by Shay Zutshi

What does home mean?

For eighteen-year-old Jun-hee, it meant the fish smell overpowering her nostrils as she set up her stall at the world-famous Jagalchi fish market. It meant watching the fish flail on her cutting board, gasping for breath, awaiting their fate under the knife. It meant shouting at the top of her lungs, vying for the attention of thousands of passersby, and persuading them that her food was the best in Busan so that she could earn enough to eat dinner. It meant curling herself up on the floor of a dilapidated wooden shack, hands aching from a long day of catching fish and holding them steady while she chopped them to death. She would have loved to never see another fish again.

It also entailed comfort in seeing the same people at the same places every day. She knew several of the elderly fish market ladies by face. Her favorite was Sook-ja, who had taken Jun-hee under her wing from day one. Sook-ja had a thin, wiry frame, but despite the wrinkles on her forehead and sagging skin that gave the appearance of a double chin, her veins popped from her forearms, with well-defined biceps that would have made young men jealous. She guided Jun-hee on knife movements, trained her how to attract customers, and consoled her during long stretches when customers did not come. Sook-ja had walked her around several times and introduced Jun-hee to other ladies, most of whose names she would come to forget over the years, but whose faces brought her an overwhelming sense that no matter what was happening in her small corner of the world–in her poor little shack in Busan–she could always count on a smile and wave from behind their market stalls. This blind friendliness, no matter how little the ladies knew her or how much they competed with her, was characteristic of Busan.

The main advantage of her lower-class upbringing was her real-world English education, which came from the market. Her grandmother was by no means destitute, but had exhausted her savings on specialized medical treatments for her late son and his wife, along with a meager inheritance from her long-gone husband. Only the upper class could afford private tutors, so Jun-hee was left learning English on the streets of her touristy spot. Had she been born a few years later, she would have started secondary school right when the Korean government mandated English in schools. Instead, she was forced to learn from the bright-eyed visitors who walked excitedly among the market halls, picking up what little she could until it became sufficient to form full sentences. Though the British and American tourists marveled at how well she could speak, she felt her English needed work.

…

​

Park Ha-yoon had once been the life of the party, but Jun-hee never would have known. Jun-hee had always viewed her grandmother as having a heart of stone–nothing would ever be good enough after losing her beloved son and daughter-in-law. Ha-yoon could not let her granddaughter become an orphan at three years old, so she raised Jun-hee as her own. Jun-hee often bore the brunt of her moods or, worse, long bouts of silence where hugs and utterings of “I love you” and “you’re the best grandmother in the world, not just in Busan” couldn’t even elicit a smile. She had stopped trying to show love to her grandmother years ago; even at the young age of nine, the girl knew her efforts would be fruitless. Every now and then, she would give her grandmother a courtesy hug as a gentle reminder that she still cared. But Ha-yoon retained her unflappable demeanor, her expression seldom changing.

Despite this, Jun-hee knew that her grandmother loved her. Whenever Jun-hee experienced a bruising moment of youth–an unrequited crush, a close friend moving away, exclusion from a party–she would find one of her favorite dishes on the table. Naejang gukbap was only for special occasions, but Ha-yoon always served it when her granddaughter needed it most. The hearty pork soup never failed to warm her heart and lift her spirits; it was her grandmother’s way of saying that she cared. Whenever she served it, Jun-hee would look her grandmother in the eyes–still devoid of sparkle–and know that beneath the stone was the heart of a tender, caring grandmother who wished to alleviate the suffering of her baby girl.

​

…

“Happy birthday Min-ji!”

Her parents owned a spacious two-bedroom home in Dalmaji Hill, one of Busan’s more affluent suburbs. Jun-hee often went to her house after school, drawn by ample study space and a fully-stocked fridge, neither of which she had at home. Though Kim Min-ji was one year her senior, they had hit it off after picking up the same book at a book shop, and were inseparable ever since.

​

Barring an exceptionally rare late night, Min-ji’s parents were home for dinner by six. Jun-hee did not know what they did for work, but their well-pressed clothes and pristine hairdos indicated office jobs. Her shock at the smoothness of the Kims’ hands when she first shook them had stayed with her–the soft, pudgy skin against her flesh without so much as a bump. The Kims languidly moved through their days; it seemed as if stress did not exist in their lives. They left their offices at five, ate dinner by six-thirty, and went to sleep whenever they pleased. There was plenty of time for hobbies–knitting, scrapbooking, reading, or whatever else the Kims felt like doing. But they passed several hours idly, for there was no pressure to finish something because there would always be time for it later. And from what Jun-hee could gather about the inner workings of Busan’s upper class, other families had this luxury too.

