It took about three weeks to get settled completely into our new place. We’d finally made our way off the floor and into the actual bed, though it was used purely for sleeping in and nothing else. Not that Jonghyun didn’t try… but that I made sure to go to bed a few hours after him each night, listening for the snores from the other room as a sign, so that he was already fast asleep by the time I slid my fatigued body beneath the covers.

            He’d started his official position with the local high school as a music teacher, even though the term wasn’t set to resume until the following Thursday. And me? I tried to get a job at the same school but at the last minute decided against it; I had sudden doubts whether or not working so close with my husband was a good idea. I’d heard too many horror stories about other couples that attempted this reality—and failed.

            I decided instead to pick up a temporary position at a boutique as a clerk in order to help out a friend of mine who managed it—a good enough reason as any. But it also gave me time to try and figure out how to pull a wedding together, and how to go about making the occasion the perfect fantasy that it was intrinsically expected to be—at least by the guests. Jong didn’t really care so much about the details, he’d said, which became slightly problematic, though I didn’t speak it, because the reality of it all was that I didn’t really care either. I just enjoyed our current reality: he was my best friend. My roommate. My shoulder to lean on and ear to fill when I needed to talk (and talk and talk…). And though I was too nervous to sleep with him yet, I really had become accustomed to the taste of his lips.  A sweet taste, yet slightly salty: comforting and homey like cold noodles on a hot day, or pastries spiced with maternal care. He always kissed slowly; never forceful with his lips or tongue, which I assumed was his way of restraining from partisan passion before control inexorably slipped away. At any rate, I was grateful for the steady rhythm and gentle touch. It was, by all standards, a lovely thing to share with a lovely person.

            Still, there was a haunting emptiness that crept through my mind from time to time, though I never spent a good deal of energy trying to decode it. We got along splendidly, as always, our most intimate times the moments of friendly banter or the sharing of common interests—we had the same taste in movies, music, books… all very basic things, but still important. These things helped silence the nagging whisper; the quiet voice which hovered between the gaps of time with its secret, otherwise indistinguishable, words.

            As for Key, I hadn’t seen him since our initial meeting, but heard more of him as the days passed. The man, Kim Kibum, was still a mystery to me, and I found this mystery as unnerving as it was intoxicating, and secretly I longed to see him again, though for no discernable reason other than pure intrigue and curiosity. I wanted to understand him, this person who my future husband obviously felt great affection for, though he was sparse with explanations as to why.

            I wondered at times how it was for Jong to work in a high school after learning more of the hardships incurred when he, himself, was a teen. Little by little he let me in on the instances of bullying and judgment, though as a woman I did not wholly understand it; but the more he began to unfold in detail, the more my heart hurt for him. As the weeks went on, the spontaneous confessions seemed to unravel with more severity, until at last he’d confided in me that he’d been beaten to the point of hospitalization in the second-floor bathroom of his school by a gang of homophobic peers, and it was by the saving grace of a single friend that pulled him through the aftermath—and that friend was no other than Kim Kibum.

            Why had I not known these things? How could I be so ignorant of the reality of my best friend’s suffering? We'd barely talked during those years, but I certainly didn't know this was going on. I cried as he told me, and immediately after he spoke the last word in his confession, I wrapped my arms around him and held him. “I’m so sorry, babe,” I said, allowing his tears to fall on my shoulder and saturate the thin sleeve. Jong was always prone to cry, but it didn’t make it any easier to witness. To be honest, I was choking back my own tears now, though when a few drops began to form, I spent little energy trying to catch them before they fell into the thick forest of his dark hair. “I’m so glad you had someone," I speak quietly. Earnestly. "I’m so thankful you had Key…”

            He managed to smile, even though his eyes were full and sad.

            “Will you tell me more about him?” I asked, and before you judge me, please consider my intention for asking—it was an honest attempt to share in what he’d held important for so long, a way to welcome his unhindered and honest expression by saying it was mutually important to me.

            And he did: he started to unveil their past together like a close-knit flower that, upon blossoming, revealed the most vibrant petals that would otherwise go unnoticed if remained tightly sealed. He told me about Key's penchant for fashion and his sweet relationship with his grandmother, as well as his supposed "uncanny" dancing skills; and he went on and on about Key's twisted sense of humor and his abilty to be both goofy and cool at the same time. And how he loved attention but was secretly one of the most considerate, compassionate people he'd ever met. How he liked to play games but hated sports, both which often clashed with his irrepressible need to win. He told me about how they were inseprable in high school when no one else had the courage to befriend them because of the rumors that they were homouals, which seemed to be a judgment based on appearance alone. They would have each other's backs when anyone dared criticize them, and became a sort of team to protect each other, so in the end I began to understand more and more: it made sense that Jong, tormented for “looking gay,” would happen to forge a lasting, compassionate friendship with a gay man who’d rescued him on some emotional level.

            “Did they ever think you guys were, you know, dating…?” I asked, only deducing the obvious from what he’d said.

             But this seemed to cause him some level of unexpected embarrassment. “We…”

            “Hm?” This word was both interesting and confusing.

            “We kinda… had a thing, Raina.”

            I felt my chest tighten and my legs fall a little weak. Why? I didn’t understand my reaction anymore than I did his claim. “What do you mean, a ‘thing’?”

            “I mean… Key and I—”

            “You mean… a thing thing?” I blurted out in surprise. “Jong—are you… are you gay?” This may have been an insensitive conclusion, given the sensitive details of the topic itself, but it was only a logical assumption. Still, how could this be possible? After all, wasn’t he with me, a very real and obvious woman? And besides, wasn't he a ? Wouldn't that sort of thing... 'count' as well? So many questions were coming to mind that I had a hard time keeping up with them.

            He chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his head. “No, Raina… I’m not gay.”

            I relax some, but not entirely. I really didn’t understand. “So… I don’t get it?”

            “I was… kinda confused in high school, is all.”

            “Is all?” This seemed like oversimplification. "Well, now I'm kinda confused honestly..."

            “I really don’t want to talk about it anymore, if that’s okay.”

            Jong seemed embarrassed and withdrawn from me all of a sudden, and I could tell that the more I pressed him the more uncomfortable he became, so I decided to lovingly refrain from my questions.

            At least for now.