Chapter Text
Kyungmin looked at his wristwatch and jotted down the scene. Time check, 7 a.m. Ample space in reception. He looked to his left. Small corridor with rooms beside me, door to my right. He spun his head back to the center. Brown reception desk in front, one staff. Kitchen behind him. Beside kitchen archway, stairs going down to basement.
He crossed his legs and set his notebook atop his knee. He kept looking around, taking note of as many details as he could. The second page of his newly-bought, pocket-sized steno pad was filled now with scribbles. Hotel far enough to be insulated from street noise. He filled the room with the occasional sound of his throat being cleared and his notepad flipping to the next page.
Just enough morning sun spilled into the room for Kyungmin to write; if he looked close enough, he could see the dust dancing in the air. Framed photo of Manila above me.
Noticing that the staff behind the reception desk had finally beckoned to him, he got up from his seat, slotting his notebook in his leather sling bag. He left the pen in his hand, anticipating to sign papers.
Kyungmin caught in the corner of his eye a laminated sheet with the room prices. He took note of the inexpensive rates in the hotel, figuring it might help with his thesis. The staff, face plain and professional, presented him with documents on a blue clipboard.
To Hanjin’s surprise, his guest was actually reading through the fine print, his index finger combing through the sentences. Any other tourist would have just signed mindlessly, and to Hanjin, there’s no need to be so caught up.
In fact, Hanjin was starting to feel impatient, watching his guest flip to the next page, index finger landing with the same particularity. Two minutes had passed now and his guest hadn’t signed anything.
Hanjin got the heads up from his crew mate, Jihoon, that a student journalist from a nearby university along España Avenue would check in today to write a thesis on hotels. Why anyone would ever want to write about this, for a thesis, too, never made sense to Hanjin. But he didn’t care enough to press further.
Hanjin leaned into the silent judgment of his customer, who spent the better of the last five minutes looking around the reception, once meeting Hanjin’s eyes and flashing a smile too big for Hanjin to reciprocate. It’s impressive that despite the stressful commute in Manila, he looked presentable with a well-pressed, baby blue polo shirt. Standing on his tiptoes over the desk, he could peek at the crisp gray slacks and the shiny loafers. His outfit even seemed to match with the gray luggage he left beside his chair.
Still waiting, Hanjin removed a fallen leaf from a small potted aloe vera on the desk, tossing it away from sight. The guest noticed and took it as his cue to finally sign his name: Lee Kyungmin.
As Hanjin took the papers and bent down to stow below the desk, Kyungmin looked around and inhaled more details to write in his notebook later: Reception staff in casual attire, no uniform. Dying plant. Could use some watering.
Hanjin straightened and grabbed a key from the peg board on his right, its jangling filling the space between them. Hanjin offered a polite nod for his guest to follow him to the room. They walked to the corridor, Kyungmin behind with his gray luggage, looking curiously at the dusty Korean souvenirs and the haphazard paint job on the walls, a faint smell of detergent greeting him into the hallway.
When they got to the room, Hanjin prepared to open the door, but paused, feeling electricity on the doorknob.
Damn it. He had done this many times since last year. Many guests have already come and gone. Damn it. Why is it that when a guest checks in on the second room on the right does his breathing quicken? Why is it that his heartbeat pauses when he sees that bathroom door open? Why is it that… Why…
Kyungmin, surprised by the odd pause, thought something was wrong. He opened his mouth to ask if the staff was okay, but ended up muttering an awkward laugh to fill the silence.
Interrupted by Kyungmin’s chuckle, Hanjin shook the unwelcome feeling off and took a deep breath. He opened the door, wrapping his palm around the door knob firmly.
He turned the AC on, recited his routine run-through, emphasizing the early check-in fees. Damn it. For some reason, the air in this damn room feels so heavy. Change the sheets, wipe the windows, sweep the floor, the pain was still there. It was still there. No cleaning could scrub it off. Damn it.
After Hanjin closed the door behind him, Kyungmin stacked his sling bag atop the white pillows. The hotel manager, who he talked to on the phone, Jihoon he said his name was, sounded a bit more cordial, amenable to this whole ordeal. The one who brought him over to the room couldn’t have been Jihoon, then. That guy seemed somewhat indifferent, guarded, just focused on his job, asking each query with a Yes, or a No, sir. Okay, thank you.
There was something in the staff’s indifference that charmed Kyungmin, though. Since he would be staying here for quite some time, he decided it would be his new goal to warm up to him and earn a new friend. Before he would leave, he would make sure he and the staff would be close.
He was confident, as there was no one in Kyungmin’s memory that ever defeated his warmth. This hotel wouldn’t be any different.
