Was I a good son?

   I couldn’t really answer that. I never had the opportunity to play that role in an adult’s life. And I didn’t wish to ponder on that kind of question all my life. It served me no purpose whatsoever. Why should I invest my time thinking about things that would never happen instead of focusing on what is already in front of me?

   I grew up in an orphanage by the sea. Nobody—aside from Suji—knew that. Sleeping with several children in a single room became the norm for me, along with being homeschooled and knowing the people I was with then wouldn’t be with me all my life, no matter how hard I begged them to stay. That may have been the reason why I couldn’t bring myself to fully connect with someone. I knew what we had was ephemeral, and I was also aware that attaching yourself to temporary things would do more harm than good. I first heard of this perspective from a Buddhist who somehow ended up in our town.

   Attachment is the root of all suffering, he said. I wasn’t one who believed in religion, let alone monks or gods, but somehow, that sentence stuck with me. Like a seed, it took root in my heart, and it was a thought I could never seem to shake away, no matter how hard I tried. I wanted something—or someone—to defy that statement. I had been waiting for a certain situation to turn everything upside down and prove to me that attaching myself would give me hope and strength instead of suffering.

   I had been waiting for years.

   Still, nothing.

   I was six years old when I began to share a huge room with six other boys. The youngest was Jeongguk, who was brought into the orphanage when he was around three years old. He was wearing an oversized shirt, filled with holes. It wasn’t until much later that I realized what they were. Cigarette burns. He didn’t have any underwear on. He had bruises.

   Jeongguk didn’t talk. That was what I remembered. No matter how much the social workers or the other orphans cooed him into speaking, he would simply look the other way. No pressure was placed on him, but we were told to include him no matter what. They weren’t as worried, considering he ate and drank—they said it was a good start.

   What I figured out, though, was Jeongguk liked to draw. And so, whenever I wanted to do some coloring, I would prepare a spot for him, as well, spreading out pieces of paper and crayons. He seemed to always know where to find me, and without a word, he would sit beside me, and draw.

   He always used dark colors.

   And there was always one figure he seemed to draw vaguely, with its mouth being a round and aggressive scribble.

   I would, from time to time, ask who it was. Jeongguk would simply shrug, but that gesture seemed to mean something, and somehow, I felt I shouldn’t prod further. So, I didn’t.

   Drawing and coloring became our routine. Several weeks later, the rest of my roommates joined us, and it became a thing between us.

   Then one day, Jeongguk started using warmer shades. He also began to speak. And his first sentence was, “Look, hyungs. I drew us.”

-::-

    Sundae pounced on me the moment I sat down on the sofa. Tail enthusiastically wagging, it rested its chin on my thigh, glancing up from time to time, cajoling me into patting its head. Of course, I yielded.

   Dahyun was in the kitchen, preparing tea and snacks.  We were having chocolate cake—I couldn’t forget, considering the way she gushed about this ‘lovely recipe’ she found online. We seemed to be in an awkward stage in which we were both more than welcome to visit each other’s apartments and stay as long as we liked, but we weren’t close enough to ask what the other had been up to.

   That was why I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about babysitting Haneul while Suji worked.

   “Namjoon.”

   “What is it?”

   She carried the tray and placed it on the coffee table before sitting down on the floor. Sundae lifted its head, seemed to think about moving to Dahyun’s lap, but reconsidered and plopped its chin back on my thigh.

   “I hope you like black tea.”

   “I have no preference.”

   “Makes it tough to cook for you, then.”

   I paused at what she said, and proceeded to ask why.

   “Having no preference encourages mediocrity, don’t you think?”

   “Is that such a bad thing? Mediocrity.”

   Dahyun scrunched her nose. “It’s too safe.”

   “Maybe you think that way,” I began. “Because you’ve been safe your whole life. It’s something I’d expect from a sheltered girl like you.”

   “Your words are usually callused,” she said. “Sometimes I think I’d be more surprised if you speak gently for once. Milk?”

   “You’re not offended? No thanks.”

   She smiled, and shook her head. “I’m too lazy to be offended.”

   “You’re not lazy to me.”

   “Oh,” her eyes widened. “You can be lazy in different ways. Perhaps, my kind of lazy is different from your kind of lazy.”

   I shrugged. “Good point. Maybe.”

   She chuckled. “Enigmatic and snarky. The perfect combination.”

   “Who’s the snarky one now?” I returned.

   “Who knows,” she murmured. “But then, have you ever had a girlfriend?”

   I did a double take on that one. I never really dated. At least, not seriously. I wasn’t the type to sleep around, as well. I simply couldn’t find the pleasure or emotional connection in that—not that I was looking for one in the first place.