Min-ji beamed as her mother began cutting a slice of siru-tteok, the layered red bean rice cake typically served on birthdays. It was a Wednesday evening. With school or work the next day, only a few close friends and family, including Jun-hee, had gathered for the festivities. 

“What are you doing this weekend to celebrate?” Jun-hee asked her friend, each with a slice on their plates. They had settled on the couch in the living room. The adults and other friends had separated into their respective groups. 

Min-ji smiled, sitting cross-legged as she wiped cake off her lips. “Oh just the same as always. Eating out with family, then probably bing-su with friends.” Jun-hee had never spent a weekend at Min-ji’s–the train fare was expensive, and the Kims were too busy with their own lives to pick her up by car. 

“Doesn’t it get boring doing the same thing every weekend?”

Min-ji shook her head.

Jun-hee continued, surprised. “Don’t you want something more?”

“Mmmmmm…” Min-ji looked up at the ceiling, pointing her spoon in the air. She paused in deep thought before turning back to Jun-hee.

“Nope. I like my weekends. No need to change.”

“How do you not get sick of it?” A slight twinge of anger rose in her voice.

“Sick of what?”

“Sick of this.”

Min-ji stared at Jun-hee, bewildered.

Jun-hee took a deep breath. “Even if I had all the time in the world, I would not spend it with the same people, doing the same things every single weekend.”

“Okay.” Min-ji said this in a conciliatory manner, which calmed Jun-hee down. She had not intended to hurt her friend, but frustration with her stagnant life had worked its way under her skin. 

“So what would you do, Jun-hee?”

Jun-hee answered without hesitation. “I would move to Seoul. I would explore new pochas with different friends every night of the week. On weekends I would find cool events to go to, or sights to see. There’s always something happening in Seoul. In Busan everything is so boring, and you see the same people at the same spots. There’s no variety, nothing to make life exciting.” Her eyes sparkled at the last word.

Min-ji nodded. “And what about money? Seoul isn’t cheap.”

“There are lots of university students there–surely there are places they can afford. Or perhaps I’ll meet a friendly American boy who has come to Korea to find himself, with enough money to take me to nice places. He’ll need someone to satisfy his Asian fetish, after all.”

The two girls began giggling, holding back voluminous laughter for fear that the adults would scold them for being too loud.

“But you can’t even speak English properly. The only English you know is from the American shows we watch.”

“And it good enough,” Jun-hee said in English.

“It’s good enough,” Min-ji corrected. 

“Tomato to-mah-to,” Jun-hee retorted with a phrase from TV. “I’ll have something to do with my life instead of sitting around with you all the time.” This was met with a light punch on the shoulder from Min-ji. 

“Why don’t you leave Busan, Min-ji? You have the money. Take me to Seoul and we’ll start a new life together.

Think about it: city lights, endless restaurants and bars, something at every corner. Let’s do it!”

Min-ji stood up and smiled bashfully, covering her mouth. “I can’t leave. I won’t leave. My family, my friends–they’re here in Busan. I don’t know anyone outside of Busan, let alone in Seoul. Busan is where my parents grew up, and where I’ll stay for the rest of my life. I bet Seoul isn’t all it’s made out to be, Jun-hee. I’m happy in Busan. Busan is my home.”

…

“You need to settle down, Jun-hee.”

She was taken aback by her grandmother's bluntness, but if there was anywhere in the world where raw honesty belonged, it was at the temple.

The Haedong Yonggungsa Temple was frequently overwhelmed with tourists, so Jun-hee and her grandmother typically went in the early mornings. They walked along a hidden path that oversaw the Donghae–the Sea of Japan–its gentle waves flowing and receding in the distance. A grand Buddha statue, one of many at the temple, was also visible from afar. His thumb and index finger formed a ring, his other three fingers stood upright. Jun-hee knew several of Buddha’s mudras from her studies. This was the vitarka mudra.

“What do you mean?”

Ha-yoon sighed. “I was married when I was your age.”

“Times have changed, Halmeoni.”

Ha-yoon threw her arms in the air. 

“All you kids these days! Back in my day everyone was married at this age! They left the house and moved into their husbands’ homes, while still visiting their grandmothers once a week. And yet here you are, living in my house at nineteen. I don’t run a charity.”

“I am not a parasite, Halmeoni. I work for a living.”

“You entertain tourists at the fish market!” Ha-yoon shook her hands wildly as if she had no control over them.

“Because I need fluency in English if I want to go to university. We’ve had this conversation a thousand times. One-thousand.” She said the last number in English, knowing her grandmother would not understand. This only made Ha-yoon angrier.

