xviii. “It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness.”

—Diary

_____

Jongdae’s strong, but even the most admirable strength meets a breaking point. 

And if he can’t learn to stop fighting it, if he can’t realize that the strongest material can only hold so much on its own without breaking, then I’m scared—I’m terrified that there will be a day when something does break. 

But sometimes I wonder what he finds harder; standing under all that weight and carrying it alone with chin held high and smiling like he always is, or asking someone to help. Sometimes I think that, scarily, it might be the latter. 

***

Jongdae packs up his things silently and I eat my cheesecake just as silently, all the while wishing I hadn’t ordered it. I wasn’t hungry. I don’t think I’d be hungry for a while. But I also don’t want to pack the whole slice of cheesecake to bring home, and I hadn’t eaten lunch either, so I shovel it into my mouth and pretend that it doesn’t taste like sawdust.

Jongdae waits for me to finish. A hint of the old smile returns to his face when he watches me before he jokes, “You look like you’re dying.” 

I wince around a mouthful. “I’m not very hungry.” 

“Do you want help finishing that?” 

“I’m—” a forced swallow, “—fine. Unless you want to eat some.” 

His hesitation is enough of an answer. “I thought so,” I manage. “I don’t like wasting food. But I’m really not in the mood to eat.” 

The slight grin that my forced eating had conjured from him drops in an instance. It’s all too familiar of a pattern, but I don’t have the chance to say anything when he already apologizes. 

“Sorry,” Jongdae tells me, then presses his lips together. “I just—I didn’t mean to ruin your day—” 

There’s a small tinge of pain in my chest that we’re back to this. That I have to tell him that he hasn’t ruined my day, that telling me these things shouldn’t be something he’s apologizing for and he doesn’t deserve to keep them holed up to himself without anyone knowing. But it’ll be worse if I don’t tell him, so I don’t. And at the end, I add, “It’s been kind of… tough at home too.” 

He frowns pensively. “What do you mean tough?” 

I don’t really want to talk. Which is stupid, because I’ve been telling him to and thinking that it does him good. But now that he asks me, I can see why Jongdae doesn’t, because it’s a painful moment of vulnerability and exposure that he doesn’t feel like he can afford. 

But if he had done it, and, more so, if I had told him to, it only feels right to give something in return. 

“University,” I start, then realize that’s a terrible place to begin. He his head at me, waiting. 

“I was supposed to go back for university,” I clarify this time. “That was the plan. If I took—well, I’ve been going through the curriculum I would’ve needed for high school in Alberta, I could take the province issued final—they’re called diplomas—and then I could go to university there, not as an international student. Which is a substantial amount more expensive. Anyway, that was supposed to be the plan and honestly, I’ve been preparing for the diploma for two years but—” I trail off. “A couple days ago—well, two days ago, my dad mentioned that he wanted to stay in Seoul for longer. For a couple more years. And he asked if I would consider going to university here, even though it’s completely my choice and my mom wants to go back and stuff.” 

It comes out in a jumble, and I think that while Jongdae doesn’t do a whole lot of talking about himself, he still makes it much more coherent than I do. Somehow, he’s understood me, even if his response isn’t long. “What do you think, then?” he asks simply. 

I squint at him. “It feels more than just… what I think. I think that three months ago I would’ve been furious at my dad for even proposing something like that because he’d promised that we could go back after two years and I have no plans of staying here for university, but now, I don’t know.” 

Jongdae tilts his head. Gone is the boy who I’d hugged just a little while after, sniffling back tears that had obviously been there, and he seems as composed as ever. Part of me admires his ability to lock up his emotions and be—or at least act—rational, and another part of me is scared seeing how easily he seems to do it. “Why?” he asks. 

I shrug. “It’s not as terrible as I thought here,” I reply. “I don’t know. It’s actually nice. I don’t think I’ve nearly seen enough of Seoul as I should’ve, and… well, I don’t know. It seems like a rash decision, though. I don’t even know what I want to do for university, and it’s high time for me to decide. Except I can’t make a decision. And my parents are waging the cold war at home and banking on me making a decision.” 

It seems miniscule compared to Jongdae’s problems. But his eyes flicker over me briefly, like a new sort of understanding his dawned on him, before he offered, “Tell your parents you need time to think it through?” 

I blanche. “What?” 

“Tell your parents,” he repeats. “They’ve already told you, but you should tell them that you need time to think instead of the other way around. Then it might be less stressful. You make your decision, they decide theirs. Or else you’ll be caught up in wanting to resolve it just because they’re, well, arguing and waiting for you to pick a side.” 

“Oh,” I start slowly. “Oh. That actually sounds pretty good.” 

He flashes me a grin, then pulls on his jacket. “Of course it does.” 

“Don’t get cocky.” I follow his movements. There’s still a small section of my cheesecake left on my plate, but I can’t be bothered to finish it. At any rate, I can’t stomach another bite. “But… Jongdae?” 

