“Yeah, Alex showed us.”
Great, now my whole family knows my shame. “After he told the world I was a stalker, he said he didn’t want anyone to know about our relationship. As a finale, he picked his band over me. I’m leaving for Toronto tomorrow.”
Phoebe groans. “I can’t believe you didn’t even talk it over with him.”
I goggle at the phone. “I did talk to him. How do you think this happened? Telepathy?”
“Did you keep an open mind? He was probably in a tough place.”
“The best way to get out of that place was not to brand me a sasaeng.”
Phoebe makes a nasal noise that sounds like disagreement. “That was a bad choice for sure, but his company did that, not him.”
“If he had his way, the statement would have said I was nobody. That’s a real step up.”
“It’s not fantastic, but you know it’s not safe to be named as Min’s girlfriend.”
“First, I’m more than Min’s anything. Second, you’re taking his side.” I pace the room. “I can’t believe you.”
“Of course I’m not, but it doesn’t sound like you were ready to hear him out.”
“That’s rich coming from you of all people. You’re so scared of people knowing the real you that you move around the world to avoid it. You can’t even hold a job down.”
She sucks in her breath. “Doesn’t look like you can either, does it?” she says venomously.
I don’t even answer. I hang up and turn the phone off.
Stomping indignantly around the room muttering to myself isn’t enough. I need to get the hell out. I leave my phone by the bed but make sure to write down the hotel’s name before hitting the street, because if there’s one thing this moment requires, it’s comfort carbs. I lose myself in the fast-flowing crowd, seeking out some of Hana’s recommended Seoul street foods. No one looks at me because everyone is thinking about themselves: their own heartbreaks and joys and boredoms and dreams. Eventually I come across a vendor stirring a deliciously fragrant bubbling pan filled with red sauce and thick noodle things that I recognize as tteokbokki and exactly what I need.
With double the cheese, the container has a satisfying heft when I give a test lift in my hand. I sit on a bench and briefly wonder if it’s rude to eat on the streets before shrugging and digging in with the little wooden stick. The rice cakes are pillowy, and the sauce has the perfect amount of sweet spice.
After eating, I drift like a sated jellyfish through the crowds, stomach full and mind vacant. In the near future, within hours in fact, I’ll have to make some decisions, but right now I allow myself the indulgence of not thinking.
Or I try to. I try very hard, but all I can picture is my phone, abandoned upstairs in my hotel room. It’s Schrödinger’s phone, keeping any and all options possible, from Jihoon’s public reversal and declaration of love to some other mass humiliation. It, and by extension me, exists in a zone of possibility. Despite what happened—and it was objectively lousy—I’m not ready to admit it’s completely over with Jihoon. As long as I don’t look at that phone, there’s hope.
What a sad, desperate person I am.
“That’s pathetic,” I whisper to the colored contact lenses lined upagainst the wall of the store I’ve ended up in without noticing. “You are being pitiful.”
Back at the hotel, I avoid looking at my phone to keep that tiny flame of hope alive and instead set the alarm on the high-tech clock that’s part of the wall. One night of avoiding my problems is acceptable. One night and tomorrow I’ll start fresh.
Fresh, jobless, and alone.
Happy digital chirps wake me up. I silence the alarm and lie back, tingles trailing up and down my legs as I try to pinpoint what’s wrong, because things aren’t right. I’m not even sure where the hell I am.
The nerve-racking ignorance only lasts a few more seconds before my eyes fly open and I sit upright, already queasy at the thought of having to endure this day. I can avoid it for a bit longer by not looking at my messages until after I shower.
Nope. My hands might as well be controlled by a puppeteer because they reach for my phone before I know I’m doing it.
First the texts. Hana’s compassion lifts off the screen, a foil to my sister’s question marks and note telling me to grow up. Yuko with a virtual hug via emoji. My dad, wanting to know how I plan to convince Richard to give me my job back.
The emails. One from Karina the communications manager that gets instantly deleted. Ines casually mentions that Yesterly and Havings assigned a new lawyer and she’s looking forward to my return. Spam messages reminding me it’s time to take advantage of sales. There are also a stream of messages from Starrys who must have figured out my address from other Yesterly and Havings emails. These I delete en masse without doing more than glancing at the all-capped and unflattering subject lines. Then I remove my Yesterly and Havings account from my phone for good measure.
I refuse to look at social media and drag my ass out of bed to makecoffee, each step taking all my focus. Rinse the mug. Rifle through the pods to find a dark roast. Insert pod. Swear at forgotten water. Add water, reinsert pod. Watch the little dial show me how long it will take until the water heats.
Don’t think of anything else. Only each drip of coffee.
The mug comes into the shower with me, where hot water beats down on my head as I sip the gradually diluting and increasingly soapy espresso.
