a/n: hey all, i've been feeling a bit under the weather. i'm really sorry for the lack of updates — but here's chapter two of the edited busan boy!

i hope you enjoy these updates — i'll be updating chapter three as well. i think this version really fleshes out nari and jihoon's relationship a lot more, so i can't wait for you to see that soon :) 

sending love,

krissy

+++

2. A TRICK OF FATE

JANUARY 1997

BUSAN, SOUTH KOREA

I WAKE TO sobbing.

And not the quiet kind, either. God-awful, choking, panicked sobbing. It's coming from outside, muffled, but the raw terror in the broken voice is suffocating.

It's three in the morning. But the sound keeps going. I can't fall back asleep. So I climb to my knees, trembling, and peel my bedside curtains aside.

From the house across our street storms out a man with frowning eyes and a shock of black hair. He reminds me of those scary mafia bosses I see on TV, with thick furrowed brows and an eagle's stare. The metal door bangs hollowly as he leaves. His knuckles are white around the handles of a black duffel.

Isn't that...?

The door bangs open again. There's the sobbing. A woman rushes after him, hysterical. She trips over the front step and reaches for him with shaking hands, hair matted with tears. Her hand catches the edge of his coat.

I swallow. That's Ryu Eunmi, the nicest ahjumma on the block. She babysits me after she drops off eomma at therapy. What happened to her? It's hard to watch as she crumples like broken glass at his feet. As if her touch is an ant on his pant sleeve, the man shudders away.

It's too much. I shouldn't even be seeing this—I mean, it's late. But just as I turn, I catch a figure in the doorway. It's a little boy, half-hidden in shadows. He's my age. Dressed in a set of soft blue pajamas. His lip trembles.

And then he starts to cry.

My heart flies to my throat. I drop the curtain rapidly, basking in the safety of my room. But it doesn't stop. It doesn't matter if they're muffled. I hear it all the same. The ahjumma keeps crying and begging. The boy's cries turn to screams. I press my hands to my ears, unable to breathe.

Make it stop, I plea silently. Make it stop make it stop makeitstopmakeitstop—

I repeat it so desperately I don't even realize when the sounds end.

But the silence feels more like that of a tomb. When I try closing my eyes, I can't sleep, can only see raw terror and panic in Ryu Eunmi's eyes, losing all sense of the elegance and confidence that pulls eomma out of bed. She's the strong one. Why is this happening to her?

I climb to my knees one more time, heart quivering, and peel back the curtains. Gingerly.

The street is empty.

But the door to the house remains open. Crouched there on cold concrete is that boy. He's shivering. His head is in his hands. His mouth is moving, over and over again. I won't realize until later that this is what haunts me, seeing him cling to one tragic word.

My body moves on its own accord. Before I can think, I tiptoe out of my room. Down the hall and across the kitchen. I pause, then make a quick detour to dig out a bottle of Yakult milk from the fridge. Then, heart in my throat, I slip outside into the cold.

Humid wind blasts my face as my feet touch cement. Without the window between us, I can hear the boy clearly now. He's curled up into a ball at the foot of his doorway. Where's his mom? Running after his dad? I can't see his face—it's hidden between quivering shoulders. He looks as light as a leaf blown by the breeze.

"A-ppa," he croaks. It's a muffled plea. "A-ppa..."

I abandon the milk on the floor and slide an arm around him. Tentative at first. A pat on the shoulder, careful not to scare him off. He stiffens and raises his head. His eyes are bloodshot, wide-eyed, and half-delirious.

Looking back, I don't remember what happened next. But I do remember wondering if he saw his face mirrored on mine. If he knew, as we sat together, that we had both been abandoned.

+++

PRESENT DAY

OCTOBER 2018, SEOUL

WHEN I WAKE up the next morning, I'm not home.

The world swims groggily into focus. Details become clear. A familiar kitchen lined with white backsplash and sleek white cabinets. The smell of ginger peach tea brewing on the stove. A marigold blanket tangled across my limbs. A cool, pre-dawn blue from outside the patio bathes the room.

I roll over with a groan. Empty bottles of soju line the floor. A few plastic shot glasses. Bags of store-bought cheese sticks and sausages scatter the floor beneath the coffee table.

Hyerin's apartment.

Sharp pain hammers against my skull. With a wince, I close my eyes and see flashes of last night. The train...oh, yeah. I got off a stop too late, splurged on comfort food from the convenience store, and screwed open a soju bottle at the park outside it...oh, God. The cold chain of playground swings in my grip as I called Hyerin, telling her what happened in a slur of drunken swears. Unrestful sleep. Her arm around my shoulders.

