Two of Us

The city gleams below, pulsing its life in waves of golden dust, a painted, flowing river under her, glowing with tilting lights, thousands of thumping fireflies, slowly dancing with the night jam, the noises of horns and cars diffused, shuffled with the throbbing of her own heart, the phone on her hand forgotten, her last words still pressed inside of her head. She watches the stream, the twinkling street lamps, the swarm of people coming and going, faceless, anonymous, rushing ahead, out of her sight.

She observes how the sun is lowering far on the horizon, colouring the buildings, extracting sparkles out of them, bathing the streets with glitter and a metallic haze of falling flowers of red and orange. It is beautiful, dazzling, but it can’t win over the course of her thoughts, the palpitate at the back of her mind: the more she thinks, the closer she is from a headache and she rubs her temples trying to release the ensuing pain. She heaves, the warm air glossing the glass, clouding the views, blurring the patches underneath her eyes, covers the sky with mist, veiling the stars that are being born tonight. It is pointless, she sighs, leaving the window, sinking sullenly on the armchair. It doesn’t have to mean anything particularly she tries to reassure herself, just an odd coincidence, but the feeling of connoisseur is still there, lingering in her heart, itching, annoying, cumbersome and she needs to find out – she needs to figure it up if she is someone that she already knows, which would explain the easiness between them, the click, the blossoming string linking them, the mild sensation that, somehow, she just fits inside of her life, the missing piece of her existence. She shakes her head, curls spreading, floating in the air fast-forwarding, crashing on her neck and cheeks, raking up her silly surmise: it can’t be, they have never met before; she is sure that she would remember encountering someone like Yongsun – she could have never forgotten the tone of her voice, crispy like morning, bright like the sun, vibrant with energy and passion, reverberating through her spine, she can feel her force, her willing heart, her high-pitch laughter engraved inside of her core, echoing between ribs that are laced with her name alone.

She takes the phone and scrolls down, looking for the text that Yongsun had sent before. There is a smile threatening on her lips, stretching them, curling up, her heart feeling content, singing, lukewarm – just as if she has drunk citron-tea, the taste exploding in tides taking over her mind. She skims over the hundreds of exchanged messages until she reaches the one – that has pulled the trigger, ringing the alarm, a joke she has listened to one time and that is now repeating, coming from someone new, different (and she knows it is impossible because there is only one Kim Yongsun: irreplaceable, unique; she is one of a kind, special). Byul knows that and, yet, has the nagging sensation that they have already met.

“I’m just being stupid,” she mumbles, heading to bed. She lays flat on the mattress, eyes closed, head full of Yongsun, of everything she ever said, recalling all of the conversations, all the texts sent, trying to draw her face on the ceiling – but she fails, the only picture of her that she has is blurry in her mind and it leads to nowhere, leaves no traces behind.

She wakes up with an idea blooming and texts Yongsun first – wipes the sleep away from her eyes, hair a mess of tangles falling over her shoulders, dark flocks covering the factions of her sides. She brushes them away, puts them behind his ears, swallows water to clear her head. She revises the message before sending it – it is a suggestion for them to meet on the flesh, through a video call. Byul thinks it is a normal petition since they have been chatting for months but never really seeing the other in real-time - they have swap pictures of their pets and, on occasions, photos of themselves, but Byul feels that Yongsun has been lacking on that field, glancing over the only pictorial of her that she owns. Byul knows that Yongsun is overall shy and timid, despite that the cheer on her voice doesn’t suit her personality trails, and she won’t force her to do something she is not comfortable with, but she feels that they have enough complicity, that they are friends, after all: there is nothing to be ashamed of or to hide since Byul has displayed herself as she truly is: witty, introspective, greasy, easy-going, good-natured and caring. She has shown Yongsun all the aspects of her life, has made her participle, has told her about her worries and problems, has listened to her tips and advice – and she has done the same for her. Byul considers that it is just natural to want to see Yongsun, that it’s not a weird request, but she doesn’t reply and it is late already, which is unusual – Yongsun is glued to her phone, she texts back at the speed of light unless she is busy, but Byul knows she is not (it is a lazy Saturday morning with nothing waiting ahead). She checks her device and pouts, dejected when she realises it is still lacking a reply – she whines and whimper, makes a face that reflexes on the black pool of the screen and she laugh at her own foolish; she will be back at her soon, she only needs to be patient.