He lay his luggage to its side and unzipped the bag, keychain dangling by the edge. Kyungmin figured it would be more authentic to write his thesis this way. His paper would be about the government’s “WOW Philippines” campaign and its impact on the hotel scene in Manila, the nation’s capital. The tourism department was flaunting good statistics, but Kyungmin and his adviser figured there was something fishy in the data. Later that evening, he was scheduled for an interview with Jihoon to ask if the sparkling figures held any water.
Thinking the room too dim, he tugged the curtain open, letting in sunlight, revealing yellow flowers from the narra tree outside his window. He wheezed at the dust stirred by the drapes.
Jihoon felt he had to present the hotel well for his uncle, knowing this interview could be good promotion for the place. Kyungmin said he intended to get the story out in a major broadsheet, and being the hotel manager, Jihoon was mindful of his words, aware of the recorder flashing red atop Kyungmin’s knee.
Jihoon had taken one of the kitchen chairs to sit in front of Kyungmin, the reception desk behind him. Dry air was coming through the open window to their right, wrapping the interview in a stiff atmosphere, broken only by the sound of questions and answers.
Jihoon was explaining now how the place was originally his uncle’s home, and that this reception used to be a living room. Kyungmin wrote this on the edge of the page, drawing a long line to connect the note to a previous one about Korean souvenirs and homey furniture.
The conversation felt robotic. Kyungmin asked basic yes-no questions about credit card payment options (No), breakfast offerings (No), and hygiene kits (Yes, toiletries, hotel slippers).
Kyungmin eventually moved to another topic, asking now if more people were checking in at the hotel. Jihoon instinctively replied in the affirmative.
“Yes, yes, of course. Most of them are foreigners. We’ve got a pretty good spot near the tourist places in Binondo, Intramuros, you know, all those… Yeah.”
Kyungmin scribbled down. “I see. About how many?”
Jihoon paused, considering the question. Suddenly, he felt bad about being a poor housekeeper and not knowing the numbers off the top of his head.
“I’m not sure, but I can check.”
To Jihoon’s relief, Kyungmin nodded and let the query pass. His guest was speaking differently from the sunny voice he heard over the phone, a cold and impersonal tone now taking over. Almost like another persona had possessed him for the interview.
“And how many are you in the crew?”
“Just two,” Jihoon said.
“That’s Ji-hoon,” Kyungmin spelled out the letters, flipped a page. “Jihoon and—?”
“And Hanjin.”
Kyungmin only replied with an mhm, taking a brief pause to write in his notebook.
Silence, as Kyungmin rewrote the strokes of the name. Han. Jin. Going over and over the lines, as if to make sure the name can’t be erased. Han. Jin. He shifted in his seat, crossing his legs and placing the recorder atop his other knee. He mindlessly scribbled the strokes, thinking about Hanjin’s silent pause earlier, and the awkward laugh he now regretted. Han. Jin.
He shook his mind off the memory.
“Do you think the WOW Philippines campaign is working?”
“Well,” Jihoon paused to consider his answer, remembering that this would come out in the papers. “I think it’s doing alright.” Kyungmin nodded, and jotted down Jihoon’s answer.
“Care to expound?”
Jihoon wasn’t entirely sure what story Kyungmin was looking for, but as he answered, he was impressed with Kyungmin’s clinical attention. As they talked, his eyes seemed to dart at the tiniest details of the room, spurring Jihoon’s insecurity. He asked all types of questions, even those Jihoon hadn’t considered thinking about.
He seemed to be the detail-oriented type of person, even in his outfit. He hung a brown corduroy coat over his shoulder, a fancy style choice that seemed out of place in the shabby reception. Jihoon doesn’t know anyone who works in the press, except maybe some campus writers he knew of when he was still studying. Jihoon wondered to himself if journalists always had to dress the part.
Wanting to loosen up Jihoon even more, Kyungmin steered the conversation into a more casual tone. He prepared an interview outline in his notebook, but he was fully ready to jump around to make the interview as organic as he could to get the best sound bites. His adviser had told him not to focus too much on the statistics, and to try to seek a genuine connection with the sources.
He paid attention to Jihoon. He had good posture and looked only about a few years older than him. When he threw a question, Jihoon seemed to scratch his collar before answering, looking up at the ceiling to formulate an answer. These details might help the readers to understand the type of person Jihoon was.
Suddenly, Kyungmin heard the sound of steps coming up from the staircase behind the reception desk. He saw Hanjin, wearing a light green shirt with pink shorts, his steps landing on Kyungmin’s memory. Human connection, right. Hanjin looks... Nice... Soft colors. Han. Jin.
Kyungmin watched as Hanjin’s eyes fell on the interview scene, on to Jihoon’s back, and then, to him. Hanjin offered a polite smile. Kyungmin felt his heart flutter.
Quickly, Kyungmin shook the idea off, going back to his notes. Polite staff. Keeps it formal. Han. Jin.