Her sympathy. Oh, Nari, I'm so sorry. I think I threw up when she said that. It just felt so pathetic in my ears.

A door down the hall opens abruptly. I blink my eyes open as Hyerin enters the kitchen, drowsy-eyed and dressed in a cardigan. She reaches for a mug and glances over as she fills it with tea. A mix of relief and exasperation touches her eyes.

"Please tell me you're sober," she murmurs.

"Unfortunately." It's a lame attempt at amusement. Shame rises into my cheeks. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head and shuffles back toward her room. "I have to chat Seolhee on the phone, but there's water bottles and painkillers in the cabinet. Take them before you head to the office, okay?"

The door shuts softly. I release a sigh, a hand rising over my face.

My phone rings.

The sound disturbs the silence so sharply my heart jumps. It's coming from somewhere on the floor. With a frown, I roll over and feel around clumsily.

When I do find it, the screen burns my eyes.

IDIOT YOO SEUNGHO 

I stifle a groan and answer, eyes closed. "What?"

"What do you mean, what? Where are you?" demands my little brother.

I squint my eyes open. "Why?"

"It's six fifty."

"Six fifty," I mumble. And then, suddenly, it hits me. Seungho takes the bus to his university classes every morning except for Wednesdays—when I drive him. Today...is Wednesday. With a start, I check the time.

Six fifty-five.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and wince. "Shit."

"Yeah, shit. Where are you, the woods? You're really just going to ghost me the whole night?"

"Uh—"

"If this is about the toilet I clogged yesterday, I fixed it."

"You—what? You clogged the toilet?"

"I texted y—oh. Right. Why weren't you on your phone again?"

"I was busy."

"Where are you? Class starts like...now."

I run a hand through my hair and toss the blanket aside. "I'm coming, okay? Just might be a little late today."

"Were you out all night?"

"None of your business."

"Were you out all night."

"Yes, okay? Stop yelling. Hyerin's taking a call."

His voice takes on excitement. "Ah, you're at Hyerin's? How much did you drink? You think you could leave me some extra soju for--"

"No."

"Sheesh. Look who's yelling n—"

"Do you want to walk?" I threaten.

He goes quiet.

"That's what I thought," I murmur. "I'll be there in five."

"Right, so, what I'm hearing is that I'll see you in twenty. Bye, noona." The line clicks off.

Quickly, I gather my things and snatch up my keys. Then I tiptoe to Hyerin's room, nudge the door open, and thank her again. All she does is release a "hmm." The girl is meditating as she waits for Seolhee's call. I'm not surprised.

Unlike mine, her mind isn't scattered.

+++

"WE HAVE A new neighbor," is the first thing my brother says when he gets in my car.

Surprisingly, he doesn't have an attitude. Wary, I shoot him a glance as we pull out of the drop-off zone.

"Really?" I ask. "Did someone move out recently? The landlord said the floor was full."

"It is. Technically, we already have a neighbor next to us, but there's a new guy rooming with him."

"Oh. Cool."

"Yeah," answers Seungho, toying with the temperature controls. "You didn't know? The guy next to us moved in a month ago, and it turns out he's the TA for my storyboarding class."

"You're taking a storyboarding class?"

"Uh huh. It's kinda cool, actually. We're animating this ad. It's an engineering elective. And he's a really chill guy."

I shrug, sifting through my limited memory of our neighbors. Having left home early and returned home late, I've never interacted with them at all. "Never heard of him."

Seungho rolls his eyes and shifts in his seat. "Loser," he mutters.

Sunrise is a haze of dew and coppery mist. Light pours through the clouds in veils of liquid bronze, setting dust on fire as it winks off the glassy high rises that guard the wide streets. As the highway curves away from urban traffic toward university campus, I roll the windows down, eager to feel the breath of autumn wind on my face, its cool caress through my hair. A whiff of tobacco stings my nose.

My brother yawns, his lips set in boyish boredom as he considers the passing scenery. He still has some of his baby fat, and his dark hair cut short as if he's already gearing up for enlistment. It highlights his big ears and seems kind of dorky against the sarcastic set of his mouth—all features that convince me he's still twelve years old. I take one look at his facial structure, which has miraculously garnered the attention of too many poor girls, and wince.

