Old Man sits in silence with a worried expression. But Soon, he finally cries, there’s nothing wrong with falling in love! It’ll happen to you one day and you’ll understand! He has fallen in love many times and it’s wonderful! As if the whole world were spread with butter and everything was more flavorful and better! She raises an eyebrow in disdain: that’s some comparison, she thinks. Plus, she’s already been in love, she tells him haughtily, and she knows what it’s like: it’s horrible, gross, she’ll never do it again. This all happened a while ago, before her brother left, when she was twelve years old. Back then, her brother had a friend who went everywhere with him. That guy, the friend, is who she fell in love with. She had never felt anything like that for anyone. She spent the whole day thinking about him, dreaming about him. She’d be alone in her room, and suddenly his name would come out of her mouth, involuntarily, and she would delight in that name, in repeating his name and writing it a thousand times, everywhere: on the wall, in her notebooks, on the back of her hand, and on the fogged-up mirror. Her heart leapt every time she heard him come into the house with her brother. Though her trembling legs betrayed her, she’d go out to see him, feigning indifference, trying to seem interesting—a book under her arm, half-closed eyes, walking barefoot with her anklet tinkling. Hi, she’d say, and all the heat in the world would rise into her cheeks. Hi, he’d reply, and that one syllable—the memory of it—could keep Soon entertained for days. One afternoon, her brother wasn’t home when his friend came looking for him. Her mother let him in to wait, saying he wouldn’t be long. Soon got the idea to walk over to him and pretend to look for something in the chest of drawers he was sitting next to. Her mother was far away when he asked her what grade she was in—as if he didn’t know—clearly wanting to start a conversation. They talked for a while, about this and that. She let her guard down, batted her lashes to beguile him. She’d prepared herself for the occasion: sitting beside him, legs crossed, she told him everything she’d found out about the rock group she knew he liked. He smiled, gave her an unexpected kiss on the lips. Soon pulled back in surprise, but then she leaned toward him to repeat it. This time, the boy pulled away. Clever girl, he said, and then: Do you know that you’re going to be very pretty someday? You’re going to be, in the future, Soon emphasizes: you see? He was letting her know that she wasn’t pretty then, that she wasn’t good enough for him yet. When her brother arrived, Soon scuttled away in shame. But she could hear them as they were leaving. The friend told him: I think your little sister has a crush on me. And then he said: poor thing. Poor thing. Her brother laughed: don’t even think about coming near my sister, he threatened, but he clearly said it as a joke, not to defend her but just the opposite, to attack her, portraying her to his friend as a little girl, a poor idiot girl, the little sister. Of course she’s not going to fall in love ever again, repeats Soon. She’ll never have a boyfriend, never get married, never have children, never do any of those things everyone expects a girl to do just so they can laugh at you in the end. Everyone laughs at sisters, at wives, and at mothers, or they insult you by invoking them. But Soon will not be any of those things. She’s not even anyone’s sister anymore, because her brother left the country and now it’s as if she didn’t have a brother, as if she’d never met him.