“Learn English, go to Seoul. What is it with young people these days? Why can you not just stay in Busan, like we did?”

“Busan is soooo boring, Mummy dearest.” Jun-hee rolled her head counter-clockwise while rolling her eyes, imitating a phrase from British girls at the market–insolently but intentionally calling her grandmother, “Mummy,” which made it even funnier. Ha-yoon was not amused.

“Boring boring boring–such is life. All you kids worry about is fun, fun, fun. You have never worked hard a day in your life.”

“Halmeoni, look at my hands.” She held her hands out, palms up. “They’re dry and covered with calluses. And they smell like fish.” Jun-hee plugged her nostrils.

Ha-yoon was unimpressed. “Feel my hands.” Jun-hee knew where this was going, but did as she was told.

“These are the hands of someone who has to work for a living. Every day I wake up at four in the morning, and every night I sleep at midnight. From dawn to dusk, and then after, I am using my hands. I scrub dishes, wash clothes by hand, clean floors–whatever it takes to make a living. You call the fish market hard work? Everyone knows Jagalchi is the easiest fish market in Busan. A tourist trap!”

Jun-hee offered no response. She simply leaned against the railing that separated the pathway from the ocean. The firm railing dug into her arms, but Jun-hee had grown accustomed to the pain, letting cold metal sink into her skin. She adored everything about the temple–the hilly, cobblestone entryway lined with vendor stalls, the walkway surrounded by marble Buddha statues, and the curved bridge leading to the temple grounds. But most of all, she enjoyed this small, covert pathway that branched out from the bridge, a four-hundred metre arc with only a railing separating her from the rocky stones that let the waves gently caress their hard exteriors. This was her thinking spot, where she had lost herself in reverie hundreds of times throughout her nineteen years in Busan. 

So what did she dream of?

Seoul city lights. Picturesque views from the Namsan Tower. Beautiful dresses she could not currently afford. Strips of bars lined with promoters shoving free drink coupons in her face. The view from her twentieth-floor office, overlooking the Han River, where cars zooming across the vast highways looked like ants. Her cushy office job wouldn’t make her hands ache, nor would they smell like fish.

…

It seemed to Jun-hee that no one ever left Busan. People were born, finished school, married, bore children, grew old, and died within the same city limits. The older generation was perfectly content living their entire lives on the Korean coast. Her grandmother had spent nearly eighty years in the city of her birth; her roots were too firmly planted to leave. But it was not that way for Jun-hee. 

“Busan has so much to offer, Jun-hee. There are many jobs here, and the best seafood in Korea!”

“Why go see the world when the world comes to see Busan? English, American, Japanese–you see them all here.”

“It is so much easier to stay. My family is here, my friends are here, this is what I know. Too much effort to go anywhere else. Busan is home.”

Jun-hee heard the excuses, the reasons people chose not to leave. But she wanted something different for herself. It was through no fault of her own that she was born in Busan– merely a matter of chance. She felt no need to be restricted to Busan’s city limits; in her mind, it was not fate that kept her in Busan. It was circumstance that held her against her will in a city where nothing happened, where people grew older but never grew up because they did not leave their homes. If she had been born rich, she would have left long ago for Seoul, where she could become a citizen of the world. Instead, she was trapped in a city where life moved at a snail’s pace, where people were content selling fish at the market, spending their meager earnings on bottles of soju to drown out their sorrows at not having been born rich. Surely the genteel people of Seoul were not like this.

So why had she not packed up and left?

It wasn’t that simple. Seoul was a larger city, far more expensive than Busan. Jun-hee could never make rent there without a degree-paying job. She was poor enough for a top university to cover her full tuition, but not so poor that a mid-tier university would do the same. She could not afford tuition and rent even with student housing, so only a top-tier school would do. She graduated from secondary school a year early to work full-time while studying for the CSAT exam, the college readiness exam where high marks were critical for admission into a top university. Her days consisted of slaving away at the fish market to earn every won she could; her evenings reserved for hours of studying. The days began at five in the morning and ended at eleven at night–not quite as long as her grandmother’s, but enough to make one weary. She did not tire, however, because she could not allow herself to tire. Each lost day meant lost wages and falling behind the student who would take her place at one of Korea’s prestigious SKY universities: Seoul National, Korea University, and Yonsei. She slaved away Monday through Sunday, hoping to make the top one percent of students and receive acceptance into one of these life-changing schools.

This was her life from ages eighteen to twenty.