Hanjin, conscious of the journalist’s stare, walked to the corridor, figuring he might have some chores to do. When Kyungmin lost sight of Hanjin, his gaze then landed on Jihoon, who was watching him observe his crew mate. He tilted closer and whispered. “Sorry, he’s just a bit more on the professional side.” Jihoon gave a smile, almost embarrassed.
Kyungmin, unsure whether he was drawn by the need for details or his curiosity towards Hanjin, leaned. “What do you mean?”
“Just some personal stuff,” Jihoon said, wondering how much he could say about his friend.
Jihoon took the opportunity of Kyungmin going back to his notes to give a quick thought about Hanjin.
He’s become so silent recently. He wasn’t the same person he was months ago, when Jihoon’s family came over to visit from Laguna province.
Jihoon’s mother arrived to tell him personally that she was expecting, while his brother Dohoon came for an interview in Malate, which he flunked. In that time, he had learned so much about Hanjin’s resolve, driven by his independence after running away from his family in Binondo. Hanjin opened up about all of this to Jihoon’s mother, who took him in as an honorary son.
It’s why Jihoon values Hanjin deeply, like a brother. It’s why he was so concerned about how he was recently.
He wasn’t the same person who would hum while mopping the floor, or share banter with Jihoon on empty evenings. He was doing his work just fine, sure, but the place wasn’t the same without his charm, and Jihoon wanted nothing else in the hotel but to have his chosen brother back.
He was sad to be oblivious to what Hanjin was feeling, and he couldn't do anything else but be worried about him. He didn’t want to force his friend to open up, knowing how long it took before he could admit he was a runaway.
Jihoon just hoped the time would allow Hanjin to share the burden he was carrying, or allow him to heal on his own. Dousing his worry with a small smile, he returned to Kyungmin. “But the hotel works great, no issues.”
Kyungmin nodded, returning to Hanjin’s name on the page, the strokes carved now to the page that followed. When Kyungmin revisited his notes that night, he realized he missed many of his prepared questions about the hotel. But he did remember how Hanjin smelled like lavender when he walked in.
Hanjin. Alone in his room, Kyungmin stroked the page with his left hand, his cheek resting on the other. Kyungmin was assuring himself that it was still a constant genuine friendship that he sought with Hanjin. Nothing else. Nothing else.
From his sling bag, Kyungmin fished out the recorder. He pressed rewind, pausing at the section where Jihoon and him were talking after Hanjin had come in.
Hanjin’s steps had not registered on the audio. Neither did his smile. Nor his scent. No spikes picked up in the audio, no mark of his presence. But why was it that even in the silence of the recorder, Kyungmin could see it all with his mind?
Bit more on the professional side, Jihoon had said. His voice, even when turned down to the lowest volume, still filled the silence of Kyungmin’s room. Personal issues.
Kyungmin’s gaze landed on the name printed on the page, thinking about what it was that he was feeling. Was there a word in the dictionary for this?
He was answered passively by a yellow narra flower that flew from the open window to the floor beside him.
There’s no time to waste. Kyungmin immediately began building the lead of the story, drawing from his experience in the hotel so far. For his thesis statement, he would cite figures from Jihoon, who seemed just as surprised as him to learn that the number of check-ins had been pretty much the same throughout the months, if not sinking slightly.
Kyungmin was becoming more and more certain that there was more to the tourism campaign than the government was letting on. This inspired him to keep writing. His instinct was right.
He spent his mornings being a fly on the pale wall of the reception, observing several guests who came by to inquire about room rates. Tall lady with blonde hair with small luggage, asked Jihoon about rates, said thank you, walked out. Man with French accent came in, looked around with family in doorway, asked Hanjin about room sizes. Walked out. Elderly woman, white crinkled skin, looked around, didn’t inquire. Walked out. “There could be better hotels.”
In these transactions, he noticed that Jihoon and Hanjin had a routine memorized. An opening line, a welcome into the hotel, a gesture towards the laminated sheet of paper displaying the room rates. If the conversation sustains, a walk through the corridor and a peek inside the rooms. When a customer came in, Kyungmin could predict what the crew would say next and what follow-up questions the guests would ask. With clairvoyant accuracy. It was all in his notes.
The difference between Jihoon and Hanjin was that Jihoon’s energy made the customers inquire more, while Hanjin left them disinterested.
Hanjin did book a guest one afternoon, though, a middle-aged man, visibly drunk, just needing a place to stay for the night. Hanjin, distanced from the man’s drunken quips, kept an indifferent face throughout the check-in routine.
Curious and motivated by a possible anecdote for his story, Kyungmin watched as Hanjin led the guest to the room, overhearing the same script Hanjin recited when he checked in. He memorized details about the man and how professional Hanjin was in keeping his routine.
