My hands tremble and I nearly drop it as he sets it in my hands. The red bow goes into my pocket. It’s a keepsake now. I have a moment of worry that I’ll end up being one of those old ladies who has nothing but a houseful of cats and a room filled with mementos—bows, boxes, napkins. If I’m desperate and start to steal used tissues, I’ll know I’ve gone too far.

Yujun waits in silence as I peel back the lid. A gasp escapes me when the jade first comes into view. Intricately carved out of the precious stone, a tiny duck rests on a deep green lotus leaf.

“Ducks mate for life. When one dies, the other pines until its heart stops. A mated pair can’t live apart. They must always swim in the same pond, fly the same path, rest in the same haven.” Yujun lifts the red silk cord out of the box. I lower my head so that Yujun can drape the cord into place. The jade duck drops between my breasts, heavy and comforting.

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.”