…

Jun-hee knew the letter was there, but could not bring herself to open it. Her mind was elsewhere during her work at the fish market. She hardly registered what she was saying to customers, whether in English or Korean, for her mouth and body simply moved on their own. Her eyes were watching the movements of someone else, hearing another person’s voice persuade customers to order from her stall. Every thought revolved around tearing open the letter and reading the first few words beyond the greeting. 

She had performed well on her TOEFL English exam and exceptionally on her CSAT, but worried it wasn’t enough. Other kids across the country had a litany of activities and accomplishments, of which she had almost none–save for her stall at the fish market, which she had presented as a culinary startup. Her Language Arts teacher had submitted a glowing review, and it would certainly be well-written, given that the teacher was a master of prose. 

Sweat rolled down her forehead. Jun-hee glanced at her watch. The time read 15:23. She began checking it every minute, as if waiting for an urgent delivery that was running late. But no delivery was coming, nor would the passage of time bring deliverance from her current state. There was only one way to speed up the clock.

She tore open the envelope savagely, with no regard for paper cuts. 

Her eyes darted immediately below the greeting, toward the first line.

​

…

She stood with thousands of other students before a grand entryway–a structure rather than a gate. It was a radiant grey triangle with no base, supported on each side by thick slabs of concrete, hollow in the middle. On the other side were the halls of the best university in Korea. 

It was not winter, but chills coursed through Jun-hee’s body. Great expectations awaited on the other side. Yet there had been no apprehension when she read “Congratulations” that day in the fish market. She kept the letter in her pocket to this day, worried that someone would pick her out of the crowd and assure her that she was mistaken, that she didn’t belong at the prestigious Seoul National University. She would show them the letter of acceptance, hand-stamped by the Dean of Admissions so that it could not be forged. She had felt not just elation, but relief at the deliverance from her repetitive life in Busan–the cycle to which previous generations fell because it was all they knew. The letter set Jun-hee free.

But reality sank in. 

She knew no one in Seoul. The rigorous academic environment would make working and studying much more difficult than CSAT prep. As she looked around and saw people walking through the entryway in groups, Jun-hee’s breathing quickened. She clutched her chest and felt her heart palpitating. She walked to the side and leaned against the cold vertical metal railing, slinking down until she sat on the sidewalk. Each breath was a gasp for air. She wished that Min-ji could walk her through the entryway and to her dorm room so she could have one less moment alone before the Seoul solitude set in.

Footsteps came toward her and stopped, but she did not look up. A towering figure bent down toward her.

“Excuse me. Are you alright?”

She felt his warm breath on the arm covering her face. She looked up, and her eyes met his. The face looked like a western movie star–a shade of pale white she’d seen on TV, but not as white as the Korean glass skin. His Korean pronunciation was impeccable, though he was clearly not a native speaker. His large brown eyes were warm and wide open, as if welcoming a friend. Jun-hee smiled, and without another word he held out his hand and helped her off the ground.

“My name is Paul. Paul Smith.” He spoke formally, as if addressing an elder.

She imitated his manner of speech. “I am Park Jun-hee. This is how we say names in Korea.”

Paul nodded in understanding. “I feel that we are going to be great friends, Park Jun-hee.”

This made Jun-hee laugh. “Me too, Paul. Me too.”

He offered his arm. She felt herself blushing, cheeks reddening as her hand covered her mouth. Her head turned away to further conceal her expression–not one of embarrassment, more reflective of a shy coyness that conveyed her uncertainty. His arm lingered. As he went to recall it, she loosely grabbed it–in the delicate manner that a lilypad rests on a pond–and let him guide her through the entryway of the prestigious Seoul National University.

…

Paul was always around, not like a pesky younger brother, but like a roommate who happens to occupy your same living space. His dorm room sat a few floors above hers, making it easy for him to pay frequent visits. And Jun-hee knew no one else in Seoul, meaning Paul was her de facto best friend.

He used the first few months of university to build a rapport with her. Jun-hee knew that he planned to ask her out. He was incredibly transparent with her, ensuring she would not have to wonder about his motives after every interaction. She enjoyed his company because he would sit silently for hours without interrupting. Regardless of what she wished to discuss, he was there to lend a listening ear. When she wanted comfort, he held her in his arms, letting her sink into the silky fabric of his polo shirts, relaxing her body so that he could bear her full weight. When she needed solutions to her problems, he listed out each course of action and helped her select the optimal choice–without making the decision for her. He was exactly who she needed during the unfamiliarity of the first year away from home, where life switches settings in the blink of an eye. He was the rock in the bay; her waves of emotion crashed against him endlessly, and he would still be there when the water receded.