“Does that happen often?” Kyungmin asked, elbow propped up over the reception desk.
“Sorry?” Hanjin asked, only now noticing that Kyungmin was talking to him. He stowed the guest’s papers below the desk. Hanjin was holding in the irritation of being jolted by Kyungmin’s energy, remembering how much Kyungmin had asked Jihoon all sorts of questions days before. He was doing his best to avoid the interrogation, but it seemed like there was no escape tonight.
“Does that happen often, the drunk visitors?”
“Happens a bit, sir,” Hanjin replied, unable to look Kyungmin in the eyes. He tried to busy himself with the logbook on the desk, leaving dog ears on the edges of the sheets. He remembered to write the date and time of his drunk guest’s arrival and figured he could just ask the man for his name tomorrow. Or maybe never at all.
Kyungmin reached around his pocket and found that he had left his notebook and recorder in the bedroom. He decided to just memorize as much as he could for the story. He looked at Hanjin, who was wearing a pastel pink shirt, a color which seems to never be absent in his attire. Silent evening, creases in Hanjin’s shirt. Neatly combed hair, aloe vera plant. Beautiful skin… Slight weariness in the eyes.
Softly shaking his head back to focus, wanting to sober up, he tried to remember the basic questions he needed to be answered. “Are you having more guests now?”
“Not sure, sir. I think Jihoon has the numbers.”
“But do you think more people are checking in now?”
“I think so, sir.”
Kyungmin felt stupid for even asking that question, knowing he already had the numbers with him.
Remembering his adviser’s guidance on seeking human connection, and not wanting the conversation to end yet, he fired, “What do you think of this new tourism campaign?”
Hanjin was taken aback by the loaded question, paused his fidgeting with the logbook, and turned his attention to the aloe vera. He cleaned off some of the dust that gathered by the base. That question seemed to have shaken off his bubbling annoyance. He gave it some genuine thought. “Not sure it’s working.”
Kyungmin, surprised by Hanjin’s authenticity, became more inquisitive, knowing this was way more than what the hotel manager seemed to be willing to admit. He kept prodding. “They said it would raise the number of tourists in Manila.”
“To be honest, sir, I can’t trust promises like that.”
Kyungmin was intrigued by Hanjin’s vulnerable answer, the most words he’d uttered throughout the conversation. Hanjin looked at Kyungmin’s neck, and offered another one of his professional smiles. He then redirected his empty stare to the logbook in his hands.
Kyungmin picked up on the bitterness in Hanjin’s tone and carefully thought about his next inquiry, cautious not to turn Hanjin off. There’s just something about Hanjin’s guardedness that made him want to go further, perhaps it’s the journalist in him speaking. Or maybe, it's Kyungmin’s feelings coming through.
“But you like your job, no?”
Hanjin paused, surprised by the personal question.
Kyungmin quickly replied, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”
Hanjin looked Kyungmin now in the eyes, and flashed him a genuine, but reserved smile. Feeling comfort that Kyungmin respected his limits, he allowed himself a longer response. “Guests come and go. People take and take. I just do my job.”
Hanjin let the cold air wash over him when he entered, the soft chime of the door and the aroma of coffee ushering him into the cafe. It was a welcome relief from the heat outside and the weight of the Mercury Drugstore plastic bag, leaving red marks now on his forearm. To be honest, anywhere but Mercury Drugstore felt like heaven to him. Hanjin took a deep breath.
Before he could even finish his exhale, he heard Kyungmin call his name. He opened his eyes and saw Kyungmin to his right, wearing a white tee, a knit vest, and a smile too big for anyone working on a serious thesis.
Hanjin let his breath pass. Kyungmin spotted him through the glass window earlier, and gestured to him to come into the cafe. Realizing it was too late to pretend he didn’t notice, and afraid of being thought rude, he let his routine break to join his guest.
He packed what energy he could in the seconds he had before ordering and sitting in front of Kyungmin across a small round table made for two.
He offered a quiet smile to Kyungmin’s shoulder, looking around the desk to avoid eye contact. A tall glass of caramel frappe was in front of Kyungmin, half empty, the whipped cream drooping onto the blend. A few pages of a small notebook soaked up some of the condensation dripping off the glass.
When the barista called his name, Hanjin took the iced americano back to their table, only now noticing that in the middle of a desk was a white peace lily, the color of its petals and leaves too vivid to Hanjin to be real.
In his time in the hotel, he had never been to this cafe, deciding it too unimportant to his chores. Besides, if he wanted to relax, he could call Jihoon to the basement for a quick evening of wine. Those were the days.
He was only taken out of his amusement when Kyungmin’s foot, swinging below the table, slightly tapped his shin. Kyungmin apologized with wide eyes, and Hanjin shook his head in response.
