She’s running out of chances.

(Actually, she’s pretty sure she was on her last chance a long time ago—and she, too, missed out on that, just like the many chances before it.)

“Will you be there?” someone asks from behind, and she exhales the slow, painful breath, folding the invitation card. (Folding away her hopes, too.

Folding away her truth.)

“I’m not sure,” she says, not looking up. She puts the card back into the red envelope. “I might have things to do on that date.”

“It’s Hitomi’s wedding, Chaewonnie.” Disappointed. Admonishing. “Make time.”

She shrugs, smiles bitterly.

“Maybe.”