There will be moments within the story that might come off as racist or just generally rude. That is intentional as a literary device. I'm Filipino myself (it's a weak argument, but we're all racist in our own little ways - it's called in-group bias).

Gyu

∞

Hi. I really don’t know how to start this. I guess, I’ll start with my name? It’s always good to start with names. Get to know that way. My name’s Sunggyu. But it’s tiring to write it like this, so you can call me Gyu for short. I like it that way. Anyway, you must be Korean…or at least know how to read Hangul to understand this, so if you’re reading this, then yes, you’re Korean.

I’m sorry. I’m not good with writing. You can probably tell from the way I ramble, right? You might also be wondering “Why are you writing then if you’re not good with writing?” and I don’t blame you for thinking that. If Kenji had not told me to do this, then I might not be doing this at all. Kenji? I’ll get to him soon.

Anyway, I’m Gyu and I’m Korean and I live in Manila. Nope, I don’t live in Korea, I live here in the Philippines and I hate it. I’m writing on this new journal I bought for ninety pesos (Philippine money) on this table that sways when I put my arm on it. I’m at a coffeeshop called Manila Express and it’s a little empty right now, even though there are hundreds of people walking past this small shop.

It’s 9:46 PM and my chai tea latte is a bit lukewarm now. I’ve been at this place for the last two hours, thinking about to write in here. There’s a group of Filipino girls at a table across from me, at the other end of the shop. One of them, with her hair in a ponytail and her iPhone clutched in her hands, neon colored fingernails, keeps looking at me from time to time. Must be because I’m Korean, and even though there’s a lot of us in this country, it might be exciting for her to see someone different.

I’m not surprised though. Half of the Filipino girls I meet are obsessed with K-pop and anything Korean. Just the other day, I keep hearing whispered Korean greetings and I-love-yous when I pass by some of them. They probably think I couldn’t hear them whispering behind my back, funny because they’re really loud and I really can’t unhear them or anything.

More people enter the coffeeshop. High school students, probably, judging from their similar uniforms. I’m not surprised one of them turns to look at me — she’s probably looking at my small eyes or my pale skin, basically at me and realizing I’m not like them.

She turns to her friends and whispers something in their ear and they both pretend not to look at me but I can see them watching me from the corner of their eyes. It’s a little creepy and annoying being stared at like this, like they haven’t seen a Korean in all their lives and I want to shout at them, tell them to off and mind their own business — as if they don’t search idols up on Naver.

Oh wait. Google. Filipinos use Google. It’s basically what pops up every time I go to the internet.

Anyway, whatever. They’re on a table now and they’re talking loudly and I’m currently ignoring them. It’s almost ten and I should probably get going but I haven’t finished my drink yet. Guess I’ll stay here for a while.

There’s another customer, not a student this time, and he’s been here for a while. Probably as long as I’ve been. It’s weird because every time I look up, he also looks up and we make eye-contact for a few seconds and then he ducks his head down.

Lately, there’s been news about this murderer who follows people at night, pulls them into alleys and guts them with a knife, before stealing they’re money. This man, the one that looks at me sometimes, he’s probably him. He’s been looking at me for a bit and I don’t feel good about it. He’s probably thinking that I’m this stupid foreigner and I probably don’t know my way around here, like I haven’t been living here for the last four years. If I leave this shop, he’ll probably leave after me and when I pass by a a dark alley, he’d push me into it and stab me.

Or he could be just a normal person, reading this book, the title is too small for me to read and it’s probably in English.

Filipinos are so obsessed with English. Everything is in English: books, the words they use, the things they post on Facebook. I hear so many of them talk in English, and they sometimes talk in this funny accent and they get so loud. I keep hearing “Oh, my God” and “like” over and over and it’s really funny to listen to. Funny in that way where you wonder if it’s the only words they know.

They talk to me in English. The