open ocean and the bright blue sky above
well do you want, do you want the moon?
i’ll get it for you
—between the trees, “spain”

for your birthday, jungeun surprises you with tickets to juwangsan, sealed in a pretty blue envelope with your name in a familiar scrawl written on the front. she falls asleep on your shoulder for most of the three-hour ride there, blushes when you nudge her awake when the speakers announce the second-to-last stop, and spews apologies while blinking the sleep out of her eyes. what for, you want to ask, but you know she’ll just respond with the same answer she’s been giving you for the past week you’ve been anticipating the trip.

“it’s a surprise, jinsol,” she sing-songs coyly, grin threatening to break across her face as she does her best to keep a neutral expression when you pout, but her resolve holds.

“approaching juwangsan station. we have now arrived at juwangsan station,” the speaker relays, but you hardly register it, transfixed by jungeun’s fingers drumming against her knee, the other hand clasped in yours, the cool metal of her rings a comforting familiarity. the train eases to a stop, you feel her squeeze once, and you follow her smile out of your seats and onto the platform.

jungeun tugs you out of the station, her topcoat billowing out behind her. she spares a glance behind her, her laughter tightening your grip on her hand, and you know in this moment you would follow her anywhere. you learn she’s booked a hotel with the softest sheets you’ve ever felt and had a bottle of champagne delivered, giving you a sheepish grin as she raises it victoriously.

“hey,” she whispers before you can say anything, entangling your fingers with hers, “stop thinking so hard.”

it’s your turn to look guilty, and you nod, pushing away worries about the cost and repaying her generosity, trying to make yourself as present as you can. it’s the least you can do to show your appreciation of her thoughtfulness, your wonderment of this girl who is your anchor, your wings, your everything.

at nine o’clock jungeun takes you stargazing, driving a little white rental car she announces she hates the smell of, and you smooth the furrow between her eyebrows with a gentle thumb. she winds through a valley, revs the engine by accident on the uphill, giggles, and finally puts it in park, not another vehicle in sight. with a hopeful smile that you return with the most reassurance you can, jungeun insists you stay put so she can open the passenger door, a goofy smile on her face as she leads you out of your seat.

when you step onto the grass, you take in the vastness of the sky, free of the smog from the lights of the city. white stars splatter across a black canvas, draped with wisps of silver clouds, like some jackson pollock inspired painting hanging in heejin’s studio. you lay your eyes on the moon, the moon, you exhale in awe, a ring of light encircling its solemnity.

“waxing gibbous,” you hear jungeun murmur, apologetic, “couldn’t book the trip for the full moon,” like she would freeze the rotation of the earth if she could. 

you sneak a glance at her, her eyes squinted as she holds the guidebook close to her face, deciphering a constellation map in the near-complete dark. she glances upward, hair newly dyed, arms wrapped in a flannel you’re pretty sure is yours. you’re struck once more by the magnitude of the love you feel for her, the lightness in your chest, the way the cosmos embraced the infinitesimal chance of your love.

the night could be starless; hell, you could be in the heart of seoul where the serenity of the sky is swallowed by the haze of the city. it wouldn’t matter, not when you have this moment: jungeun’s eyes turned upwards, features softly illuminated by the brilliance above, smelling of stardust and summer.