She blinks at the flashing, flickering light. It’s too early to chuckle, but she grins at the prospect of having a new text from Byul. She springs out of bed, kicking out blankets, rubbing off her eyes, the tiny blond ponytail squashed on the base of her head, a mess of locks out of place covering a puffed, round face lit up by a radiant smile that feels mislaid amid the sunlight bathing the room, stippling warm and golden from behind the curtain. She ignores the heaviness of her lids and launches from her phone; it has become their dynamic: messaging across the day, sharing their routine, making it better with boosts and funny comments, wise remarks, helping each other – Byul has become her support system, the person she relays in the most. Sometimes it is like having Byul around, listening to her over the phone she can picture her sitting on her couch, watching her doing her chores and the burden of her life lifts up, she makes night turn bright.

She would like that very much – to have her around, sharing the same space, breathing in the same air, but Yongsun is aware that, if Byul knew the person that she is, the colours coating her, she would loath it, would dislike her character and she can’t allow that because now that Byul has entered her heart, there is no way she can’t go on a day without her pillar, the merriment she pours into her, all the joy she brings in, her sincere efforts to make her laugh that never fail to put a smile on her, sparkles all over her glance.

Until now it has been easy to pretend to be quiet and collected, Byul has never suspected that under the hues she shows there is more, that she is not grey and boring but an amalgam of mismatched shades and colours: she is blue and red, splashing in purple and orange, weird and loud and bossy, so full of passion that she can barely contain it – she is always rushing to the next step, always living ahead, planning new, exciting activities to do or just staying home watching dramas and being hurt if a sound interrupts the moment. She is many things at once but none of them fits right in the world – too intense, too boisterous, too honest and unapologetic, she is sure that Byul won’t want to grasp her, to blend in with her real personality, that she won’t be able to manage her energy and passion: no-one can handle that.

It has been easy to hide these sides of her because all they have done has been chatting and sending texts and Yongsun has had the time to change her attics, to build a different character just for Byul, for her to consider Yongsun a reliable friend, someone who she can trust, even if she is a whole façade, a fraud – but she wants to be considered by Byul, to be loved by her, to have her as her friend.

She frowns upon reading the message, a crease wriggling atop of her nose, her eyes red after rubbing them hard to wipe out the sleep, to make sure that she is reading it correctly – that she is not mistaken, that Byul is asking to meet in person one day. She sighs, head buried on the pillow, teary eyes filled with broken stars: she can’t do that, she can’t keep her armour on without revealing cracks from where the truth will leak off, - she can’t be with Byul without showing off her enthusiasm. It has been so comfy there, inside of her bubble, inside of the character she plays for her to let it go, she doesn’t want to lose Byul – not when she is all that matters, the person who has brought sense back to her senseless existence (she has put new colours, adding to the collage that Yongsun is, painting over her canvas until all is fresh and new). Byul has turned to be the music of her core, the sound that makes her dance, crack-up in delight, the blues that compliments the jazz living in her – she is the perfect match and Yongsun will do anything to keep it this way, for her to not notice all that she lacks, all that she misses and that it is represented under the shape of a moon and a star (under Byul’s name, her pretty face sketched under her eyes). No, she can’t do it, so she brushes the offer off, ignores it to the best of her capabilities – but it sinks inside of her core, scratching her with vines and thorns.

