Fourth story in the Song series.

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FOUR. The year is 2027. Seungwan books two tickets to Toronto.

In This Light She’s Under

This is a week later. This is the flight back to Seoul. She’s asleep next to me, airpods still in her ears, an unfinished book lying across her lap. A small smile lies on her lips, lips I want to kiss badly and often. Where her dream is, I don’t know. Maybe it’s at that merry house on Canyon Hill Ave., Vaughan whose residents love to wear ugly socks in winter and jam to random music in an impromptu show. Maybe it’s at that rowdy dorm in Gwangjin whose inhabitants can’t cook even if their lives depend on it. I can only hope it’s with me, be it in my house in Pyeongchang, the one where I have built a home studio for her home work and emptied a wardrobe for her belongings, or in fond remembrance of me while and freshly-taken and sated with happiness.

I have also looked up the lyrics of the other song she sang the other day. Everyone that day heard her, watched her listen to what the song demanded and be its most humble servant, was in awe of her. And I don't know if I've ever loved any other half as much as I do in this light she's under, she sang. She sang it for me, and she sang it that way because of me. And only I saw her the way she wanted to be seen: the brightest version of