"So you fixed the toilet, huh?" I jab. "How many tries did it take?"

"Um," he answers. "Two."

"Only two?"

He glares. "Can you not?"

"I mean, it's a good lesson. Use less toilet paper. Do you know how much you use? How is half a roll gone in days? Can a person even use that much?"

"It's thin!"

"It's irresponsible."

He rolls his eyes and glances from my tangled hair to my cracked lips. "You're one to talk."

"Yah. Don't be cheeky with me."

"Uh huh," he says, nodding self-assuredly to himself. "At least you didn't do something really stupid. Like lose your keys."

Trees peel back to reveal sleek university buildings. "I've never lost my keys."

Seungho grabs his stuff as I pull up to the drop-off curb. "The new guy next door was stranded outside his apartment when I left because he lost his keys somewhere. That's how I knew he just moved in." He shoots me one of his annoying grins, eyes cocky and knowing. "At least we found someone who's dumber than you, yeah?"

"You idiot—"

He scrambles out of my car before I can smack his arm, laughing. His retreating figure darts into the morning haze toward his class, and I put my car into drive, blowing out a breath.

Before I can leave, sudden commotion ahead snags my attention.

A black Maserati pulls up to the curb a few hundred feet away, swarmed by crowds of flashing cameras and eager reporters. Passing students stop. It looks like something from a movie: a suited bodyguard opens the back door of the car and bows as a cohort of security pushes reporters back.

I crane my neck. Out of the car steps a solemn, navy-suited man with crow's feet creases, sagging cheeks, and downturned lips. Even the golden sunrise falls flat on his brooding figure. Silver flecks his dark hair. His eyes are heavy, as if his mind is elsewhere, consumed by the shadow of his thoughts.

The cries of reporters fill the air. Even bikers pause, eyes wide. My gaze follows the chaos all the way across the sun-bathed walk to the towering Admissions Visitor Center, where they disappear like a horde of ants into the glass-paneled building, no doubt causing more pandemonium indoors.

My grip on my steering wheel tightens. The suited man is Seo Jaeseok, Minseok's father.

A wave of bitterness rises into my throat. I pull out of the drop-off zone and floor the car down the ramp, eager to get away.

+++

"JUNG JUNHEE," introduces the boy, scratching his brow with a crooked smile as he sits. His head dips with nervous respect. "Nice to meet you."

The sunlight in our office melts his skin into gold and turns his coffee hair a shade of rich honey. He wears a dark navy button-up, striped and smooth as silk beneath a long, dark coat.

Hyerin sits beside me. She spearheads the interview as I flip through his portfolio. Even now, as he sits with a modest lift of his chin, I can sense the charisma and confidence that oozes from his body.

It occurs to me that Junhee is Seungho's age. Seungho's age, but with years of international internship experience and animation software expertise under his belt. I think vaguely of my brother, slouched in front of the TV stinking of chicken grease and sweet beer, failing half his classes. I guess everyone advances at their own pace, huh?

The interview takes off without a hitch. His voice is smooth and without stutter, and his portfolio is strong, too. He has four languages under his belt. Minseok-level ambition. I notice, with a faint stab of nostalgia, that he's from Busan.

"Sunbae?" prompts Hyerin at the end, drawing me back to the present. "Anything you'd like to ask?"

"Just one thing," I answer. My eyes search his face and find the same eagerness I saw ten years ago in another more heartbreaking face. "You were born in Busan. Correct?"

"Yes."

"You worked an internship here in Seoul after your first year of university, but in all the years afterward, you were in Gwangju. Tokyo. Los Angeles. Shanghai. Most students go abroad once or twice. But when they're finished, they settle back down." I search his face. "So why hop around?"

"Mm..." Junhee's eyes wander out the window, as if searching the view for answers. When they return to mine, they're earnest. "I guess I kept leaving because I wanted more."

I study him. "More of what?"

"More of everything," he answers. He nods as if even as he says them, the words rings true. "At least for me, there came a point when the place where I was just couldn't keep up with where my heart wanted to go. What I wanted to learn and explore. That's where I was in Tokyo last year, and that's what brought me here." His gaze slides to mine. "In my opinion, it's a trick of fate if your passions bring you the same place twice. That if it happens, it's meant to be. Kind of cheesy, but it's what I believe. You know?"

Somewhere in my mind, I see myself years ago, waiting on a rooftop for an old friend with a honey-soft voice to return.

"Yeah," my mouth says. "I understand."