She tosses the phone aside and heaves, a pout covering her face and it is hard to begin the day without a conversation with Byul, but that’s how it is today – and how it will be from now on unless Byul texts her something she can reply, forgetting that Yongsun has been neglecting her and avoiding her query about doing a video-call. It feels odd and strange to go around without words from her friend, but she refrains the impulse and, even though she checks her phone and her gaze is fixed on it, nothing changes – the last message remains the same (it doesn’t dissolve or disappear, as much as Yongsun begs and prays).

The afternoon falls on her like heavy rain, the sun the walls with bright shades but her heart is unease, unsettled, looking at her phone, sighing, dejected. Yongsun hasn’t replied and it has never taken her so long and her mind is getting sow with wild suggestions that make her uncomfortable, fill her with worrisome. She considers calling her but she stops herself – Yongsun will come back to her whenever she wants to, perhaps she is visiting her family and has forgotten to tell, maybe she is out with her other friends (she is entitled to have a life outside of Byul, unlike she, who lives and breathes because of Yongsun, the light that baths her).

They have been exchanging emails so often that it feels out of place not receiving news about her, but their relationship has bloomed so quickly, so naturally, maybe it’s time to slow down a bit, to let it grow at a different speed – calm down the thirst she has for Yongsun, just let her do her own things (and perhaps Byul, too, can stop her obsession over her, clean her mind and heart, start anew and refreshed, without the taste of her name constantly throbbing at the tip of her tongue, always prone to be enunciated, said aloud). Maybe she has gotten tired of Byul and the mere thought hurts, the air trap on and she can’t breathe – but she let go of it, thinks positively.

Byul rolls on her unmade bed, get caught between the sheets, her head spinning, the phone in front of her, still showing that Yongsun has read the message but not replied. She flaps her hair, let it be disarray of curls falling to the sides, tinkling her cheeks, painting with black the white of the blankets. It has been a day, but she feels aged, aggravated – not because Yongsun hasn’t shown up but for what she feels when Yongsun is not around. She dislikes it, the person she becomes, the anxiousness, the need, the fact that she yearns for her with every fibre of her heart, every inch of her skin beats under the caress of Yongsun’s words and voice.

She tries to come up with a theory that can explain Yongsun’s reactions – or the lack of it, - and all she can think is that she is afraid to show up her face, that she doesn’t find herself beautiful – but that’s bull, she is the prettiest girl Byul has ever laid eyes on, even if what she has is just a bunch of pixels saved on her phone. No, Yongsun is shy, she is aware, has noticed the rosy on her tone, but not that extend – not to the point of neglecting Byul this way.

So, what if it was all phishing and Yongsun is not even real? Should she ask her to recognise a picture of a street lamp or would that be too much? Can it be a bot playing with her – is that even possible? She shakes her head, her nose bumping against the pillow, falling flat against the mattress, giggling at the enormity of her idiocy. It can’t be, it’s too complex but that leads to another idea: the girl in the picture is not Yongsun – and it is a good explanation for her to ignore her plead, though Byul doesn’t mind how she looks like, she is already smitten by her persona, she has no interest in the exterior (not when Yongsun is so wonderful and kind; it makes no sense). She gives up, sinks sunken on the bed, calls it a day, tossing the phone aside, out of her reach, out of her fingers typing an apology she doesn’t feel.

She is not a stranger to Yongsun, it has been months of friendship, there is no reason for Yongsun to hide, not when she is familiar with her tendencies and tempers, with her moods and kirks, all of her oddities. She has been open and real, hasn’t concealed her bad habits, Yongsun knows all that there is to be known about her and has accepted her as she is: imperfect, lacking, trying to mature.

There are too many thoughts thrumming on her mind right now. She looks at the clock hanging on the wall: it’s not too late, even when the moon is out and the wind crashes, cold, against her cheeks, Byul gets up and goes for a drive to clear off her head from Yongsun, from all the possibilities, from the blooming idea that this is all a fraud, a scheme to make fun out of her. Driving has always been her clean slate, so she gets on the car and crosses Seoul, a good song playing on the radio, all her thoughts becoming one with the wind that brushes her from the rolled down the window, prickling her with icy fingers, hair ravening, floating at her sides, slapping her cheeks.