“Thank you for the coffee, sir,” Hanjin said, cupping the coffee with both palms, making a small bow.
A big grin from Kyungmin. “Please, just call me Kyungmin. Besides, I think, I’m younger than you.”
Hanjin nodded, his eyes landing on the notebook again. He noticed the smooth, patient, cursive handwriting on the white pages. He could tell the notes were hastily written, but were still very much legible. It was a stark contrast to another penmanship Hanjin had seen before.
Catching Hanjin staring, Kyungmin hurriedly closed the notebook and retired it to the edge of the table. “Sorry, I just wanted to talk, that’s all,” Kyungmin said. “No thesis or anything.”
And it was true, Kyungmin wanted to genuinely connect with Hanjin. Kyungmin admired Hanjin’s diligence and professionalism, and he admired people who had a deep sense of responsibility.
While he admired many people that way, there was something, something in Hanjin that made Kyungmin want to know the person behind this sturdy wall.
Conscious now whether Hanjin had seen the page where his name was written, Kyungmin hurriedly busied his hands with the coffee. He felt his heartbeat accelerate. He took a sip off the frappe, but some of the whipped cream landed on his face, making a white dot on his nose. He placed the cup back down the table, his pulse even more frantic now with the caffeine.
Hanjin tried his best to stop the laughter forming inside him, sternly taking the brown cafe tissue in front of him to offer to Kyungmin. Confused, Kyungmin took the sheets and wiped where Hanjin told him to. Realizing what just happened, Kyungmin turned red.
“Um …” Kyungmin said, his fingers tapping on the table. His eyes were zooming, to Hanjin, the tissue, the lilies, settling finally on the notebook. “Actually, yeah, um … I wanted to get your um, thoughts on this lead I have so far … for the article, the thesis.” Kyungmin took the notebook from the side of the table, hurriedly, as if to distract Hanjin with a sleight of hand.
While Kyungmin was flipping through his notes, Hanjin took a deep breath. There was something disarming with how bubbly Kyungmin was, like there was no hesitation or worry in his joy. And Hanjin couldn’t be any more different. Just now, there was a sadness knocking on his heart, washing away the temporary warmth he felt. A deep sigh, at how quickly his heartache could show up.
Watching Kyungmin mutter about the hotel, Hanjin realized he was repeating the familiar scene of being attached to a guest, and wanting to be the ever caring and helpful host. Damn it. Does he really want to invest his time and energy into a guest, again? Knowing how that turned out the last time? Does he really want to help someone he barely knew anything about? Damn it. Why does he want to take care of everyone all the time, knowing he would end up being hurt in the end?
His eyes landed on the white petals on the edge of the table. With Kyungmin too busy finding a page to show, Hanjin’s fingers drew closer to the lilies, finding out that the petals were not plastic, but were real. A living peace lily.
Kyungmin kept turning the pages, whispering to himself. What a strange person, Hanjin thought. An affinity for sweet coffee, a vest in this weather.
But damn it, a person is a person. And people are too prideful to be helped, too determined to be aided. People take and take until there’s nothing left to plunder. The boy in front of him, strange as he might be, was no different.
Catching a sadness fall upon Hanjin’s face, Kyungmin paused. “Oh, no, sorry,” Kyungmin said. He closed the notebook and slowly put it back on the side of the table, careful not to break Hanjin’s deep thought.
“Sorry, you don’t have to read it.” Kyungmin shook his head apologetically. “It’s okay, but … but you could read it anytime you want.”
Hanjin drew back from the petals and looked at Kyungmin now, in the eyes, softly, feeling a warmth inside him grow. Hanjin thought about it for a moment, feeling the cafe’s cool air wash over him. What if …
Hanjin whispered a Thank you, uncertain if Kyungmin could hear it. But he did. His wide smile was enough confirmation. Hanjin took a sip of his iced latte, letting the coolness drench the uncertainty inside him.
Kyungmin let his arms fall flat on the table, leaning towards Hanjin. “So, how’s your day been so far?”
Kyungmin watched the hours go by in his spot at the reception, basking in the presence of either Jihoon or Hanjin. He would watch Jihoon entertain enquiring guests, or cook rice for their meals. Jihoon would repeatedly invite Kyungmin to eat with them, but Kyungmin always turned him down, opting instead to eat outside.
Hanjin … was the same old Hanjin. He would keep his head down, dusting the windows, changing the sheets, not allowing any interruptions in his routine.
Once, Kyungmin offered to help mop the floor, flashing a smile perhaps too big for anyone at 9 a.m. Hanjin replied with a small smile. “Let me do the heavy lifting. You focus on your paper.”
“Right, better to leave it to your mastery of the cleaning expertise,” Kyungmin would quip back.