He shoulders his backpack as he turns to me. “Yeah?” 

Hidden carefully, as always. I don’t know what it is that he’s done to make himself so good at hiding his feelings, under that same mask of impassivity that’s so hard to read. Sometimes it’s all too obvious, but other times, I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s thinking. 

“You’ll tell me, right? If something else is wrong? I’ll always listen.” 

I don’t know if I should read more into that brief pause. Maybe he hesitated because—well, enough vulnerability for the day and that’s understandable—but apart from that, I don’t know. But after that brief hiccup, Jongdae nods at me. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I will. Why do you think I called you today?” 

I scan him carefully. “True.” 

“I feel better, though,” he announces and offers me a smile. “I’ll see you on Monday?” 

***

I’m very, very tempted to sneak back into my room when I arrive home so I don’t have to face my parents. I think, really, I would’ve made it because my dad doesn’t seem to notice me as he does his work in the kitchen and my mom is nowhere to be seen. I slip my shoes off as quietly as I can, place them on the shelf just as silently then wonder if I’ll be able to cross the living room without being heard or seen.

Halfway through, I remember Jongdae’s words. I don’t want to talk; I really don’t. But after all that bravado at him about having to sort things out with practically everyone, I feel like a hypocrite avoiding it. I can’t give advice and not take it; it feels fake. 

So I drag my feet into the kitchen, still running over Jongdae’s words. My dad looks up from me, surprise crossing his face for a couple of seconds before he masks it, closes his laptop, and tilts his head. “What is it?” he asks. 

“Where’s mom?” I ask instead, then pinch myself for chickening out yet again. 

Something passes across his face at the mention of her, and I figure out they haven’t reconciled yet (or really, gotten anywhere near close apart from that mutual worry of me last night). A little while ago, I had figured that there would be no reconciliation until I had made a decision so they could work with it, but now I wonder if that’s my job to do after all. 

“She went out,” he replies. “Probably will be back in an hour or so. Why?” 

Say it, just spit it out. I scruffle my feet on the carpet. I don’t want to say anything. But after a couple of seconds, it tumbles out, “I don’t know if I want to go back or not.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve established that.” 

I frown at the dry tone. “Yeah, but you guys can’t bank on me making a choice to figure out if you’re going to go back or not. Make it with mom. And I’ll make my decision.” 

That’s not what he was expecting to hear from me, and my dad mirrors my frown. “What do you mean?” he asks. 

“I mean,” I say. Even now, I don’t want to say it. But I think of Jongdae, and I think that I somehow must. “I mean, just… count me out of the equation or something. I’ll figure out what I want to do for uni, which could be moving back or staying here. And you guys decide where you want to go.” 

“What if you decide to stay and we decide to go? Or vice versa?” 

“Then I deal with it. And—and I’m old enough to live by myself and you know, uni’s a time for kids to move out so it’ll be a good experience, so just… try not to count me as a factor if you and mom are going to decide. That way, she can’t guilt trip you about me and you don’t have to tell her all your stuff about connecting with culture and going through the real deal—” 

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “I get it. But that…” A thoughtful expression crosses his face. “That would work. It’s a good idea.” 

Wasn’t my idea, I think, but I don’t say it. “Yeah. So tell mom. And you guys sort it out.” 

He nods, then smiles slightly. “Finding yourself enjoying Korea more than you expected?” 

“You wish,” I reply, but there’s nothing grudging in it anymore. I don’t let out the breath of relief I’ve been holding in until I get back to my room. It’s still not a lot of talk, and I still feel slightly awkward around him—and mom, really, and it’s something that has never quite disappeared since we got here—but it’s relief nonetheless. 

***

On Monday, I realize that things aren’t going nearly as well for Jongdae.

It takes a while for me to notice, actually, because his hair his neat again, not a single lock out of place and the dark circles are just as prominent as they usually are. He’s quiet in Languages class, just like usual, and there’s a week before the presentation. I slip him the script, he thanks me. Chanyeol comes into class so late that there’s no point talking to him, and while Baekhyun leans over and whispers something to him, he gets up so quickly after class that Jongdae doesn’t even have a chance in talking to him. Ms. Lim actually yells indignantly after him, but he’s gone so quickly that she can only glare at the door. 

The anger from Chanyeol that had been so obvious a couple of days ago seems to have disappeared somehow, or maybe he finds it useless, or he’s so far done with me (and, by extension Jongdae) that he doesn’t even think it’s worth his time. I ask Jongdae where he wants to eat, and he points wordlessly at the benches outside. 

It’s still January, and even I have to admit the air is biting. We sit silently under the bare branches of the trees, steam coming from the still-warm food. 

“So,” I say. 

He glances at me, a hint of amusement crossing his face. But it’s only a ghost of what I can remember, and the expression falls too quickly. 

“So,” Jongdae echoes. “So eloquent. So articulate.” 

“Thanks,” I reply drily. “Uh…” 

“I didn’t talk to her after Saturday,” he fills in helpfully.