The city thumps, alive, beneath her feet, a clutter of secluded lights, twinkling in golden like heavenly fire beating from below, igniting streets and parks, small and distant from Naksan Mountain. Byul inhales the fresh air, shivers under the blowing wind caressing her skin, but smiles nevertheless, surrounded by the pale night, the soft, muffled sounds of the forest, the chirp of the nocturnal birds, crickets singing, humming with the melody of Byul’s heart, the vast universe upon her glance: bright, infinite, perfect. She feels the momentum inside of her, shrinking on her veins until it is just a soft tickle down her spine and she chuckles, amused, eyes lost, above the blearing line of the distant horizon. The views are beautiful as she clicks on to immortalize the instant shimmering in front of her, about to disappear if she comes too closer, like buttercups under a light touch, dispelled, only their taste remaining. And she doesn’t need to say anything, she doesn’t have to reply – but this moment is worth sharing (it is worth to be sharing with Yongsun, real or not). The moonbeams atop of her, veiling the paths and the ground with liquid silver, painting the world with metallic shades that gleam like a twilight over the waves. She can count thousand of stars, far, hanging over her head, fairy-light tilting, twinkling down at her. Time stretches, infinite, and nothing matters but the glowering light blinking on her eyes.

The snapshot of the night sky irrupts her dinner. She stops to check it out, smiles at the displayed sight: the moon and the stars that feel like Byul – that is all that she represents and that Yongsun has inked down on her bones. It is so nice of her, so thoughtful, to reach out without a word, without accusing her of ignoring her plead. Yongsun doesn’t think this time around, she moves by the force of her feelings.

“It is beautiful,” she says, on the phone. Byul, at the other end, sitting on a bench, legs folded and the wind messing with her hair, smiles, content. At least, she still has her.

“Can you please select what picture depicts a lamp street?” she asks, chuckling softly. She has been worried all day long, she is not thinking straight – she is out of her mind and she just wants to confirm that she is a bit crazy.

“What?” Yongsun’s raised brows are up so high it hurts, all her skin tensed up.

“I was wondering that, perhaps, you were only a bot playing with me,” she sighs, her tone light and fun. “That you were cat-fishing me,” she elaborates, still grinning, silver bathing the warm bronzer of her eyes.

“I’m not following you, Byul,” Yongsun cuts her, staring at the distance. She opens the French doors that lead to the small balcony: from there, the sky is veiled with dust and sadness, the moon clouded but, with her eyes closed, she can see what Byul is seeing, feels the universe like a blanket atop of her – can feel Byul’s breath on her forehead. It’s not the same as being there with her but it’s the closest she will ever be to standing by her side. “Did you hit your head?” she wonders, a bit concerned.

“No, I’m fine, just joking,” she assures Yongsun, still giggling at her own stupidity – of course, that Yongsun is real.

“OK...” but Yongsun doesn’t seem very convinced, despite the laughter and knowing that Byul likes to mess around, that she is a prankster. Byul doesn’t mind that Yongsun thinks she is a bit loopy, it is just who she is and she is not about to change – she is not because being like this makes Yongsun laugh and it is the prettiest sound in the world, her high-pitch giggles filling her ears like joyful bells. “Where are you?” she asks, still questioning Byul’s sanity.

“You are not calling the police or something, right?” and not it’s time for Yongsun to laugh – and Byul’s chest spans, releasing all the trapped anxiety waiting for her to reply.

“Of course not!” but she is chuckling, too, so Byul let it slide, doesn’t mind at all – forgets all the seconds since morning until now, checking her phone, wondering if Yongsun was all right, if she was angry at her, annoyed at her request. She might be, but she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she tells her about her day, explains what she has been up to with a cheerful note.