Jihoon, watching all of this leaning on the wall behind the receptionist’s desk, couldn’t stop the grin forming on his lips. When he wasn’t possessed by the journalist spirits, Kyungmin seemed to radiate a warm glow that seemed to spread to the hotel walls. And while for the most part, Hanjin remained reserved and quiet, Jihoon was certain there was a different energy to him. A similar glow.
Watching him volley with Kyungmin, Jihoon crossed his arms, catching the smile Hanjin tried to conceal just now.
Late in the evening, a quiet Monday, having finished the last of the plates in the sink, Hanjin heard a shocking thwack from behind him in the reception. He turned around.
There, in the reception, he saw Dohoon, sitting in the chair, in his black sleeveless shirt, a blue plastic case beside his thigh.
His heartbeat skipped with what he saw. Dohoon was bathed in a sudden, mysterious orange light that flooded the room. It drew shadows all over the hotel walls, the white tiles, the reception desk. Orange. It was all orange.
Dohoon looked up from the stapled pile of paper in his hand, the white streaks of his hair catching the tangerine light. Dohoon gave him a wide smile, and Hanjin felt the hair on his arms rise. Hanjin blinked.
“Sorry,” Dohoon whispered. “I can work in the room instead if I’m disturbing you,” Dohoon’s eyes were wide with concern when Hanjin approached him. Hanjin’s breathing slowed.
It was Kyungmin. Hanjin blinked again, and again, the orange light fading and fading each time. It was Kyungmin. It’s just Kyungmin. Dohoon would never say that.
Hanjin took a deep breath. Kyungmin’s brown sling bag was hung haphazardly beside him, as if he had just come straight from outside and settled immediately on the chair. Kyungmin was busy with his notebook atop his knee, recorder flipped upside down on the armrest. Hanjin remembered that Kyungmin told him he would go to the university today.
“Everything alright? I’ll leave the room,” Kyungmin said, starting to get up.
“No, no.. it’s… it’s alright,” Hanjin replied, holding Kyungmin to stay in his seat. The touch anchored Hanjin back to reality. Kyungmin nodded and looked back down to his notes.
Hanjin breathed again, thankful that what he saw moments ago was a fraud.
In the silence, Kyungmin’s words echoed in Hanjin’s mind. Everything alright? How easy it was for Kyungmin to leave him alone like that, thoughtful of Hanjin’s feelings. How nice of him to respect Hanjin’s space and privacy. Without question. How nice.
“Paper’s going well?”
“Not well enough apparently,” Kyungmin sighed, flipping through his notes with a mocking, annoyed smile. “Adviser said I don’t have enough ‘human connection’ in the story,” he explained with air quotes. “Said it reads more like a boring textbook.”
Kyungmin bared open his notebook, and Hanjin could see the red marks that sliced through the neat handwriting. Kyungmin placed the notebook back on his knee.
The thought of wanting to help Kyungmin with a personable anecdote to add to his thesis was hit, like a car crash, with that flickering vision of Dohoon, in this same seat, months ago. Dohoon, who he helped, resulting in his own pain. How fast it was that the memory of the hurt came knocking, billowing the ashes that settled in his heart. And how agonizingly slow it was for the painful fire to settle.
“Hey,” Kyungmin said, noticing Hanjin’s unease. He looked at him with sympathy all over his face. “It’s okay, no need to feel bad.” Kyungmin chuckled. “I’m the one with the annoying adviser, not you.”
Hanjin’s gaze softened, relieved by the coziness in Kyungmin’s eyes and the almost embarrassed grin on his face. He took another deep breath, allowing the air to seep through his lungs and hear
“Alright, but don’t get too serious writing about hotel check ins and check outs,” Hanjin said, crossing his arms. The words, the jokes, all seemed to flow naturally with Kyungmin. “They’re not that serious, trust me.”
Hanjin pivoted to the kitchen, fetching himself a glass of water, only now feeling the dryness in his throat. With some water left over in the glass, he poured some into the dry aloe vera.
Kyungmin spent the night continuing his revisions. He sat on the floor of his room, feeling the coldness of the white tiles on his thighs. He could barely make out the narra tree outside his window, but he felt warm knowing it was there with him.
His cheek rested on the bed by the right side of the notebook, his left hand busy rewriting the manuscript. Lack of human connection, his adviser wrote on the margins of his initial draft. Like a textbook, part of the bloody writing read.
He inhaled the words and exhaled them out, releasing them from his mind into the still Monday air. He smiled. Just a little push left and this thesis was ready to go. He continued writing with an involuntary grin on his lips.
Whatever the stress this project has already cost him, it didn’t matter. Like Hanjin said, hotels are not that serious. He chuckled to himself. His words, not Kyungmin’s.
When he came to this hotel, he only wanted to highlight how little the government’s campaign affected small establishments like this one. He had already proven that point with data, interviews, eyewitness accounts.
