It’s easier to blame this all on Wansu or Ellen or Bomi, but none of them made me separate people into stripes and dots. I did that all on my own. I othered myself.

He threads his fingers through mine and squeezes, not judging, just accepting. Saying the words felt like a confession and I feel better. Good enough to go on, at least.

“After my dad died, after hearing that he didn’t feel like I was his real kid, I jumped on a plane and came running over here, thinking that I was going to find all the parental approval I didn’t get as a kid from the two people who abandoned me in the first place.”

“A Korean person would be the last one to scoff at you for that. We are always seeking our parents’ approval. It’s literally the gas in our engines. At the age of fifty, my father would still bow to his mother, still take direct orders from her. One Chuseok, she said she didn’t like his tie—it was one that had pumpkins on it. I’d picked it out with Eomma. He took it off and I never saw it again.”

“Well.”

“Well,” he agrees, a small sympathetic smile dotting the corners of his mouth. The barest hint of his dimple peeks through.

I’ve never felt this comfortable with anyone before. It’s as if there is no flaw, no admission that I can make that will turn him from me.

“If I confessed that I’d killed someone, what would you do?” I ask suddenly.

“I’d likely ask where the body was. If there is no body, it’s hard to convict someone.”

My throat gets tight. “I haven’t had that hard a time here. I met Yujun from Seoul after all.”

He smiles wider; the dimple grows deeper.

“Will you come to visit me in America?” The thought of never seeing him again slices through me.

“Of course. Will you return?”

“Yes.” The sooner the better.

“Even though your experiences here haven’t been the best?”

“What are you saying? I love it here.”

We both laugh. His hand comes up to cup my face. “Hara-ya, I believe in fate. Our red strings are tied together somehow. It’s not a coincidence that we met at the airport. It was meant to be. We Koreans are a romantic people. We like couple clothes and one true pairings. First loves. Destiny. First snowfalls where you meet your love. Come back in the fall and see the winter with me, Hara-ya.”

I lean forward and kiss him. And the feeling of his lips on mine explodes in my chest. Unfurls like one of those midnight blooms that open under the moonlight. It’s Paris in the rain, the desert under the moonlight. It’s Iowa in the fall when the leaves turn golden red and the air is crisp. It’s Seoul with its gray skies, tall buildings, constant rumble of car engines on the pavement, the lapping of the river against the shore. It’s the rolled r’s and the guttural emphasis, the smell of fish cakes deep-fried and salty. It’s his taste, his warmth, his long fingers spread across my cheek, angling my head so he can drive the kiss deeper. I could heal under this. Under him. Under the hot Seoul sun. The same place that wounded me so long ago could cover the sore I tried to pretend for so long never existed.