Byul makes everything better, brighter, she doesn’t bring up the forlorn topic and Yongsun is eternally thankful for it – for the Byul that hangs at the other end of the line, listening to her rambling, nodding and chuckling. She feels so relieved that Byul isn’t bothered by her attitude this morning that she feels obligated to fill up all the gaps with stories of her own, telling her how delighted she is to hear her voice – how much she has missed her, how she is so sorry for being such a jerk, for laying to her, pretending to be someone else just to impress her, just because talking with Byul is the highlight of her whole day, the one thing that keeps her expecting, happy, wagging like a puppy.

The night fades away, surrendered to Yongsun’s voice, yielding to her as the moon relinquishes to the sun. Byul drives back home, leaving the coldness of the mountain behind, the wind still caught between her hair, singing to that song on the radio, Yongsun’s high-pitch matching with her lower one, jamming as if they were together in one room – as if nothing else mattered but tonight and the flashing lights.

“Well, I’ll better go to bed, tomorrow I promised Yongkee to bring her to the park!” Yongsun says, badly hiding a yawn herself, “she likes to run since she is still a baby,” she explains, a blanket around her shoulders, dragging it while walking to her room, the last of humid air stuck on her bare feet – she carries the night inside of her eyes. She has Yongkee running in circles, tail wiggling, spanking on her ankles and, when she curls under the duvet, the dog follows suit, snuggling next to her, nuzzling on her pyjamas’ T-shirt, barking excitedly – as if understanding what her owner said.

“Oh, rest well then unnie!” Byul bids her good-nights and, with some remorse, let go of Yongsun, hangs up the call.

She is about to fall asleep when, suddenly, she knows what to do – where to go to find Yongsun. It’s not that she still thinks that she is a fraud but, talking with her has increased her resolve to meet her in the flesh, for real. She smirks against the pillow, kicks the duvet excitedly, feelings like a schoolgirl after seeing her crush – unreasonable stupid and full of butterflies. She might only have one picture of Yongsun but a hundred of Yongkee and she knows exactly what she is looking for. It won’t be difficult to spot them playing in the ground – she is going to make sure to surprise them.

Byul goes on with her day with an indelible grin all over her face. She lets the sun lower down, painting the streets with orange and yellow before stepping into the chill afternoon, the air is brushing her cheeks, leaves swirling with the wind, covering the pavement, rustling under her boots. She doesn’t rush and allows herself a moment to enjoy what is about to happen. She has been thinking about the reasons behind Yongsun’s fear to show up and, even if she is just a whole joke, Byul wants to know – she needs to know if the ink beneath her blood is stained with Yongsun’s hues and shades, she wants to find out if Yongsun is someone she is already familiar with or a whole new wonder to discover ( a wonder that is tangoing inside her mind, dancing on her heart way too comfortably). She is not leaving her a choice: they are about to encounter and the pulse of her chest arouse, loud and agitated, all her flesh blushed in agitation, every inch of her body stirring up in exhilarating expectation. She doesn’t run, too shaky, legs a wreck just by imagining her reaction – just picturing her face.

Byul has gone through all of their texts, has scroll up until the very top, until reaching for that awkward first encounter, when none of them knew if their relationship would work out – if they would match, if they would have something in common, but, afraid and scared, they gave it a try and, since then, it has only blossomed, a friendship as bright as the light of the sunshine, pure and kind and wonderful, a friendship born from an on-line application and that is now about to become real, tangible. And, then, right in front of her, at the edge of the screen, appears the neighbourhood Yongsun lives in and, from that, finding a park isn’t a big deal. Byul can’t stop smiling, walking the distance that keeps them apart – every step an inch closer to her destiny, to the person she wants to meet the most, the one that never fails to make her laugh, make her work harder, diligently, the delicate voice inside of her head whenever she needs advise – Yongsun has been there by her side, supporting her projects, helping her deal with stress and anxiety, singing lullabies when she can’t fall asleep. She strolls along and it might be suspicious – she regrets not bringing in her dogs, but this is more a recognition mission; there will be plenty of time for puppy play-dates in the nearest future if Yongsun isn’t a robot programmed to scam Byul (which she doubts but the possibility is there nevertheless).