During the winter holidays, Jun-hee stayed on campus to tutor secondary school students studying for the TOEFL exam while Paul visited his family in America. Every day, she walked home alone in the blistering cold to an empty dorm room, hundreds of thoughts swirling in her head, but no one to whom she could express them. She would never admit it aloud, but each time that she put the key in the lock of her dorm room and heard its CLICK as the door opened, she wished to see Paul in front of her, arms wide open so that she could feel his body around her and lay her head upon his chest, letting his warm, rhythmic breaths trickle down her neck. He would take her to the couch and prompt her to tell him about her day, which she would inevitably describe in far greater detail than was necessary, and he would digest every word intently, patiently, without so much as an inkling to talk about himself. She found herself missing his touch, even if only a pat on the shoulder, to reassure her that everything was going to be alright–that her life in Seoul would turn out exactly as she planned. She printed out a calendar and began counting down the days until his return, eagerly crossing off each day as it passed. 

Using the airline app, she tracked the exact moment his plane touched down in Seoul. Her anticipation only grew as his arrival neared. She hurriedly opened her door every few minutes, turning her head in both directions, hoping his eyes would meet hers as he strolled down the hallway. 

But he did not appear. 

She began pacing frantically around her room, wondering why he hadn’t come to see her. Had she offended him? Did he no longer wish to speak to her? Had something happened to him on the journey? Her heart leapt in fright at the last thought, which she promptly dismissed. The mere notion of never seeing his face again crushed her, devastated her–she didn’t have another friend in Seoul.

An hour passed, then two. Still no knock at her door. She decided to check his dorm room, having made up her mind that she would reproach him for making her worry sick. She walked up the stairs and banged on his door. 

A few seconds of silence. 

Footsteps getting louder, coming towards the door. 

The lock clicked. The door opened. 

Paul stood in front of her.

“Hello Jun-hee,” he said with a warm smile, in a formal manner, as if greeting someone for a job which he was interviewing for. He wore a yellow polo and jeans, his hair combed neatly to the right. “How are you doing?”

“Paul, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”

He furrowed his brow and tilted his head, appearing as if he was in deep concentration. 

“I have arrived from the airport after having a meal,” he replied in his formal Korean.

“And you didn’t come to see me?”

Paul sighed, then let a smile creep to the corners of his mouth. “I informed you via WhatsApp that I would come to see you after taking a shower. I have not yet taken a shower.”

Jun-hee whipped out her phone. Sure enough, there were messages from Paul informing her that he would have dinner at the airport and see her after his shower. Her ringer was off; she had not heard the texts come through. 

Her face flushed beet red as her eyes turned to meet his.

He approached her slowly, dragging out each step as if to freeze time. He stopped only when her face lightly rested on his chest. She hugged him tightly and buried her face into him, moistening his shirt with her tears, breathing in the scents he had brought with him from America. He wrapped his arms around her gently–not tight enough to hold her, but enough to where she felt like there was a thin blanket wrapped around her. The hundreds of thoughts in her head, the thousands of things she wished to tell him after three lonely weeks–they had all vanished with the sobs of despair that escaped her as she stood in his arms. She clutched him tightly to her body, refusing to let go, as if releasing him from her grasp would mean that her only friend would fade away into dust and disappear forever.

“Don’t leave me, Paul.”

She tilted her chin up toward his warm brown eyes, close enough that his pupils held her reflection. He rested his index finger delicately on the bottom of her chin, letting her words hang in the air.

“I will never leave you, Jun-hee.”

He pressed his lips on hers. She let them sit there as he pulled her closer. He swirled his tongue inside her mouth. She held her own tongue still.

He pulled away and smiled. She smiled the same coy smile as the day he had picked her up off the ground. Only this time, she did not cover her mouth.

…

The American TV shows portrayed college as a stream of never-ending excitement. People befriending others quickly and easily, drunken parties every night, wanton shenanigans going unpunished–it seemed easy.
 

For Jun-hee, it was anything but.

Money was tight. Unlike the majority of the student body, she came from a lower-class background. The university covered her tuition and gave her low-income housing, but there was rent to be paid, which several hours of weekly freelance English tutoring barely covered.  Add in the fact that she needed money to eat, and Jun-hee struggled to get by.

Her course work was no walk in the park either. The CSAT felt like a primary school test compared to her SNU exams. Jun-hee spent endless hours committing material to memory and completing practice problems, often late into the night. She walked into exams feeling confident in her knowledge. When she walked out, however, she was left confused by how the exams could feel so difficult, and even more puzzled at how she felt like she knew less than when she started the course. 

