The next morning, I wake up to my phone chirping in my ear. My hand shoots out to grab it and I end up knocking the phone off the bed onto the floor. Then I nearly hit my forehead on the edge of the table. In the end, it’s not even a text from Yujun but an update from Boyoung.

BOYOUNG: I have not found anything but I will keep looking. It is taking me some time and I may not have anything until tomorrow. Please don’t wait by the phone. I don’t want you to be disappointed.

I wrinkle my nose at the screen. Too late. There are five messages from my mother, who texted while I was sleeping.

MOM: You haven’t gotten sick, have you?

MOM: How’s the food? What are you eating?

MOM: I miss you. Send me pictures.

MOM: I love you.

MOM: Don’t forget to reply.

I send some photos I took of the locks of love on Namsan and the Seoul skyline. None of them include Yujun, even though I find my camera roll filled with him. I don’t remember taking so many photos of him, and sometimes it’s just parts of him—his long, slender fingers holding a red heart-shaped padlock; his side profile as his tall-tree form bends over a telescope on the observatory platform; his palm curled around the back of his neck when he stretched getting out of the packed elevator. Then there are the full-on pictures of him poking his dimple, holding his fingers in a V against his face. In almost all the pictures, he’s smiling.

I can’t send any of these images to my mother. They would generate too many questions and admonitions that I’ve already heard from so many others. I know what I’m getting into. I do. He was the respectful one. I was the one who wanted to tear our clothes off and enjoy some cross-continental loving.

The weather app says that the day will be hot. I pull on a white cotton button-down with navy stripes and pair it with light-wash denim. It’s too hot for jeans, but I’ve noticed there’s a distinct lack of shorts on the street. Most of the women wear pants or cute dresses—lots and lots of cute dresses. I’m going to shop, and tonight, well, tonight I’m filling my camera roll with more photos because Yujun is taking me to his favorite spot—the river.

• • •

“GET OFF EARLY?” I ask, raising my voice slightly to be heard over the din of people in the metro station. Yujun had decided not to wait outside, but met me at the turnstiles. It was our compromise because, again, he wanted to pick me up and, again, I refused.

Yujun glances down at his jeans, ripped at the knee. “It’s casual day.”

“Is it Friday?” The days have run together like a watercolor painting in the rain and I’ve lost track.

“It is. Most Koreans don’t have casual day, though. Eomma implemented it a few years ago. We have a lot of Western influences at our office.” He gestures for me to get on the escalator in front of him. Tucked under one arm is a paper bag. I eye it curiously.