Dahyun’s place was very different from mine. Despite moving in recently, it had a lived-in ambience to it. Her curtains were drawn open, letting the sunshine in. Her walls were bright. Sundae pawed at my leg, tail wagging the moment I walked through the door. Dahyun was in the kitchen, taking out things from the cupboard and setting them down on the counter. I smelled something sweet.

   “I hope you like matcha cake,” she said.

   “Even if I say I don’t, it’s too late to back out now, isn’t it?”

   She gave me a playful glower, and I asked if there was anything I could help her with.

   “Actually,” she began. “Would you mind going to the veranda? My succulents need to be watered.”

   “Do you have names for them, too?”

   “Every single one of them,” she confirmed, without missing a beat. “The watering can’s below the sink.”

   I filled the container with water, and headed to the veranda. It may have been out of curiosity, but I skimmed through the pots, and figured she kept at least thirty of them. I soaked the plants through, and the smell of earth permeated my senses. It always made me feel nostalgic, and I had no idea whether to take that in with joy or disdain. I headed back inside, and gave the watering can a good wipe before returning it to its rightful place.

   Maybe what made her apartment look vibrant was the presence of portraits. A good half of them were sketches, but the effect was still there.

   “When did you start drawing?” I asked.

   “Good question,” she paused briefly to look up, before resuming to mix the cream cheese and yogurt in the bowl together. “I don’t really remember. But there is this story. My parents laid out three things in front of me: a paint brush, a stethoscope, a thread and a rice cake.”

   I scoffed. “Predictable.”

   “Hey, let me finish! Do you know what I chose?”

   “Is this a rhetorical question?”

   She shook her head. “Humor me just this once, won’t you?”

   “Just this once, huh?” I parroted. “Wow.”

   “Well, what’d I choose?”

   “Judging from your ardent passion for drawing, I would say…the rice cake.”

   She scrunched her nose, and reached out for the sugar and vanilla extract. “Neither of those. I crawled towards my parents.”

   “That just melted my heart,” I deadpanned.

   “I know you’re being sarcastic,” she said. “But admittedly, I love talking about it.”

   “Why?”

   She shrugged. “It makes me think I’m actually a good daughter.”

   “You don’t think you are?”

   “Well…” she took the jelly sheet she soaked out of the bowl, squeezed it and transferred it to a smaller bowl before popping it into the microwave for a few seconds. “I disappoint my parents on a regular basis.”

   There was a ding! and Dahyun took the jelly out. She poured it into the mixture. I again asked if I could help her with anything, and she said, “Keep Sundae company.”

   I glanced at Sundae, too busy playing with his chew toy.

   “What makes a good daughter, then?” I said.

   “I don’t know. Always making your parents proud?”

   “Ever asked if they were ever disappointed in you?”

   “I don’t have to, Namjoon. I already know.”

   “How so?”

   “Because if I’m already disappointed in myself, then they’d be disappointed in me, too. It’s not rocket science.”

   “We’re usually our worst critic,” I pointed out. “And you missed one little thing.”

   “What is it?”

   “They’re parents. Don’t underestimate their patience when it comes to understanding you.”

   A pause.

   “Namjoon.”

   “What is it?”

   “What are your parents like?”

   I pondered on her question. I leaned back into the couch, and closed my eyes. All I envisioned was the sound of crashing waves from a distance, and familiar laughter. There was a huge house, and we all came running towards it with sandy feet. The smell of the sea clung to our shirts.

   “Good question,” I murmured.

   “But you won’t answer it,” she said.

   I could only smile at her remark.

   “You remind me of someone.”

   “Who?”

   Silence. The air in her place remained warm, but there was the slightest tinge of tension, burbling towards the surface. I didn’t press on, because I understood. People have the tendency to not speak about specific individuals. Not out of hatred, though. It was something deeper, and more painful, than that.

-::-

   It was only for a little while, but I had already noticed the stark contrast between our apartments. The moment I locked the door behind me, I immediately felt the absence of a certain warmth and brightness. I missed the sound of Sundae’s tail thudding against the wooden floor, and the aroma of pastries being baked in the oven, blending well with the subtle scent of tealights. At one point, I wanted to get the same brand of tealights myself, but that would be nothing but a weak knock-off compared to the actual ambience Dahyun’s place emanated. Maybe having decorations wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

   I walked over to my windowsill and stared at Tree, still robust as ever.

   “You feeling lonely?” I muttered. “Do you want some company?”

   Catching myself having a one-sided conversation with a succulent, I scoffed, and retreated to my room. I looked up for a moment to stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars. I wondered, then, how Dahyun’s room looked like — if it reflected her sunny personality, as well.

-::-

   “Are you coming with us?” Colleague A asked. He put his thumb and index finger together in front of his mouth and clicked his tongue.

   I smiled, and shook my head. “Sorry. I’m busy.”

   “You never attend these get-togethers! Where’s your camaraderie, huh?”

   “I’m busy,” I reiterated. “I apologize.”

   He scoffed, and playfully nudged my side. “Nobody in this office can convince you, huh?”

   And that was it. I wasn’t lying when I said that, anyway. I really was busy. The get-together I originally planned with someone had to be prioritized. I left the office on the dot, and rushed to the nearest supermarket. I bought a bag filled with snacks before heading to the City Hall Station. I briefly waited for the train in Line 2.