Social life provided no respite, for though she enjoyed Paul’s company, her relationship consumed what little free time she had. He showered her with attention, affection, and gifts that made her feel like the most special girl in the world–exactly how she felt she ought to be treated. She laughed at his jokes, cried in his arms, and comforted him during his rare but acute bouts of homesickness, especially in the hours of the day when his family would not yet be awake to console him. In many ways they were perfect–always together, supporting each other’s goals, even bickering like an old married couple. Jun-hee could not have landed a better mate.

This left no time for the experiences and desires she’d relayed to Min-ji and her grandmother, the ones from her reveries at the Haedong Yonggungsa Temple. The bright city lights surrounded her, but Min-ji had been right–Seoul was expensive. While Paul occasionally took her outside the university gates for a nice meal, he was still a cash-strapped university student from a middle-class American family. Jun-hee had the desire to experience the vibrant clubs and ornate restaurants of Seoul, but not the financial means, unlike her peers from the opulence of Gangnam or other affluent areas of the city. 

The busiest nights for outings were Friday and Saturday. Jun-hee frequently returned from evening tutoring shifts to find groups gathered in dorm rooms, empty bottles of soju strewn lazily about, people laughing as they recounted their last night out or planned the next. She often hung her head as she languidly strolled to her dorm room, a wave of shame engulfing her, for her only plans revolved around Paul. She would look wistfully out the window, longing to be part of the group as they pranced to the train station, or to a cab that someone had called. 

She lamented the fact that the only barrier to the glitz and glamour of Seoul–and to the interpersonal human connection which she desired–was one which she could not control, one which she was condemned to purely by the circumstance of birth: a punishment for mischief in a previous life, perhaps. She consoled herself with the thought that once she was out of university, she would earn massive sums of money and could finally afford the dream life that she deserved, whose rewards would taste sweeter after the sacrifices of her early years. In her mind, money could buy happiness, and it could also buy friends.

…

At first, Jun-hee had enjoyed the novelty of being with someone; she’d never had a boyfriend before, let alone an American one. But after four years with the same person in the same place, it felt stale. She was trapped in the same old cycle: eat, work, study, Paul, repeat. There was no time for the glitz and glamour of Seoul with different friends every night as she had dreamed.

In fact, Jun-hee had not made any friends during her four years of university–a somber realization that dawned on her during the graduation ceremony. She had secured employment with a consulting company, which would pay her more money than she would know what to do with. But she had relied on Paul for emotional support. He was her shoulder to cry on and most ardent supporter–the perfect boyfriend and more. This pale, overly formal American boy was her only semblance of a friend in Seoul. But he wasn't her friend, he was her boyfriend. And this presented a dilemma.

Paul represented stability: she knew exactly what she was getting and relished that comfort during trying times. Despite this, she had never really grown to love Paul in the heart-skipped-a-beat, butterflies-in-your-stomach sort of way. Their physical relations were excellent, and he treated her to nice meals when he could. But she wanted something other than just the same old routine. 

No matter how comfortable, Jun-hee desired more out of life. Unfortunately, Paul’s desire for more meant taking the next step–marriage, which Jun-hee detested. She understood his rationale: it would let him stay in the country so he could be with her. But at such a young age, and with life’s adventures still before her, she did not wish to become a wife tethered to her husband’s schedule, needing his blessing for friendships of her own lest they interfere with existing plans. She wanted his support as a friend, nothing more. But to have that, she would need to give him the very thing to which she would object with her heart and soul.

…

“We’re done, Paul.”

She said this to him matter-of-factly–not callously, but tenderly, as if dealing with the sensitivities of a child. It was done the Friday evening after her second week at work, via WhatsApp from Korea to America, where Paul was staying with his parents over the summer while he contemplated his next move. A D-10 visa was sufficient for the next two years, but Paul saw no point in staying in Korea if nothing would keep him there long-term. And Jun-hee couldn’t delay it any longer.

“Okay, Jun-hee. Thank you for letting me know.”

He spoke with the formality of a job candidate passed up for an opportunity. Not a man with a broken heart.  

“Are you going to be alright?” 

“Yes. I will be fine.

His reply was instant, so quick that it was crushing. Jun-hee felt the tables turning. Though she had wanted to end things, she was still deeply troubled by the loss of her only friend. She hardly spoke to Min-ji anymore; they had simply lost touch over the years. The finality with which Paul had accepted the end of their relationship hit her with the force of a thousand bricks. It was the end of an era, the termination of a phase of life which Jun-hee had passed in the blink of an eye, but now dearly missed. 