But there was something more, something he could not explain.
Kyungmin flipped back to the page where he had written Hanjin’s name over and over again. He then took out the recorder, back to his conversation with Jihoon that first evening. Personal issues, Jihoon had said. He had heard this segment of the recording again and again. There was no need to replay it, if only, to Kyungmin, to catch a bit of Hanjin climbing the stairs from the laundry, or offering a smile. But just like what he would end up realizing before, there was no sound to Hanjin’s steps. No sound to his smile, to his feelings.
How could Kyungmin write what he did not have proof of? How could a journalist like him write what could not be proven?
Unless. Unless, there was something there that Kyungmin could not perceive. Rewind the tape, review the notes, play back the memories. But Kyungmin could not find the evidence for what he was feeling.
“Thanks, Ji,” Hanjin said, cupping the dish of beef broth soup with both of his hands. Jihoon handed Hanjin a bowl, a spoon and a fork, before settling in front of him.
From where Hanjin was sitting, Jihoon’s face was lost in the steam from the soup, the weak air from the window twisting the smoke into curls.
Jihoon began taking some of the soup into his bowl, carrying a beef cut and a slice of corn cob with his ladle. He drizzled it all with another spoonful of soup. It’s his favorite meal.
Jihoon then handed the ladle handle to Hanjin. Watching him take some of the soup into his own bowl, Jihoon paused, his eyes settling on his friend.
He remembered the private meal he had with Hanjin and his mother months ago, on this same table, when Hanjin opened up about being a runaway from a wealthy family. That evening, Jihoon’s mother took Hanjin in as her own child, and Jihoon found comfort knowing that he had a brother living with him while his mother and brother Dohoon were away in Laguna.
But that Hanjin seemed to have faded away in the past months, present only now in pieces of the person in front of Jihoon. What happened between that intimate evening and the meal happening now was a mystery to Jihoon; if only he could heal his chosen brother back into who he was before, he would do whatever it takes.
“Jin, I…” Jihoon started, his breath cutting through the steam. “I wanted to ask you something.”
Hanjin put down his bowl and raised his eyebrows. “What’s up, Ji?”
“I…” Jihoon thought of how he would phrase his question. What was it that he really wanted to ask anyway? How are you? What’s going on?
Jihoon eased his shoulders. He let his instinct take the reins. “Jin, I’m really concerned about you. What’s going on, Jin?”
From the other side of the table, Hanjin stirred his bowl with his spoon, his posture changing from the sudden question. He looked down and observed the bubbles swimming in his soup. He dreaded this moment, the time when Jihoon would confront him about his feelings.
What if he just told Jihoon, then and there? Opened up about how he felt about Dohoon? About those intimate moments in the second bedroom to the right? The bathroom? On Ongpin Bridge?
The answer was racing in Hanjin’s mind. It would definitely drive their friendship to the worst, and would sever the deep connection he had with Jihoon’s family. Not to mention, that reality must hurt Jihoon very much, seeing the people he value get tangled in a confusing, complicated web of relationships.
Hanjin took a deep breath, looked up, and saw that Jihoon was staring back at him with worried eyes, like he wanted to say something more, but was waiting. Damn it. Damn it. Hanjin felt that he didn’t deserve Jihoon’s kindness right now. He didn’t deserve a good friend like Jihoon. Would he still treat him like this if he knew?
What if… what if he just opened up? Jihoon would understand, wouldn’t he?
“I’m fine …” Hanjin replied finally, after a long silence. “It’s just—”
Hanjin’s answer was interrupted by the sound of Kyungmin’s voice beaming through the kitchen wall.
“I’ll take it,” Hanjin said.
Kyungmin stood by the reception chair, his bag hung over his shoulder, ready to go. From where Hanjin stood, the framed image of Manila hovered over Kyungmin’s head. Hanjin wiped his hands on his cream shorts.
“Sorry, are you busy?” Kyungmin said, noticing the smell of the soup from the kitchen. “I can wait.” Kyungmin saw Jihoon behind Hanjin, propped up against the kitchen archway.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Hanjin approached. Kyungmin nodded, and pulled out a pile of papers in his bag.
“I just want to…” Kyungmin smoothed out the manuscript in his hands, holding it cautiously as if it were an infant. He flicked through the pages. “... to show you something. Here,” Kyungmin said, holding the page open for Hanjin, pointing to a paragraph. “If it’s okay with you to publish. You don’t have to read the whole thing, just this part here, before I submit it to my adviser.”
In this quiet, modest hotel off Manila’s busy thoroughfares, staff like Hanjin work diligently to keep the place running—mopping floors, cooking meals, and meeting each guest with the kind of patience that the “WOW Philippines” campaign can’t capture. Few travelers pause here for long, but his careful dedication is a reminder of the human connection that anchors hospitality. In every task, a grace that nurtures even the smallest, quietest places into somewhere people call home, even if only for a night.
