For as long as I remember, it’s been this way: him and I together, inseparable. Basically promised to each other (by no effort of our own) since we were kids. I considered Kim Jonghyun to be my best friend more than my fiancée. How we even became engaged, I couldn’t even tell you. It just was, like an indisputable force of nature, like the law of gravity or theory of relativity—and our parents had seemingly preferred it this way for a very long time.  

            We met even before we were in kindergarten. Our parents were best friends at the time (and still are, to this day), and both his mom and mine would trade off babysitting duties in order to give the other one a break. But they usually ended up teaming up their efforts—meaning they would sit around in the living room sipping tea and talking over the drama of their limited lives with an intimacy only kindred, middle-aged women can appreciate. Meanwhile, “Jong” and I would spend the hours playing whatever suited our whims. I was a tomboy, and he, a sensitive guy, so our games varied from playing house to G.I. Joes; just whatever we felt like at the time, which always worked, unhindered, because we got along so well.

            We got along so well, in fact, that we were generally indivisible until we hit our strange teen years and felt the pressure of outside judgment and the need to “fit in” with our own distinct groups of people (who did not coincide at the time). We not-so-fondly call those years the Black Hole Years, the small sum of hours coiled into a series of days and weeks until it collected into the unmerciful experience that is high school. After high school, however, we made up for the difference in intimacy once we discovered we were enrolled not only in the same college, but the same courses as well. Here, we restored our friendship and naturally progressed into the kind of higher-rate connection that a woman shares with a man—though we didn’t go looking for it, nor wholly believe in it to begin with…

            You might ask why we didn’t believe. But maybe I should clarify by saying that it wasn’t disbelief so much as the lack of anything else to believe in. I knew him in-and-out; likewise, he knew me the same. There wasn’t one missing detail in our inventory of each other’s fears, idiosyncrasies, or happiness. And had you asked me then if I loved him, I would have answered an undoubting yes, because this seemed an accurate definition of what we felt for each other: limitless and loyal love—though desire was one thing that seemed to be lacking.

            But I didn’t see it then. It wasn’t that he wasn’t desirable. Kim Jonghyun was very attractive. He was on the shorter side, but I never minded that (we were about the same height anyhow). And he was funny; one of the funniest guys I’d ever met. He always made me laugh, and was dedicated to seeing me smile. His heart was as lovely as his facial features: he had soft skin which made him seem younger than me, though in truth I was nearly five months older; his smile was charming in a gentle way, though he could easily twist his lips into a cruel grin when feeling mischievous or ‘naughty’; his eyes were also soft but powerfully intense all the same, and when he looked at me I usually felt like laughing, simply to cover up the more uncomfortable explanation behind the power of his expression—that he was y. He'd learned early on that his certain puppy-expression left me vulnerable, I really could do nothing but appease his every single desire once he gave it; he had that affect on me, my Jong, and there was rarely anything I denied him, though he was kind enough not to fully abuse this power outright. 

            And in me? I don’t really know why he was so devoted. In fact, his affection came more in the form of teasing than anything; he'd play with my long hair at times, sweeping it back off my shoulders and twisting it in his hands as if he knew how to braid it (but he so clearly did not), or separating it into pleats that he would proceed to tug and pull, usually resulting in me pulling away from him in pain. He always said he liked my eyes, being that they were a little different; I am half Korean, half Japanese, so my facial features vary from his considerably, and where there had been countless times growing up where this difference made me feel insecure, Jonghyun always prized my "exoticism" and said (once) that it made me more beautiful.  

            Aside from that, we rarely talked of physical things. We were close enough that skinship wasn't a problem (in fact, he was the kind of person who preferred it), but hand-holding and cheek-kissing was the extent of our physicality. Jong called me Squishy in his attempted way to be endearing, though he often made fun of my high-pitched sneeze, the way I drooled when I fell asleep in class, the way I constantly bumped into things, or looked “constipated” when confused. He made fun of me for a lot of things, which was just his way of loving someone. In fact, he made fun of me far more than he ever complimented me, so I never understood his attraction, other than the obvious gravitational pull between us. He’d never dated anyone, nor had I, so all of these things seemed normal enough, and I never really minded—at least, not until I found a different way to both love and be loved…

            “Let’s get married, Squishy,” he said one day under the bower of the old elm tree that covered the whole quad under its swaying, weatherworn branches.

            I laughed. “Bwo?”

            “Meh. Let’s do it. Why not?”

            “Why not?” I repeated. “You’re crazy.”

            “We’re always together anyway.”

            “Is this a good reason to pick a wife?”

            “I don’t need to pick; you’ve always been with me from day one. I never had to search for you. That’s fate.”

            This was as endearing as it was odd. I shifted my legs in the grass, the green tips tickling my calves. “I guess…”

            “Besides,” he yawned, “what else did you plan on doing? Last semester—time to grow up, be functional members of society. Marriage seems like a logical step.”

            “I’ve never known you to be the practical one in this relationship.”

            Jong let out a deep laugh. “Well, I am the man…”

            “Pfft. ist.” But I said this while laughing too; truth was, I knew Jong wouldn’t hurt a fly, and never judged others. He was too kind of a person to harbor negativity or prejudice. “I’m going to get a job, is what I’m going to do. You just want someone to cook for you and clean up after you.”

            “An added benefit—along with many others…”

            He said this in that lecherous way of his, so that I knew exactly what he meant.

            “You’re sick. Dream on.”

            “Wae, wae? You don’t find me y?” He flexed his surprisingly strong bicep in an attempt to impress me. 

            “I think you’re a nerd,” I say, and as I do, pass him over the container of rice we’d been sharing.

            He seemed satisfied with this answer, and in turn, exchanges the rice for the box of ginger chicken that he’d nearly finished single-handedly. He’d managed to save me the biggest pieces, however, of which I was silently grateful—he knew it was my favorite.

            “I think you’re a dork. Match made in heaven.” Jong said this with his mouth full, so that a few strands of rice fell out of his mouth and hung on his lip errantly; he didn’t seem any more embarrassed than I was, and it was this simple, unabashed gesture of comfortableness that caused me to say, surprisingly: “Okay.”

            The chopsticks in his hand fell limp. “Eh?”

            I smiled softly. “Okay.”

            “Okay what?”

            “Okay, I’ll marry you.”

            “Raina…”

            This took me aback; he rarely used my real name. But still I kept smiling. He smiled back. We smiled together—a silly, innocent share of strange, excited smiles, no matter how awkward the situation could have been. And probably should have been.

            And that was how I got engaged—

            The first time.