—It was brutal. And I was lonely.

—Really?

For that reason, he explained, he had ended up finishing his bachelor’s in three years and immediately found a job at a multinational investment bank. (He said it in that humble-bragging way that elites have.)

—Repressing my emotions while working in that bank gave me ulcers, headaches, and insomnia. Then the darkness came.

—What?

—Darkness. Literal darkness. My vision kept blacking out. The hospital said they could find nothing wrong with me. I spent two weeks alone at home. Once the lights had gone out in my life, I realized I knew nothing about myself, not a single thing. What I liked, what my room looked like, how I had lived so far, what I was supposed to do on a break, what I had to do to get the lights back on . . . This was the first time I didn’t have a clear and set path in life—I felt completely powerless.

—I see.

I could sympathize with him. Overwork and stress. I knew what they could do to someone. But this blackout situation seemed a little overdramatic, and I didn’t like the direction the conversation was going; I switched tracks to something lighter.

—Did you meet any guys there?

He smiled and nodded.

—Well, my name does mean “love” in Arabic.

He was about to say something more but then appeared to think better of it and threw back his champagne instead. Had he met an Arab man? Curly hair and long eyelashes came to mind. And was this guy CIA or something? Why couldn’t he give a straight answer to anything? Clamming up every time my curiosity was piqued. Not that he seemed to have some big deal of a story. His voice cut through my thoughts.

—Does your name have a meaning? I think Koreans all have meanings to their names.

—“Shine brightly from somewhere high.” My father paid actual money for that name.

—Like a star?

—Like a nuclear weapon.

Even at this stupid joke, Habibi giggled. His face looked so tired in the dim starlight. I had a sudden urge to console him (most uncharacteristic of me), but I reached the reasonable conclusion that I was just feeling self-pity. Drunk, we got back on the elevator, and I stared at a spot of pomade on the back of his hair as I followed him to the room.

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