Hanjin paused, reading through the paragraph again, as if to savor every adjective and verb. He read it again, settling now on the word “home.”
“I added this paragraph to explain that there were people on the ground that the campaign should be thankful for,” Kyungmin explained. “I think these are the people readers ought to know.”
“Oh, I—” Hanjin said, feeling a slight lump on his throat. Who was he to merit such words? That was his name, on full display, for the entire country to see. In those words was his essence as staff, printed on the pages, with finality and legitimacy donned by Kyungmin’s thesis.
In these pages, Hanjin realized that he’s done it again, allowing himself to be part of the story of another person, another stranger. He was actually a part of Kyungmin’s thesis. He was now an unremovable segment of Kyungmin’s career. And yet, despite the dread, there was a surprising warmth in him knowing he had made a genuine connection with Kyungmin.
Hanjin felt an unexpected swell of emotion rise within him. He reread the paragraph, feeling the font with his fingers. Patient, careful, dedicated. This must be how Kyungmin sees him—someone beyond hotel staff, someone greater than chores and duty, someone greater than being of convenient help. Even with the fear of letting himself be part of Kyungmin’s world, he found an inkling of relief knowing he was, perhaps, in good hands. In healthy, nurturing hands.
Kyungmin was watching him with an open expression, not pushing, not pressuring, just waiting. Discerning Hanjin’s solemn expression, Kyungmin retreated the paper, ready to take it back to his bag. “Sorry, I… I know it’s personal. I can rewrite it—”
“No, no…” Hanjin replied, meeting Kyungmin’s eyes. “No, it looks great. I just… I’ve never been written about like that. Or written about at all.” Hanjin’s eyes mellowed towards Kyungmin. “Thank you Kyungmin, this…” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “This looks great.”
Kyungmin beamed, a look of relief crossing his face. Kyungmin hugged Hanjin, the manuscript tucked between them. “Awesome! Thanks, Hanjin. Thank you,” he said, voice muffled in Hanjin’s pastel shirt.
Hanjin let himself melt in Kyungmin’s warm embrace, feeling Kyungmin’s thumb graze his back. For the first time in a long time, he felt a gentle warmth. It was different from before. It didn’t feel risky or exhausting. His gratefulness reached a place in Hanjin’s heart that he’d learn to keep buried.
In their embrace, Kyungmin closed his eyes and lost himself in his thoughts. He thought about how instinctively hugs came out of his system. Like this one. This hug came out faster than he could realize that he was holding Hanjin now, taking him in, his warmth, his scent, his feeling.
He inhaled every detail, the creases in his shirt, his lavender scent, his gentle skin. He didn’t care about the insufficient words in the English language to describe how he felt, all the evidence he needed was right there, in front of him, in the palm of his hands.
When they pulled apart, Kyungmin placed his manuscript back into the sling bag. “Well, everything I wrote is authentic, truthful journalism.” He winked at Hanjin. “Thank you, Hanjin. No, really.”
From the far corner of the reception, Jihoon slid into the reception desk, watching Hanjin’s gaze linger on Kyungmin, a little longer than usual. Kyungmin’s presence cast a sunny glow on the entire hotel, as if breathing new life into its rooms. Just looking at him made Jihoon feel at ease. The worries he had about Hanjin’s despondence, just moments ago, faded away now, seeing him thaw in Kyungmin’s embrace.
Kyungmin fished out a coin purse from his brown corduroy pants, preparing for the commute. He then recentered the sling bag hung over his white polo shirt. He looked bright, without trace of the grueling nights of thesis writing in the reception chair by which he now stood. Looking at Kyungmin now from the desk, a question formed in Jihoon's mind.
That question—it was the same question lingering now in Hanjin’s thoughts. A question he hadn’t worded out before, nor had the guts to even form. So when the question hit him now, it struck him like a punch.
He took a quiet breath, feeling the words rising at the back of his throat. “Hey, Kyungmin…” Hanjin began. “So... you’re leaving after this?”
Kyungmin lifted his focus from the bag. Hanjin didn’t know it, but Kyungmin had been thinking about that question as well.
“I might spend a day or two after submitting,” Kyungmin replied with a sheepish grin, his expression open. “Some clearances. You know, strict adviser.” Kyungmin scratched his head, a light laugh.
Hanjin felt a wave of relief wash over him, but just as quickly as he felt it, it crashed into the shore and dissipated. Kyungmin, realizing the sadness in Hanjin’s voice, sought to cheer him up immediately.
“But hey, hey, Hanjin,” Kyungmin said. “Let’s go out to dinner later! My treat. Jihoon and you!” he said, waving over at Jihoon.