A wave of despondency washed over her. It came about suddenly, the way that losing a loved one leaves a hole in your heart that only their presence can fill. A Paul-sized crater had formed inside her, and the only person who could comfort her in such forlorn circumstances was the one person whose warmth she could no longer have. She would never again bury her head against his silky polo shirts, never again have his compassionate ear to pour her heart out to. The words he digested, the tears he absorbed–memories of his solicitude came flooding back. His small but delicate gestures of human connection, the ones that we implicitly desire but never request aloud, had made her feel loved, even if she was not in love. His actions reflected the devotion that she expected from someone she had known her whole life. Cutting him off meant slashing the tenuous thread that had held her together over the last four years, stripping away her only lifeline to the realm of human connection. The opportunities to connect with others had been there, she just hadn’t taken them. Wrapped up in her own little world, she had found solace in the fact that Paul would always be by her side.

But now there was no more Paul. And the weight of her solitude began to settle in.

Jun-hee hung up the phone and stepped outside without another word. A droplet of water fell on her shoulder. She wiped it away, only for two more to take its place, falling from the heavens with the rest of the summer showers. Rain poured onto the streets, forming puddles on the sidewalks, moistening umbrellas, and darkening asphalt on the roads. But it seemed to pass right through Jun-hee; though her hair was soaked, she did not feel the falling water on her body. 

She looked at her hands, which no longer ached. She held them up to her nose but only caught the earthy scent of rain. A look around her flat would show no link to Busan, nor to her university despite its proximity to where she worked. Jun-hee went to step inside this barren, soulless flat, but stopped as her hand touched the ice-cold doorknob. She began to choke back a sob, but then let it out freely. It was not as if a friend would be watching and get scared off by a moment of vulnerability. No friend would be watching at all.

​

…

​

The early years of young adulthood should be dedicated to work. One should expect long hours, and that the hardest workers earn promotions that come with more income and more flexibility in picking the hours you work. 

That’s what Jun-hee was taught.

She dreaded the morning alarm blaring in her room. She would be lucky to inhale a bowl of gyeran bap before rushing out the door, otherwise an office coffee would have to do. Her work required a polished and professional look, for the company would not parade unkempt workers in front of clients. Consumed by hair and makeup rather than preparing for the day with weightlifting for the body, journaling for the mind, or meditation for the soul, Jun-hee would not exercise at all, save for her morning speed walk to the station for the early train.

Jun-hee worked late into the night. Between extensive analysis and hours of revisions before presenting to clients, there was always work to do. On Friday and Saturday evenings, Jun-hee boarded the late train back to her flat and slumped into a seat, struggling to keep her droopy eyelids open, yawning every few seconds to stay awake. She sat among the posh Seoul youth, dressed to the nines, drunk from the club, with no concern for next morning’s splitting headaches. Jun-hee’s head would also be pounding, but from pure exhaustion rather than frivolous drinking. Though she longed for a break, she knew that earning a promotion required outworking the competition. There was no time for partying.

Her emphasis on work put friendships on the backburner. She was cordial with her coworkers; they would sometimes chat over the one-hour lunch which Koreans never skipped, the sole hour in which she could think of something other than work–just enough to keep her sane. But her coworkers were merely acquaintances, like school friends you talked to in the classroom or during lunch, but never outside of school. Jun-hee had far more acquaintances than she bothered to count. But no one she could call a friend.

…

Despite having been a regular at Haedong Yonggungsa Temple in her youth, seven years had passed since she had stepped foot inside a temple. There was no time for a holiday to Busan, and no client engagement had brought her there. But seven years to the day she stepped foot on the SNU campus, holding the arm of her last and only friend in Seoul, she decided to return to something that had once brought her inner peace.

The Bongeunsa Temple had a mon with two statues at the entrance, much less grand than the alley leading to the gate of Haedong Yonggungsa in Busan. Its simple paths led to rudimentary pagodas; there were no turns, bridges, or spirals to amaze you. The main attraction was a twenty-three-metre tall Buddha statue at the back, surrounded by an arc-shaped shrine of relics depicting Buddha in his various forms. This, Jun-hee thought, could be the perfect place for reflection–underneath the crisp autumn air, walking around the arc in complete silence. But no sooner had she lost herself in thought than she was pulled back out of it.

“Paul?”

He did not stir. She rubbed her eyes vigorously, unsure if this figure was real or a trick her mind was playing. The late nights were taking their toll. She often struggled to stay awake without several cups of coffee, and that morning she had skipped her usual cup in favor of a visit to the temple. 

“Paul?”

She walked up to him and reached for his shoulder. He turned around before she could touch it.

“Shhh.” He held a finger to his mouth and resumed praying. 

She anxiously waited until he was done. Each breath felt like a minute, so when he finally turned around, it was as if an hour had passed.

“What are you doing here P–?”

“How are you, Jun-hee?”

