Chapter 5
The moment Kim said it—I love him—the restaurant stopped being a restaurant.
The noise drained out of it first. The clatter of bowls, the scrape of chairs, the low murmur of conversations all dissolved into a ringing silence that pressed hard against my ears, and suddenly I was acutely aware of my own breathing, of Kim’s hand trembling where it had just slipped from mine, of my mother standing perfectly still with her arms crossed like she was holding the world together by force.
“You,” she said, not looking at me, her eyes locked on Kim, sharp and blazing. “Go. Now.”
Kim didn’t move.
I had never seen him look like that before—so still, so pale, his jaw set with a quiet resolve that terrified me more than panic ever could.
“I’m not ashamed,” he said, his voice shaking but steady. “And neither is he.”
My mother laughed, short and disbelieving. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“Mom,” I said, finally finding my voice, my chest tight, my hands clenched at my sides. “Please.”
She turned on me then, really turned, and the disappointment in her eyes hurt worse than anger ever had. “You will stop this,” she said. “Right now. Or you will regret it.”
Something inside me snapped.
“No,” I said.
The word was small, but it felt seismic.
The restaurant erupted—customers whispering, someone standing abruptly, a chair scraping loudly against the floor—and my father rushed forward, trying to calm the situation, trying to gather the pieces before everything shattered completely.
“Everyone, please,” he said. “Let’s all take a breath.”
But my mother was already past listening.
She pointed at Kim. “You are fired.”
The words hit like a blow.
Kim inhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging just a little, but he didn’t look away from me.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly—to me, not to her.
And then he turned and ran.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t tell my parents.
I didn’t apologize to the customers.
I chased him.
I shoved past the door, the bell ringing wildly above me, the heat of the afternoon slamming into my face as I sprinted down the sidewalk, my heart pounding with a wild, reckless determination I had never allowed myself to feel before.
“Kim!” I shouted.
He was already halfway down the block, moving fast, his sketchbook clutched to his chest like a shield, his breath ragged, and the sight of him running away from me—away from us—filled me with a panic so sharp it nearly stole my breath.
I ran harder.
Cars honked. Someone yelled. The city blurred around me.
“Stop!” I called. “Please!”
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
It was enough.
I caught up to him at the corner, grabbing his arm, spinning him toward me—and that was when everything went wrong.
A car screeched.
Time fractured.
I felt Kim’s body jerk against mine, felt his grip tighten reflexively, felt myself stumble backward as the world erupted into noise and motion and terror.
The car swerved at the last second, missing us by inches, but Kim lost his footing, crashing hard onto the pavement, the sketchbook skidding across the street, pages flying loose like startled birds.
“Kim!” I dropped to my knees beside him, hands shaking, my mind screaming every possible horrible outcome at once.
He groaned softly, eyes squeezed shut, one hand pressed to his knee.
“I’m okay,” he said quickly, but his voice was strained, breathless.
Blood smeared across his palm.
Panic overtook everything.
“Don’t move,” I said, my hands hovering uselessly over him. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—”
He opened his eyes then, dark and steady even through the pain, and reached for my wrist.
“Moon,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
I did.
“I don’t regret it,” he said again, the same words from the note, heavier now, truer. “Not a second.”
Tears burned behind my eyes.
Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance—someone must have called—but before anyone else could reach us, my father appeared at the end of the block, breathless, fear written openly across his face.
“What happened?” he demanded.
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
He looked between us, took in the blood, the fear, the reality of what had almost happened—and something shifted in his expression, something like understanding breaking through years of quiet denial.
“We need to get him help,” he said.
Kim shook his head weakly. “I can walk.”
“I don’t care,” my father said. “You’re coming.”
We helped Kim to his feet, my arm wrapped tightly around him, his weight leaning into me in a way that felt intimate and terrifying and irrevocable.
As we stood there on the sidewalk, everything exposed and broken and real, my phone buzzed violently in my pocket.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Finally, I looked.
A message from my mother.
If you walk away now, don’t come back.
The words blurred.
I looked at Kim—hurt but unbowed, scared but honest—and then back toward the restaurant, toward the life that had been mapped out for me before I had ever been asked what I wanted.
My father waited silently.
I made my choice.
“I’m not going back,” I said.
Kim’s fingers tightened around mine.
And in that moment, I knew I had crossed a line I could never uncross.
