“Your hair is a mess,” I tell Yujun, gazing at the back of his head reflected in the mirror. He’s turned into a statue—Coitus Interruptus would be the title of his sculpture. His head is bent and his shoulders are slumped forward. He still looks delicious—more so because his shirt is hanging out and I can see a tiny sliver of flesh around his waistband. His body is so fine that it’s criminal. A shiver courses down my spine.

He shoves a frustrated hand through his hair, lets out a low curse before straightening. He avoids eye contact with me as he goes about repairing the damage I made. He wets his hands and pats down his hair, buttons his shirt, tucks everything away. I lean against the counter and watch the show. It might be the last one I’ll ever see. There is something wildly erotic about seeing Yujun put himself back together. When he’s done, he wipes his hands dry and then reaches for the door.

“Meet me at the river. Nine p.m.” And then he leaves.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Yujun is standing by the bench when I arrive. There’s a bag at his feet. My heart sinks. A gift? I should’ve known. Koreans give gifts all the time. Why wouldn’t a breakup include one, too?

“I didn’t bring anything,” I say when I reach him. I’m always empty-handed.

He smiles, that devastating half smile with the tiny divot punctuating his expression. “Perhaps it’s not for you.”

I let out a reluctant chuckle. He can always make me smile. “How bold of me.”

He grins, but he can’t hold it for long. The strain pulls the corners of his lips down. His two dimples wink out and when they’re gone it’s as if all the light in the night sky has been snuffed. I hate it.

“It’s for you,” he says quietly. “Please sit.”

I don’t want to sit. I can’t look at Yujun as well when we’re sitting side by side and I’m afraid that after tonight, I won’t have another chance to stare at him. Everyone will be watching how we look at each other, how close we stand, how we address each other. There will be no more Yujun for me. I will have to call him oppa but not with any kind of flirtation or affection. If I’m to stay here, my tone with Yujun must be tempered with the right amount of respect and the right amount of deference and, most important, the right amount of distance.

“I can’t.” Not tonight. Tonight, he is still my Yujun from Seoul. Tonight, I will stare at him for as long as I can, memorizing the way his eyes crease when he smiles, the placement of each tiny mole, the roundness of his cheeks, the slope of his nose, the long fingers, the prominent veins, the breadth of his shoulders that he thinks can shoulder every burden in the world.