AUTHOR’S NOTE Hello, everyone. Yes, it took me almost two years to update this story. I am sorry for making you guys wait for so long. Here’s a new chapter. Transition between a present event and a past one is purposely not made distinct, so be aware of the change in tenses. Without any further ado, I hope you’d enjoy it.

“Shall we drink a cup of water?
“We’ve been walking a long way already.”
– Walk with Me, Kwak Jin Eon

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A list of her boyfriend’s favorite places.

A cheap motel room in the countryside (shady lighting, a queen bed, a warm bathroom). Her house. Open spaces full of green plants and fragrant flowers. Places far enough from the city to see constellations of stars. Near bodies of water.

xxx

She receives a message at 8 in the morning.

It might be diabolicalness at its finest: that it is Joy—of all people, Joy—that comes and breaks it down for her what is apparently News of the Year. There is no joy, alright, in telling your best friend that she and her boyfriend of almost two years this upcoming summer that “they know, babe. Your secret, it’s out.”

‘Hayi, Pancake,’ the message reads. ‘Put down that glass of milk somewhere but don’t panic okay please go to Naver homepage.’

Telling someone not to panic is the most effective way to make someone panic.

The mocha-flavored soy milk makes a mess on the island when she smacks her phone right into the porcelain mug, making her mother rush into the kitchen, “Hayi, what’s happened?” A pause. “Darling, what are you so angry at?”

She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand and feels nasty bile crawl up the interior lining of . “I’m not angry,” she chokes out.

“You—”

“I’m not.”

It was at 8 am, too, when she received his first message. ‘Babe, pack what you’ll need for two days in a Herschel now.’

‘What?!’

The second one read, ‘Chop, chop! I’ll be at your door in 10.’

She didn’t have a Herschel, so she stuffed her things haphazardly into an army green Kånken. She understood the situation only after they’d gotten their own private compartment in the train.

“We’re going to South Jeolla,” she repeated what he had briefed her back in the taxi, “damn, we’re going to—”

“I didn’t know that you could curse.” His lazy grin was that of a boy’s patented and it made something stormy and red ripple under her skin.

She took a deep breath. She scooted away from him so their knees would not graze against each other in the small VIP room. “Why are you doing this?” she hissed, hushed and furious. “You knew I have a plan with my mom today, Sehun!”

He hummed sympathetically. “Hmm you mean you had a plan with your mom today.”

She straightened her spine and tightened her jaw, looking outside the window as Seoul got farther and smaller behind them.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him drop The Grin and The Fake Nonchalance.

She counted the seconds inside her mind.

“Sorry,” he said almost too softly for her to hear, shame thick in his small voice, “it’s just that, my next day-offs will be in June and I had to get away now before it—it… Sorry.”

“Don’t pull this ever again, Sehun.”

More softly, “You know I won’t…”

Back to the present, Mrs. Lee is getting sick over what she sees displayed on her tablet: low-quality, paparazzi-issued photos of her daughter and Oh Sehun, his arm slung over her shoulders, her nose buried in the crook of his neck.

She composes herself before looking up and drawls, “What do these pictures mean?”

Her daughter, who doesn’t look very much like her daughter right now—not with that much anger in her usually kind eyes—growls an answer, “It means they stalked me and Sehun all the way to Suncheon.”

“Sun—? These photos were taken in Suncheon? When did you and Sehun even go there?!”

“Last month,” her daughter answers, curt.

“But—but… why?!”

“Why what?” her daughter scoffs. “It doesn’t matter why. He and I went. Apparently, so did Dispatch.”

“And would you have told me about it?”

“Should I, Mother? It’s my private life.” Her daughter looks away and, bitterly, amends, “It was.”

“Sehun is a nice and polite young man. I like him for you, Lee Hayi. But not like this. You know not like this.”

Oh, Hayi knows. There’s nothing remotely outrageous about two idols strolling along a one-kilometer long observatory deck over a reed field, ridiculously bowled over by rare, migratory black-faced spoonbills, so they pick photographs that capture the promiscuous moment when those idols entered a dingy motel, mischief on their faces, Trojan in his wallet.

Honestly? Who cares about how those two idols should, later, explain the situation—the implication of it—to their mothers? “This is the exact reason why we’re devising an exit plan from the entertainment industry. Because fame makes even you forget who we are, Ma.” Like that? She feels like throwing up. His parents are going to murder him.

“Hayi! Lee Hayi, where are you going? I haven’t finished talking to you!”

“I need to call Sehun,” she answers distractedly as she spots her phone on the kitchen island.

“Lee Hayi, we haven’t done speak—”

“Sehun.” She pulled a sleeve of his organic cotton sweatshirt, drawing him close to herself. “Are you sure about this tour? I mean, look. People are, like, everywhere.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled that, despite the mask that he wore, she knew he was smiling from ear to ear. He was in such a good mood and his spirit, elated. “It’s okay, babe. We’re in this together.”

She didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was because they were there together she got nervous.

Hand in hand, they got off the shuttle bus that had taken them from Suncheon station to Suncheon bay and were immediately hit by clean, fresh air of the countryside, a radical contrast to the type of atmosphere that they’d been so used to: polluted by cigs and sickly, sweet-smelling perfumes.

She was feeling a lot better about the tour by the time he finished paying for their tickets at the front gate. He had apparently decided to abandon his procedure face mask, replacing it with an unassuming hat and a smile so bright and happy it was contagious and soon she found herself mirroring his expression.

“I’m having the time of my life,” he whispered in her ear, his warm breath tickling her skin.

Unable to lie to him and to herself, she admitted she felt the same way. “Thank you for taking me here with you.”

But he shook his head, “No. Believe me when I say the pleasure’s all mine.”

The arrival of black-faced spoonbills in South Korea was on time that early spring of 2017. “You guys are very lucky. They just got here in Suncheon bay a few days ago,” explained the guide assigned to them. “Look, that’s some of them over there. Their population is dangerously low, so every year we always worry about them.”

Only half listening to their guide’s explanation, she watched as her boyfriend’s shoulders deflated. He had already known all the facts there were about this species—had recited them to her in more than one occasion—but she knew it must’ve been still difficult for him to hear it directly from a professional.

In the daylight, his usually straight and pulled-back posture looked a lot like crumbling.

She chewed on her lower lip.

“Oh, okay,” he managed to murmur. His voice was very soft and very serene, but her trained ears caught small conviction in that voice as he continued, “They must never go extinct.”

Their tour guide offered them a smile, albeit a little wry one. “It’s refreshing to see young people like you two care about the wildlife.”

She nodded politely when her boyfriend made no attempt to respond.

They all resumed their walking on the observatory deck, the guide several ste