Maybe, for some people, it's just that easy to let go.

+++ 

"TO JUNG JUNHEE, our new intern!"

"To Junhee!"

Soju splashes as our glasses clash. Our shot glasses wink from the fluorescence of Gangnam's hole-in-the-wall kalbi place, and as Junhee downs his alcohol, Bongsoo scissors sizzling bulgogi with amazing speed.

As is customary to our team, we've taken the new intern out to dinner on the night of his first day. A kind of icebreaker and bonding event, I guess. In terms of portfolio and promise, there wasn't really anyone that could match Junhee. Hyerin emailed him the good news hours after his interview.

Now, as servers dish out plates of raw meat and vegetables, the air is thick with sesame oil, sharpened by the tang of raw onions and sweet gochujang. As Hyerin calls for more soju, Seolhee fills our glasses religiously, cheeks already flushed with the rosiness of alcohol.

Even as I watch, it's hard not to remember my college days. Minseok and his friends and I used to gather at late-night barbeque places, jostling and teasing each other between rounds of beer toasts and samgyupsal. Back then, my nervous heart would jump at the teasing bump of Minseok's shoulder or the sight of a secret dimpled smile. Or at the way he pulled me close before I went home, and, as the years went on, the hugs he gave me when he was drunk—how even though he smelled like shit, I continued to put up with it, because when he was sober he stopped receiving my touch.

I study the ripple of soju in my glass before shooting it, trying in vain to pinpoint when and where things went wrong.

Just as the second round of meat arrives, my phone buzzes with a call.

KAEDE SONG

Kaede is the lead of marketing for Retribution's release. I swallow a hefty bite of kalbi and raise my phone. "I'll be back."

"Who is it?" asks Bongsoo, then yelps when Hyerin smacks his arm, shooting me a worried look.

She thinks it's Minseok. "It's not him," I clarify.

Junhee looks up curiously. As Bongsoo fires off more questions, I rush away from the noise and tuck myself into the narrow restroom hallway.

"Hello?"

Kaede's voice is high-strung. "I'm assuming you guys already left for your intern's welcoming dinner?"

"Eoh, why?"

"Well, Woobin is being a bitch." I blink, startled. She's always been the silent brooder. As if she's surprised even herself, Kaede quickly amends, "Sorry. He's just being unusually stressed and cryptic, which has a kind of domino effect, if you know what I'm saying. The guy wants to meet with all the team leads for an urgent briefing about the marketing process for Retribution tomorrow."

"What? Why? I thought we were going over that next week."

"Hell if I know. He wants to meet at ten, but that's after everyone has sent him an updated report on their work."

"What do you mean, updated report?"

"I don't know, Nari, am I your babysitter? I'm just relaying information. No one knows what's going on."

"Um, okay." I pause, trying to jam my mind into work mode. "Okay, thanks."

"I know, it sucks," says Kaede with a sigh, as if I'd said something completely different. "So don't get hungover or anything. We've got a long day tomorrow." Then the line clicks off.

When I return to the table, Hyerin and Bongsoo are debating over which place sells the best rice wine. Junhee looks up, reading weariness on my face, and slides over a glass of soju.

"Thanks," I breathe.

Hyerin eyes me. "Really wasn't him?"

"Kaede."

She makes a face. "Come on, it's not even work hours. Tell her you're not on call."

I tilt my head. "Not really possible when the release date's so close."

The barbeque passes in a haze of smoke and soju. Soon we're out in traffic, huddled in our coats, splitting off to our respective directions. Hyerin hails a taxi, and Seolhee and Bongsoo, who live all the way in Hongdae, bounce down the street toward the subway station.

Junhee and I head walk westward together. He suppresses a yawn and buries his hands deep into his coat pockets, shivering from the autumn wind.

"Cold?" I ask.

He nods, squinting his eyes. "Should've had more to drink. At least get my face feeling warm before I stepped out."

I laugh. "Or get a thicker coat."

"I thought living in Tokyo during winter would make me immune to cold. Must be the Busan genes, huh?"

"Oh, definitely."

"Have you been to Japan?"

"Mm-hm," I answer. "My mom had leftover hotel deals overseas from when my dad worked abroad in hotel management." I recall flashes of skyscrapers. Onigiri from the convenience store. Steaming broth at the street stalls. Eomma's rare smile. "We had all these free rooms and points, so when she needed an escape, we'd spend a week or two in Tokyo. Around Shibuya. You know, tourist central."

