Chapter 3
By the fifth Sunday, pretending had become a skill.
I pretended that I didn’t wake up earlier than necessary just to give myself more time to think about the sound of Kim’s laugh.
I pretended that my chest didn’t tighten every time I saw him step through the door, hair slightly damp from the heat, eyes already searching the room in a way that felt dangerously close to searching for me.
I pretended that this—whatever it was—could still be controlled.
The restaurant was louder than usual that day, packed with families and church crowds and the familiar chaos of orders shouted in Korean and English, and Kim moved through it with a quiet confidence he hadn’t had when he first started. He belonged here now, at least in motion, even if something about him still felt temporary, like he was passing through a chapter of his life that would end too soon.
I watched him from behind the counter when I shouldn’t have.
He smiled at customers, listened carefully, laughed at the right moments, and every time someone complimented his kindness or patience, something sharp twisted in my chest—not pride, exactly, but something close to it, something possessive and alarming.
That feeling got worse when she arrived.
Her name was Hannah, and she came in just after noon, sunlight practically following her inside like it had been invited. She was beautiful in the way people noticed immediately—confident, loud without being rude, wearing a dress that suggested summer and freedom and the kind of life that didn’t revolve around obligation.
She smiled at Kim as soon as she saw him.
Not politely. Not casually.
Intentionally.
“Oh,” she said, leaning slightly on the counter, eyes flicking over him with open interest. “You must be new.”
Kim flushed. “Kind of.”
I felt irrationally angry.
Hannah ordered slowly, drawing out the conversation, laughing too loudly at things Kim said that weren’t meant to be funny, touching his arm lightly when she thanked him for the food. Kim didn’t pull away—but he didn’t lean into it either, his smiles smaller now, more uncertain.
I hated how much I noticed.
“Moon,” my mother snapped from the kitchen. “Table six.”
I went, jaw tight, setting the food down harder than necessary, aware of Hannah’s curious gaze flicking between me and Kim.
“You two friends?” she asked lightly.
Kim opened his mouth.
“No,” I said at the same time.
Kim blinked, surprised.
I didn’t look at him.
Hannah raised an eyebrow. “Oh.”
She didn’t say anything else, but her interest sharpened, something calculating replacing the easy flirtation, and I knew—knew—that she had noticed something she wasn’t meant to see.
After she left, Kim avoided my eyes.
The guilt hit me later, heavy and unwelcome, when we crossed paths near the back hallway and he stopped me with a quiet, “Hey.”
“What?” I asked too sharply.
He hesitated. “Did I do something wrong?”
The question startled me.
“No,” I said immediately, then softer, “No. You didn’t.”
“Then why—” He stopped himself, shook his head. “Never mind.”
I wanted to reach for him then.
Instead, I stepped back.
That night, I lay awake thinking about Hannah’s smile, about Kim’s blush, about the way jealousy had come so easily to me, so violently, and the realization terrified me more than attraction ever had.
Because attraction fades.
This didn’t feel like something that would.
The following Sunday, Kim brought his sketchbook to work for the first time.
I noticed immediately.
He didn’t open it during his break. He didn’t draw in the back hallway. He just kept it tucked under his arm like something precious and fragile, and the curiosity gnawed at me until I finally asked.
“What’s in it?”
He hesitated. “Stuff.”
“That’s vague.”
He smiled faintly. “It’s supposed to be.”
Near closing, when the restaurant finally emptied and my parents were distracted arguing about inventory, Kim tugged gently at my sleeve.
“Come outside,” he said quietly. “Just for a minute.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“We can’t,” I said automatically.
“I know,” he said. “But we are.”
Before I could talk myself out of it, we slipped out the back door into the narrow alley behind the restaurant, the air cooler, quieter, the noise of the city softened into something distant and unreal.
Kim leaned against the brick wall, sketchbook clutched tightly to his chest.
“I wasn’t going to show you this,” he said. “But I don’t think I can not show you anymore.”
He opened the sketchbook.
Every page was us.
Not explicit, not obvious—but undeniable. Two boys standing too close. Hands brushing. Reflections caught in windows. A familiar profile behind a counter, eyes always turned toward the same figure nearby.
Me.
And him.
My breath caught painfully. “Kim…”
“I tried to stop,” he said quickly, voice shaking. “I swear. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. But it does. It does to me.”
The world felt too small, too fragile.
“I’m leaving soon,” I said, the words spilling out like a warning and a plea at the same time. “College. Medical school. My parents—”
“I know,” he said. “I’m not asking for anything.”
That hurt worse.
I stepped closer, close enough that our bodies nearly touched, close enough that the heat between us felt unbearable.
“I think about you all the time,” I admitted, the truth tearing free before I could stop it. “And I hate it. And I don’t.”
Kim’s eyes softened. “Me too.”
For one dangerous moment, I thought he might kiss me.
Instead, he leaned his forehead gently against mine.
The contact was light.
Reverent.
It undid me completely.
We pulled apart when we heard the back door creak open.
My mother’s voice echoed faintly inside.
We froze.
Kim closed the sketchbook slowly.
“I think,” he whispered, “we’re already in trouble.”
And I knew—with terrifying certainty—that he was right.
