He steps back. Through a hazy veil of tears, I see him unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt. He tugs the loosened fabric to the side and the edge of the same red cord that dangles around my neck slides into view.
“They say that the gods tie red threads around our ankles and pull on them when they need help, but these same red threads can bind two people as well. We are meant to be and so we will work through this for however many weeks or months or years it will take. Our threads became entangled before we even met, and once tied together, the bond can never break. It can stretch and get knotted but nothing can sever it.”
My hand rises to grip the cord. I want to believe. We are two smart people. Surely there’s a solution that we simply haven’t yet thought of. “You taught me how to say ‘I like you’ in Korean. How do I say ‘I love you’?”
He sucks in a breath. “Saranghaeyo.”
I repeat it to myself. I can’t say it out loud, but I memorize the sound of his voice as he says it again, quietly, almost under his breath. I want to stay in this moment, simply standing next to Yujun, breathing the same air as him, repeating our love, in English and Korean as many times as possible until it takes shape and is too big for anyone or anything to undo. I love you. Saranghaeyo. I love you. Saranghaeyo.
“You have a beautiful eye smile,” I tell him.
A muscle in his jaw jumps. “You’re a true Korean now. The bitter and the sweet flowing through your blood,” he says, his tone dark. Yujun, who never gets angry at anything or anyone, is finally mad. Somehow it makes it all a tiny bit better. “I’ve had a lot of good fortune in my life. Too much, I guess.”
Yujun stretches out his hand to cup my face but, perhaps realizing the fragility of my emotions, lets his arm fall to his side.
“I . . . I’ll go first, then.” He knows, as always, that I need time alone. And I know he’ll sit in his car parked along the street and wait for me. This is how it will be for us. We will go to the same place of work—him on the fourteenth floor and me on the ninth where the marketing team is lodged. We will sit across the table from each other, within arm’s reach. We will be together, but not in the way that either of us wants.
I came to Seoul to find myself, and instead I found everything I could ever want—a family, a love, a life. Yet it’s not what I envisioned—that perfect life just out of my reach.
Not wanting Yujun to stay out too late or too long, I force myself to leave. There’s a car waiting for me at the top of the stairs. Yujun must’ve called for it the moment he got in his car. I keep my eyes straight in front of me, not allowing myself to look in Yujun’s direction for fear I’ll lose control of myself and dash to his car, demanding that we run away together. Each foot moves forward until I reach the taxi.
“Address?” the taxi driver asks when I climb into the back.
I mumble the Four Seasons Hotel low because my voice is hoarse from unshed tears, the syllables slurring together, and for once, I sound like a proper Korean. The man nods and pulls away.
None of the pretty skyline registers. There is only Yujun. And then he is joined by Wansu and Lee Jonghyung and Ellen and Pat and Kwon Hyeun and Ahn Sangki and Jules and Bomi. Korea is all of these people just as I am not one thing or the other. I am complicated and contradictory and I don’t know how all of it can coexist, but it has to because these versions are all me.
I lean my head against the window and let the tears fall, reciting the refrain of my heart over and over and over again. I love you. Saranghaeyo. I love you. Saranghaeyo. Saranghaeyo. Saranghaeyo.