"Really?" His grin lights up the street. "Well I was in Harajuku, but I used to visit Kyoto with friends. The tofu there—"

"Oh, I've heard..."

The conversation follows us from the echo of traffic to sleepy alleyways. Overhead, a tangle of telephone wires criss-cross over a dark lilac sky. We hike up sloped streets as the shadows thicken.

Unfortunately, the longer Junhee tells me about Kyoto, the more my memories shift, slowly, the later years of college, when I'd surprise Minseok at his overseas program in Kyoto. Images stab through me in vivid flashes: the sake bars where we'd laugh over our career fails, his sleepy mumble on early mornings as mist rolled down green mountains...

I will never forget the moment I walked out of his apartment's bathroom some time after the midnight, long after he'd fallen asleep, and filled a cup with hot green tea before climbing under the sheets beside him. How quiet it was. Studying his face and wondering, with fear, what it would be like to say, This is it.

I don't remember if I ever got there. But even though he went out of town so much then, we were fine. Was it just the honeymoon haze that carried us this far? When did he grow so bitter? Was it because we'd grown too much? Changed?

By the time we arrive at my place, the sky has melted into a deep, dark blue. My apartment building glows a sleepy gold on a street corner across a twenty-four hour convenience store and a few modest coffee shops. Junhee walks me to the building entrance, hands buried in his pockets.

We speak at the same time.

"This is my stop—"

"I'm right here—"

I go still. His eyes widen, and then a laugh bursts out of his lips. "What?"

"You live here?"

"You live here?"

"Yeah," I answer incredulously. "I've lived here for years." A smile creeps onto my face. "You're kidding."

He shakes his head with disbelief. And then, suddenly, it clicks.

The new guy moved in a month ago. According to Junhee's cover letter, he returned to South Korea a month ago. He's a TA for my storyboarding class. Junhee's resumé includes teaching assistance at an ongoing evening storyboarding class.

"You're the new neighbor?"

He blinks. "Sorry?"

I nod my chin skyward. "Floor seven, right? My brother met your roommate this morning. Said he lost his keys."

Junhee rolls his eyes. "Yeah. Real smart roommate. And yeah, I'm on the seventh floor. Are you..."

"Yeah, seventh floor. Apparently he was stranded outside your apartment."

"I gave him my keys," he explains, then pauses. "He better be home, or I'll be stranded."

I laugh and fish around for my keys. "We'll see."

Our apartment floor consists of a labyrinth of outdoor hallways, bathed in a golden glow that illuminates the bamboo plants our landlord trims obsessively. Our footsteps fall into synchrony against cement. It smells of tobacco and fresh rainwater.

Sure enough, Junhee's door is right beside mine. We say our goodbyes, and as he presses the doorbell and waits, I find the key to unlock my door, eager to escape the trembling cold. Out of my peripheral vision, I catch Junhee roll on the balls of his feet, boyish as he jabs the doorbell a few more times.

His door opens the same time mine does. I'm about to head inside my apartment when a laugh, startlingly familiar, spills out into the hall like music.

"I heard the doorbell the first time, you idiot."

Laughter. "Don't idiot me when you lost your keys. And I gave them to you yesterday."

"Speak a little formally, yeah? I'm a year older than—"

"Eoh, and you still lost your keys, you—ow." With a cheeky grin, Junhee slips past a teasing shove and vanishes into his apartment, and his roommate, tall and lean and dressed in white, moves aside to shut the door.

Just as his roommate tugs the knob, though, he pauses. As if sensing my gaze, he turns.

His eyes meet mine. I forget how to breathe.

It's Jihoon.

The first thing I notice, for some reason, is how much he's grown.

With the amount of pictures the media used to feed my news pages, I shouldn't be surprised about that, I guess. But I am. Maybe because my memories of us as kids has been sealed so deeply into my memory I can't replace them. All those secret moments on our rooftop I've stowed away, convincing myself to forget, come rushing back to the surface.

He's grown from a chubby-cheeked boy into someone strong and tall. My gaze jumps from the soft curve of his brows to his small coffee-brown eyes, then wanders to the strong slope of his crooked nose and jaw down to the broad set of his shoulders.

His hand slips from the knob. A thousand emotions flicker through his eyes, a mix of disbelief and fear and joy. In an instant, years vanish, and I am that little girl again, heart on my sleeve, robbed of air and half-trembling with my own fear and stupid hopes.

The realness of his voice startles me.

"Nari?"