   I looked at Dahyun, wondering where the conversation would take us. She was staring back at me.

   “No.”

   “Not ‘not yet’, but no?”

   I nodded. “Why’d you ask?”

   “I’m just curious. It’s something people your age think about. Settling and all.”

   “We’re not that far apart.”

   “But still,” she said. “Why haven’t you tried?”

   I figured there was no use lying to her, so I told her why. I’ve always thought when you date someone, the potential of marrying the person would be there. I never intended to marry.

   “Why not?”

   I recalled the orphans I lived with, and the unspoken questions which filled our minds. Perhaps, I developed the subconscious fear of passing on that kind of self-doubt to an infant who wasn’t even born yet. All I knew was it felt miserable having to fight off those things on a daily basis, and living a mediocre life was the safest choice to at least fend of such thoughts.

   “Kids are a pain,” was all I said.

   “Do you think the goal of marriage is to have children, then?” she asked.

   Dahyun’s questions would usually take me aback. I knew she never meant anything by it, but she seemed to have the innate gift of rendering one speechless.

   “Well, what do you think is the goal of marriage?”

   “Wow,” she looked up. “That’s actually a tough question, now that I think about it. But I think it’s more than that. A covenant, I guess?”

   “A covenant.”

   She nodded. “It’s for you to commit to a person for life—someone you’ll treat as a best friend and a lover. Someone you’ll be faithful to.”

   “How idealistic.”

   She smiled. “It does sound idealistic. Most forms of attachments are.”

   “Attachment is the root of all suffering.”

   “Do you believe in Buddhism?” she followed up.

   I shook my head. “Though I do think it’s true.”

   “I see.”

   “What about you? I never really asked,” I held my right hand up at chest level. “And you don’t have to answer, either.”

   She smiled. “I don’t mind. I believe in God.”

   “Why?”

   “I find no reason to not believe in Him.”

   “Because you never suffered,” I blurted out.

   “Why do you say that?”

   “You’ve always been positive,” I said. To be fair, I didn’t feel like withdrawing when she asked. Perhaps, it was because of her tone of voice. I found no condemnation in there. She wasn’t defensive about it. “When you sketch, you don’t draw what’s in front of you. It becomes a different scene altogether. Remember the stray cat?”

   “I do.”

   “You’re so perky, it’s frustrating sometimes. It’s like you don’t know how the real world works.”

   Silence.

   “I think,” she said. “I think it’s the other way around.”

   I didn’t speak.

   “I only believed in God the moment I’ve come into terms that I was at the end of myself.”

   I looked at her.

   “The thing is, Namjoon,” she gently Sundae’s back, and the dog started kicking the air with one of its legs. “It’s not that I never suffered. You simply see a better version of me. The one that broke through after breaking down.”

   “I can’t imagine you being in a bad place,” I admitted. “It’s just the way you carry yourself, I guess.”

   “Ironically enough, I never carried myself. I got carried, and I am who I am now by grace.”

   I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I didn’t understand, so I nodded, instead. I didn’t want to disrespect her faith, either.

   “I could say something more agreeable,” she said, sensing the message in my silence. “But you don’t deserve half-hearted responses.”

   “You have this way with words,” I pointed out. “You make people think they’re important.”

   “It’s because they are,” she replied promptly. “You’re here, spending time with me. And time is something you can’t take back.”

   I scoffed.

   “You have a good heart, Namjoon,” she remarked.

   “What makes you say that?”

   “It’s not a specific thing. I just know you have a good heart. Do you mind if I turn the television on?”

   “I don’t.”

   She grinned, and took the remote next to the tray. She pressed a button, and flicked through the channels, only to stop when a certain face was shown.

   “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “But I would like to watch him.”

   “JK?”

   She nodded. “He’s around my age, but he has already accomplished so much. He inspires me.”

   Also known as the Golden Child. A multitalented artist who released a best-selling novel when he was only eighteen. He wasn’t living in normalcy, let alone mediocrity. He wasn’t like me at all. The way he dressed and answered questions were sophisticated. He had that refined ambience to him.

   It felt like he wasn’t the same boy I used to draw and color with.

   “People don’t know much about him, even his fans,” she said. “I wonder how his childhood was like. To be that brilliant at such a young age—I find it interesting.”

   “Jealous?” I suggested.

   Dahyun smiled. “A little.”

   “Don’t be,” I said. I bit my lower lip, thinking I may have given myself away. I cleared my throat, and added, “You shine in your own way.”

   “See?” she playfully nudged my calf. “You have a good heart.”

   I found it difficult to believe that. More than anything, if there were to be a person with a good heart in that enclosed space, then that should be Dahyun, and not me.