It is easy to spot them, she just has to follow the barks and the giggles, the source of them the most lovely girl ever, chasing after a joyful pup running with a wagging tail. Byul breathes in once and exhales the air slowly, calming down: she has seen only one picture of Yongsun but she has engraved her shape under her lashes but the camera doesn’t make her justice: she irradiates light, she is all gleam and shimmer, with bright brown eyes, cutely flicking, short black hair falling over her shoulders, swirling around her neck splashed with lonely motes and freckles. She is beautiful, she is taking all the space inside of her head, replacing every word with the force of her name, every particle of Byul yielding to Yongsun. She sighs heavily, shakes the nerves out of her system, her hands over her frayed jeans, steps in and walks to her, a little smile tilting at the edges.

“Identify the ambulances on this street,” she says, casually.

Yongsun recognises the voice immediately – too familiar to mistake it, - before the face but, when she turns around to the sound coming, she is greeted by a beauty that can’t be contained, under the shape of Byul. She wants to run away – she also wants to punch her. She blinks twice before letting out a yell – excitement winning the contest, replacing any other better judgement.

“Byul?” she exclaims, already touching her frame. Byul let her hands fall on her sides, holding her in place, shakes her head, nodding to her question. “There is no ambulance here, you silly,” she adds, rolling her eyes – confirming that, indeed, she is a human being and Byul can be assured that this is not a well-planned stunt.

“You are real!” she proclaims, joyfully bouncing, holding her hands, untangling them from her waist. Yongsun leaps with her, chuckling at her expression, Yongkee watching them with curiosity, running in circles around her owner’s legs. “Yongkee, you are real too!” Byul announces, rubbing her fur, letting her nuzzles her fingers. Yongkee finds no threat in Byul, allows her to pet her and Byul smiles and Yongsun stares, fascinated, at her friend, shaking her head in happy disapproval.

“What did you think I was?” she wonders, in surrender. Byul only grins, looking at her under all the hues of a late afternoon.

There is no way to hide her leaking persona, the holes are all over her and it is impossible to put what has been released back – Byul has seen parts of her she didn’t show her and, despite it being new to her, she has acted cool, has smiled at her quirkiness, has played along, has led her to display her true colours and she hasn’t flinched, she has taken it all graciously, accepting every different, mismatched part of her.

This Yongsun in front of her is much more the type of person she likes than the one over the phone: funny, reacting to any advance, laughing high, kicking and punching, this feels more natural, this feels just right – and Byul notices that, perhaps, that’s why she didn’t want to meet before, that she could be afraid of rejection, even though Byul loves every shade of her, every oddity and every inch, even the way she has to throw fists and fight when embarrassed, even if she says that she loathes her greasiness (she likes it all).

It takes an hour for Yongsun to drop all of her defences, to let go of any remaining pretence and fall for Byul even more than before: she is charming and perfect and she wants to spend every minute of every day with her, hearing her voice, watching her nose scrunch up with laughter and joy, all wrinkles and crumbles. It takes one glance to know that they are not letting go, stretching the afternoon until the moon is up, the stars witnessing their chatter, covering their heads with a veil of silver, Yongkee soundlessly sleeping on Byul’s lap, fingers mindlessly her back. They have been talking for hours and, yet, always find something more to say, a new sentence that turns in a whole new conversation they engage, not wanting to break off, looking for excuses to prologue the encounter.

“Next time I’ll bring my dogs, so Yongkee will have someone to play with,” Byul promises and Yongsun can’t stop grinning at the prospect of another meeting, at the idea of seeing Byul again.

