sits up, moving a tube of lotion from the floor to the toiletry bag at her side. “Relationships take work, blah blah blah, that kind of thing.”
Her sister, as usual, knows her a little too well. “Hyeju, I’m only going to ask you one more time. What happened?”
She gives in. “I met someone,” she admits, “but — it’s not like you and your husband. It’s not going to work out.” Upon saying this, tears well up at the corners of Hyeju’s eyes, the same ones that she’s been holding back since she said goodbye to Hyunjin. She repeats herself, just to hammer it in. “It’s not going to work out.”
“Oh, Hyeju,” says her sister, sympathetic and, perhaps, a little disappointed.
“It hasn’t been fun here, either,” Hyeju continues, feeling like a child for complaining. “It’s so cold, and I suck at Korean, and….” She takes a deep breath, thick with grief. “And it’s nothing like I hoped it would be.”
The other end of the line is quiet, only broken up by the muffled sounds of the laundry churning. “I’m really sorry,” says her sister, finally. “I know what this meant to you.”
“So,” Hyeju finishes, “I’m flying back tomorrow morning. I just—” Her voice breaks. “I just want to go home.”
“Where are you landing?”
“DFW. My car is there.”
“Come stay with us,” says her sister, firm but still caring. “We moved into mom’s place already. There are boxes everywhere, and it’ll be a little hectic, but we’ll always have a place for you here.”
Hyeju pictures it: her sister and brother-in-law and baby niece, all packed into the small suburban home where she grew up. There are probably still pictures of her on the walls, and her old jackets on the hook by the stairs, but…
“I’d really like that,” says Hyeju. A swell of emotion rises in her chest, and she lets out a sob. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” says her sister. “And hey, tell you what. The next time you go to Korea, I’ll go with you. I found mom’s journal. She wrote about her school, her house, everything. We can go back and visit them — the two of us, together, this time.”
Now, Hyeju is crying so hard she can hardly see, but it doesn’t bother her at all. She smiles with warm tears running down the sides of her cheeks. “Yeah. I’d really like that, too.”
-
The airport is crowded, and bright enough to bring on a headache, but Hyeju doesn’t mind.
She’s going home, at last.
As she rolls her bag into the hall, she gives herself a moment to take it all in. There’s an elegance, she supposes, in the way so many people move in and out of this place every day, all in search of their final destinations. Organized chaos. New endings, new beginnings.
But first things first: Hyeju has to make sure she can actually board the damn aircraft.
She gets in line for the check-in counter. It’s not too long, luckily, so she lets out a sigh. For better or worse, this journey is over. There’s nothing to worry about anymore.
Or so she thinks. Because not a second later, ringing through the open space, clear as a bell and twice as loud, is someone shouting:
“Hyeju! Hyeju, wait!”
She whips around. From the edge of the check-in area, there’s a woman ducking under the line dividers and crawling towards her like her life depends on it. Her hair is a mess and she’s starting to freak out the other travelers, but Hyeju would know her anywhere.
“Hyunjin, what the hell?”
The woman — Hyunjin, as it is — finally makes it over to where Hyeju is standing and pops up, shoving her hair out of her face. “I think I pissed off the security guys so we don’t have a lot of time, but here.” She pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket and jams it into Hyeju’s hand.
Hyeju looks at it, bewildered. Rows and rows of letters, numbers, and the occasional symbol are carefully written in neat, dark print.
“It has everything on there. My phone number, my KakaoTalk, my Discord, my email, my physical address — everything.” Hyunjin is completely serious. “No matter how you contact me, I’ll answer.”
“I don’t understand,” says Hyeju.
“When we first met, I asked if you believed in love at first sight. I didn’t, and I still don’t, but I’m starting to believe in fate or destiny or whatever you want to call it,” says Hyunjin. “We were meant to meet each other, Hyeju, and that doesn’t happen every day.” Her lower lip trembles. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that.”
Hyeju can feel herself starting to choke up. “You moron. You total, fucking moron.”
“I know,” says Hyunjin.
“You piss me off so much,” says Hyeju. (She’s never been happier.) “The absolute nerve of you to make me cry in public. In the airport!”
“Then I owe you,” says Hyunjin, “and I expect you not to leave me hanging so I can pay you back.”
“It’s the least you could do,” grumbles Hyeju.
“I know,” says Hyunjin. She scratches the back of her head, somewhere between sheepish and shameless. “But… I hope you can still forgive me.”
They’re interrupted when a winded security officer runs into view, shouting and waving a baton in between breaths. Hyunjin snaps to attention.
“All right, time’s up.” She affectionately punches Hyeju in the arm. “Fly safe, okay?”
“You’re one to talk about safety,” says Hyeju, “but I will.” As her lips find their way into a smile, she adds, “See you soon.”
Hyunjin returns the grin. “You know it.”
And with that, she runs, but it doesn’t feel like she’s leaving. Hyeju knows she isn’t. She and Hyunjin will find each other again.
In an airport thousands of miles from home, Hyeju clutches the paper to her chest, feeling a warmth bloom underneath. She looks to the sky, to planes taking off, and lets her thoughts follow them to whatever the future holds.