   I briskly walked through the winding alleyways, already smelling of food and pastries. Cafés and bakeries were everywhere. Upon arriving in front of a steel gate, I rang the doorbell, and a familiar voice said, “Who is it?”

   “It’s Namjoon. You really should get your camera—”

   The lock from the inside clicked.

   “What’re you waiting for?” the voice urged. “Come in!”

   I looked around, and entered the premises. I crossed the small yard, the parameter neatly surrounded by homegrown vegetables. Before I could step into the porch, the door swung open, showing the house’s tenant.

   “Thank you, Namjoon. I really owe you one.”

   “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “Has Haneul eaten yet?”

   “That’s the thing,” she scrunched her nose. “He wants you to prepare omurice. All ingredients are in the fridge. The rice, you know where the container is.”

   “Suji,” I began. “Aren’t you running late?”

   “Oh, crap. Yes!” she patted both of my shoulders before running out the gate. “Thanks again, Namjoon! I’ll see you in the morning!”

   She shut the gate, and I entered the house. I removed my shoes and wore the house slippers Suji already set aside for me.

   “Haneul-ah,” I cried out. “I’ve arrived. Are you in the living room?”

   “Yes.”

   He was sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on the television. He was playing a game. Haneul momentarily glanced at me, smiled, and bowed.

   “After this,” he began. “Let’s play together.”

   I smiled. “Of course. But before that, let’s make omurice, huh?”

   “Okay.”

   “Why do you want that in the first place?”

   “I want you to teach me,” he said. “So I can cook for Mom one day.”

   “Aren’t you too young for a knife?”

   “That’s why,” he emphasized. “I want you to teach me.”

   Haneul was eight years old, and Suji was born in the same year as me—1994. I knew her because we attended the same high school. She was the quiet girl in class, but was nonetheless approachable. Her grades were something she wouldn’t be ashamed of, and had she been more outgoing, it would be easy for her to become the most popular girl in school. But she didn’t do any of that. Instead, she vanished out of the blue one day, and a few months later, I saw her in a train station I never expected her to be in, with a baby bump to boot—also something I didn’t expect. She saw me gawking at her belly, and she smiled.

   Suji was intelligent, and I knew she was, because Haneul had that kind of wisdom, too. But in that moment, as we stared at each other in the station, the way I perceived her seemed to change. She had so much going on for her, but who was I to judge?

   Her house was a beautiful chaos. There were markings on one of the doorframes, tracking Haneul’s height. Suji didn’t erase the doodles on the wall. Some of the books stacked on the shelf had its spines facing inwards. Nonetheless, it was the clutter that made her place alive, along with the vegetables in her garden.

   “Uncle,” Haneul said, after eating dinner. We had already cleared the table and washed the dishes. It surprised me to know he was actually serious about learning the recipe. He went as far as writing it down. I told him he could always google it, but he said he would rather cook something he actually tasted. That way, he knew it was good.

   “What is it?”

   “Do you want some tea?”

   “Hey,” I tousled his hair. “I’m the babysitter here. I should be the one asking that.”

   “Mom said to always entertain visitors.”

   “I’m no visitor.”

   “Still…” the boy looked up, and grinned. “Then could you help me with something?”

   “What? Homework?”

   He shook his head. “Folding the laundry.”

   “Not your favorite chore, huh?”

   “I’m just not good at it.”

   Admittedly, Haneul was mature for his age. I mentioned that to Suji once, and she said at times, she wished for her son to act more like a child.

   “Why?” I asked.

   “It’s good to make mistakes while you’re young.”

   “How did he end up being that sensible, anyway?”

   “I don’t really know,” she said. “To be honest, I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing as a mother or not.”

   “What did you first teach him, then?”

   “The importance of listening when a person says ‘no’.”

   I paused. I noticed the change in her tone of voice. It felt like a nuanced response.

   “You’re not spoiling him. That’s a good sign,” I remarked, changing the subject.

   She looked at me with a worried look on her face. “Is it?”

   “Yeah.”

   “You know,” she said. “Most people who talk about me think keeping Haneul is a mistake.”

   I knew.

   “That I grew up being too good, I was bound to make this kind of blunder. It’s strange, don’t you think? How people associate silence with innocence.”

   “In a way, it is.”

   “But Haneul isn’t a mistake. I don’t regret keeping him. I’m struggling, and it could have been better, sure. But he’s the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

   “This world…” I began. “Needs more mothers like you.”

   “I was fortunate,” she looked at me. “Because I had this kind of choice. It’s not always the same story for every mother out there.”

   “They could have fought for their children.”

   Silence.

   “Yeah,” she muttered. “They could have.”

   But I knew Suji only said that to cut the conversation short. She didn’t want to argue with me, because she knew something about me others didn’t. Perhaps, telling a fragment of my past to her was some sort of collateral—it may be a way of telling her she could trust me.

   It made me wonder, however. How Dahyun and Suji processed things. They would doubt themselves, asking if they were a good daughter—a good mother. What constitutes goodness, anyway? I’ve always believed people can be simultaneously good and imperfect. And the ones who question their state of being good, actually seek perfection.