Even if she is itching to meet her again, Byul forces herself to wait a day before enrolling into hours in the company of Yongsun. She busies herself all Monday at work, keeps her mind away from the sweet memories, the lovely moments together – she recalls them with fondness but she has work to do and thinking of Yongsun doesn’t help, makes her commit mistakes. She takes her time to plan it all on her mind, waits for another day before calling Yongsun again.

Byul brings flowers and four dogs dragging her, running ahead with the force of wild horses and the image of Byul resisting, heels deep-buried on the ground makes Yongsun giggle. Yongkee is delighted but scared, smelling them in turns, circling them carefully – but there is nothing to be afraid of: Byul’s dogs are well trained and welcome the youngest to the pack with elated barks.

“I brought grapes!” Yongsun says, taking a bowl out of her massive bag, handing it over to Byul. “I know you like them. I do, too,” and she smirks, filling with fruits, stuffing in as many as she can, making Byul wonder how big it can become, how far her lips can be torn. It’s funny, though, watching Yongsun eating with gusto, it makes her give in and join the feast.

They come back home while holding hands, Byul’s chin resting comfortably on Yongsun’s shoulder, her hair under her nose, the smell of peonies all she can sense – drowning on her core. The moon shines over them, a pure, pearly light, bathing them with glowing light and it beams on Byul’s eyes, painting them with a patina of silver and milk, thousand of stars alive inside of them. Byul is walking Yongsun home, the five dogs a mess of leashes and tails hitting on their ankles, snouts rubbing on their bones, Byul’s giggles echoing inside of her core, the sound straight to her ears, sinking to float her veins, pulsing on her blood. She is too good to be true and, yet, she is standing next to her, fingers curled, interlaced, telling her how beautiful she is, how no amount of professional photographers could ever made justice to her – she says it with all seriousness, she says all this when she is a goddess herself, made of clear crystal and a golden heart.

Yongsun looks so dim under the moonlight, vague and diffuse but still precious, like a work of art, an oil painting surrounded by dogs, which breaks part of the enchantment – makes the situation real, helps her stand on the ground instead of floating on cloud nine. She holds the door for her and Yongkee to enter the building, has to refuse the tempting invitation – she has to wake up early tomorrow, she has to bring back her parent’s place her dogs, much to her dismay. Yongsun turns to her, a hand on her shoulder, kisses her cheek.

“Good night, call me when you reach home!” and Byul nods, fingers tracing the feeling of her lips still trembling on her skin.

In her car, she still can feel it burning on her cheek, a windflower pressed there under the shape of Yongsun’s kiss – it is warm under the tip of her fingers drawing on it, and she smiles, recalling the way Yongsun ran out, back inside. She drives fast not to worry Yongsun – she wants to reach home to hear her voice again, to wish her good dreams (possibly filled by her, as she is sure hers will be).

She lets the stars come inside, watches them from the window, thinks about Byul, the one who carries constellations on her name. The phone buzzes on her hand and she doesn’t have to check who is calling, it can only be her.

She smiles at the sound of her voice, so warm and comfortable. The moon is nearly at the end of the horizon when Byul bids her goodnight again, despite that it is too early to call it like this – the sun is painting the edges of the world with red and blue. Yongkee has been sleeping on her bed and she tries to get in without bothering her pet, manages to sneak under the covers and close her eyes, Byul beaming beneath the lashes. She falls asleep counting the stars inside of her orbs, giving up at four – her heart giving in to the pull of Byul’s shape, and the flavour of her flesh is still fresh on her lips – she presses them together, the taste of cherries still lingering, her tongue them, remembering the moment, adding blush to her cheeks. She knows that it means – she has known all along.

After three casual dates and four more, it sums up to a whole week of meeting up and having fun. Yongsun isn’t worried to show herself to Byul, she embraces all of her, every part, even the ugly ones, the bits that she dislikes, she takes them carefully, bends to adjust to them, to accept it, to make the most out of them. Yongsun relaxes by her side, leaning on her, chin bumping against her shoulder – Byul is just about a centimetre taller but likes to brag.

