“So…you haven’t been crying?”

*

Busy, is an understatement for the amount of activity bustling in the café Sunha and you are sitting in. But neither the shrilly voice of the barista manning the till nor the countless other conversations taking place bothers the quiet, dreaded exchange at hand.

“You…like him, don’t you?” you say softly. Any louder and you fear that a crack would find its way into your voice that you have miraculously kept steady. Silence hangs in the air, mocking, and your throat feels strangely parched. So you take a sip of your Mocha frappe and let the mixture of frozen espresso and cream sit in your mouth, melting. Even when the molars on your upper jaw ache in disapproval you let the ice bid its time, freezing the nerves in your gums, until the pain is numbed out.

Looking up to see a sorry expression painted on your best friend’s face, you blink back the emotional storm of tears you feel at the brim of your lids. The mere action stings your eyes. You had asked a question you both knew needed no confirmation.

Sunha is fidgety in the deep purple sofa that she sits in (the sofas were plenty comfortable the countless other times you had dropped by together) but today, today is different. Today, Sunha fiddles with the hem of her pastel yellow tee, bringing your attention to a centrally printed smiley that jeers at you with its googly eyes. In her other hand, she grips a cup of hot chocolate with a ferocity that turns her knuckles white and strained. Her gaze veers slightly left (perhaps at your shoulders) with watery eyes that are not quite able to meet your own. An expression of defeat and remorse mars her oft upbeat demeanour—much worse than you looked—and you couldn’t find it in yourself to blame her. Not quite.

*

Sitting under the canopy of a roadside store, sweating the summer night away in the pink Polo tee you recognize as the one you got him the previous spring, Kim Himchan peers at you disbelievingly through the lens-less holes of his vanity glasses. They make his almond-shaped eyes seem even larger than when you waved him off at the airport, six months ago.

He downs a shot before turning his full attention back to you. Himchan is giving you a look over; an assessment of how he thinks you are holding up. His eyes scrunch up in slits, the corners of his mouth downturn into a frown and you have to remind yourself that he does it out of habit. I have bad eyesight. He claims.

“Nope.”

He stares at you—his eyes still in slits—as he waits for an explanation you don’t plan on giving. The staring continues, his brows furrowing in deeper underneath the curtain of his messy fringe. He waits. And it unnerves you, the way he watches.

You find yourself shooting the pretty boy a dirty glare and he downs another shot without breaking his gaze. So you relent, taking a shot of your own before speaking, “I look hideous when I cry. I’m not going to let myself look more pathetic than I already am. Besides, it’s just a guy. And this happened the week after you left.” The sizzling of marinated pork grilling in lard fills the impregnated pause, “I got over him.”

*

The Youngjae you met back in college was a highly organized guy—perhaps even to an OCD-ish point—who wore clothes from his colour coded closet. Mondays were always yellow; Tuesdays, green; Wednesdays, blue and so forth.

You remember the day you first bumped into him in his purple cashmere sweater; it was a sticky, sweaty Friday. He had your Mocha frappe splattered all over his chest and you had mayo smeared across your left arm from his egg-and-ham sandwich (or whatever was left from it). Youngjae wasn’t very pleased when he had to remove his stained sweater for the day as it left him in his white collared shirt. And white wasn’t due till Sunday.

The second time you knocked into Yoo Youngjae, you had sent the dozen books or so he had been carrying across the library floor. The scowl on his face as he picked himself up while brushing imaginary lint off his red Paul Frank graphic tee (it was a Thursday) showed he sure as hell did not find you and your recurring clumsiness amusing. He gave you a withering glance but then took a deep breath when he realized he was getting worked up over an insignificant girl whose name he didn’t even know. You remember cringing involuntarily.

“What’s a gorgeous girl like yourself doing on the floor?” A flurried movement of hands picked you off the floor and onto your feet.

“Hi,” you stared at the outstretched hand for a bit before realizing your temporary stupor was probably coming off as rude. Grasping the pretty fingers in your own, you looked up to meet a friendly pair of eyes with depth that seemed to swallow you whole.

“I’m Himchan,” he said and you found yourself in another stupor at the tone of his voice, “and you are?”

“Uh…I’m uh…Yeohae,” your voice cracked towards the end and you repeated yourself, “I’m Yeohae.”

“Yeohae,” Himchan tested your name out with a smile before he turned to a disgruntled Youngjae who had finished gathering all his flyaway books, “Yeohae, this is Youngjae. And Youngjae, this is Yeohae.”

Yeohae. Youngjae’s face screamed indifference although he gave you a slight nod. Now, you were just another insignificant girl whose name he knew.