“Here,” she says, lowering a bit, just enough for Yongsun to comfortably rest on the crook of her neck. “Little dwarf” she adds, chuckling.

“We are just the same!” Yongsun proclaims, indignant, punching her, but it only makes Byul laugh harder and, in the end, Yongsun surrenders, joins her shaking her head. “You are impossible,” she giggles and her lips find the perfect spot to tenderly land – like the touch of a butterfly wing, delicate, smooth, quickly. She presses a peek and swallows her breath, tickling Byul to a mush of chuckles, beating her.

Byul holds her hand as if a miracle, watches them swirl arms while walking, totally captivated by it, calculating the angle and the restrain of the wind. She finds it a wonder to be able to be this close to Yongsun, to feel her hand tangled between her fingers, her voice bubbling on her ears, her name coming out from her lips like a birthday present. It is beautiful, she is beautiful, painted with the sunset glowing on her skin, her voice glimmering, millions of colours inside of her, exploding in the universe that they have created – the cosmos that lives betwixt their hold hands.

She lets another week go by and, then, worried, another one, waiting for the perfect moment to say what lingers on her heart, all the feelings that she evokes, all the sensations skimming over her. Byul is sure that there is nothing to be concerned about; after all, Yongsun kisses her cheek and her forehead with a rush of affection and care. But she just wishes that Yongsun will understand her, that she will mirror her own feelings, that she is a decalcomania of her, matching, symmetrical in their love – giving and taking in the same measure.

Byul surprises her every day and she can just wonder how she does that – she comes to collect her to the office, drives her around, brings her to the best coffee shops. She is always ready to make her heart swell with love. Yongsun can’t compete with all that Byul does – she is careful not to bother her too much, always refraining from going to her place, though she has been there a couple of times already. She is being cautious because she doesn’t want to scare Byul away by telling her how much she means to her life, how she is the sparkle lit up her whole sky – it is too cheeky and too much to handle, to take in, even when Byul brings her flowers and is greasy all day (but that’s a part of her, it can’t be avoided, not that Yongsun minds much).

It’s been a month and Yongsun is still waiting for Byul to say the three words that are so obviously written in highlighters all over her when she looks at Yongsun – but that hasn’t left . She has already met her two little sisters and, of course, Byul is on good terms with Yonghee, who is constantly asking about the state of their evident relationship that is, as far as Yongsun is concerned, pure friendship.

Yongsun is tired of waiting for something she already holds. She sighs at the text that Byul has just sent, cancelling their date because she needs to finish a photoshoot. She acts cool, indifferent – it’s no big deal, she can go on a day without Byul, though everything is boring and dull. Yongsun is sprawled on the couch petting Yongkee, who is bundled on her lap when another message lit up the screen of her phone. She takes it and smiles.

“Silly Byul,” she chuckles, her short hair falling on her sides like a dark water curtain. She opens the attached picture, imagining that it would be a selca of Byul pouting, rolling her eyes in exasperation due to the long hours trapped at work. It is a captcha image.

“Please, select the correct image of the love of my life,” it comes in a heartbeat after. There are six different pictures: a camera, Byul’s puppies, her tattoo representing her family, Yongsun, the moon and tangulhu.

She wants to laugh, but tears are smearing the colour of her eyes.

“You better chose wisely, Yongsun unnie,” comes in another text, “prove that you know my heart and that you are not a bot.”

She doesn’t think it twice. She types it and press send. It takes ten seconds for the reply to show up, blinking on her screen.

“You are clearly not a bot. You are my girl.”

Yongsun finds it hilarious. Laughter blocks her capability to text Byul back so, when she calls, a bit worried, Yongsun is still thinking about it, chortling.

“It took you a while to figure it up that I’m not a robot,” she says, still giggling, all fuzzy and warm on the inside, “but your girlfriend.”