It was unlike him to interrupt her. She was lost for words.

“Jun-hee?”

“F-fine. Thank you.”

A slight breeze blew in her direction. It was not cold, but chills ran through her body. She hugged her chest, hands on her shoulders, and started shivering.

​

Paul held up his right hand, his thumb and index finger forming a ring, like the vitarka mudra of the Buddha.

“Now now Jun-hee. What’s the matter?” He said this not in his formal Korean, but in impeccable English.

The thoughts poured out of her. She lamented that Paul had been her only friend, that she envied the late-night Seoul youth who returned on the train at the same hour as she did on Friday nights, drunk out of their minds and laughing with their friends. She rambled about how her company worked her to the bone, but even her promotion left no time for leisure. To her surprise, she even admitted that she missed Busan, where she wasn’t a stranger lost in a sea of faces, swept away by the workforce that took your time without giving back, with no guarantee of the satisfaction she had sought during her fish market days. Paul listened, nodding intently as always, his hand remained raised like the Buddha’s. She went on: there was not a soul in the world who cared for her as he had, that she longed for his companionship and would do anything to have him in her life again. He grinned subtly, but did not move his body, nor did he smile with his eyes.

After describing every emotional wound, and a brief but hysterical crying fit, she asked him through tears, “What shall I do now?”

He stood with his eyes locked on hers, devoid of emotion, as if in a trance. They remained this way for ten seconds; it felt like an eternity to Jun-hee. The wind picked up and Jun-hee’s teeth began chattering. All went

quiet around them. A rustle of leaves broke the silence, but neither party stirred.

Finally, Paul slowly closed his fingers into a fist, then pointed his index finger sharply toward the sky. It had turned grey, the clouds inching their way west toward the Buddha’s homeland. Jun-hee looked up. She strained her neck to see the face of Lord Buddha, beatific, cheeks puffing in the glory of his twenty-three metres above the ground.

A shiver went down her spine.

She walked backward into the open area, eyes locked on the Lord’s, her head unmoving. She sank to her knees and raised her hands in prayer, reciting the first words that came to her mind–words she could not recall afterward, for she uttered them like a woman hypnotized. Thunder boomed in the distance, the earthy scents of rainwater and moistened plants gracing her nostrils. 

Minutes passed. The rain began to pour so hard that Jun-hee could barely see in front of her. But the statue of Lord Buddha remained crystal clear. Neither the sopping wet hair nor the drenched clothes could deter her fervent prayers, which only grew louder as the thunder roared.

She stood and let the rain crash into her body, no umbrella to protect her. Paul was not where she had left him. She ran frantically around the arc, screaming his name, desperate to see his face–to tell him that she wanted him to stay, that she would marry him just to have him around even if she didn’t love him, and to ask the point of living without him, and how to obtain the happiness she pined for. She circled the arc once, then twice, but he was nowhere to be found. Then, as she sauntered defeatedly back to the Buddha statue, she saw him standing exactly where she had left him. Her mind must have been playing tricks, he wasn’t there just seconds ago. Only this time, he faced her, smiling beatifically, cheeks puffed out, hands clasped together, as if praying. He slowly leaned forward and bowed his head toward her.

“PAUL!”

She bellowed at the top of her lungs, disregarding the holy setting. She sprinted toward the figure with longer strides than should have been possible. As she approached, Paul diminished in size, getting physically smaller rather than simply appearing more distant. Jun-hee wanted to shout, but her voice escaped her. She hadn’t run more than twenty metres but was already panting when she reached him, by which point he was a figurine floating in the air.

She reached out to grab him, but his face crumbled into particles of dust, fading away as fast as he’d appeared.

No, Jun-hee thought. He can’t leave me again.

She jumped, one foot springing her forward. But by the time she wrapped her arms around him, there was

nothing to grab. All she did was embrace the air. 

She stumbled, but kept her balance. Her head turned to and fro, she knew to no avail.

There was no one else around. Excluding the omnipresent Buddha, Jun-hee was truly alone.

…

Jun-hee became the youngest director in company history on her thirtieth birthday.

This was the moment she had spent her entire early career working for. She would oversee a team in charge of a sector’s deliverables, meaning she simply had to call the shots and let the underlings execute. At long last, she had the time to enjoy Seoul. It had taken thirty years to arrive at this point. She would take full advantage.

She spent weeks exploring the local food stalls–pochas–in Seoul’s winding alleys, eating delicious street food from the hands of elderly Korean ladies who had cooked their entire lives. Each pocha was packed–families at dinner, couples on date night, friends getting together. But no one watched Jun-hee light up at the food which looked the most delicious, or the most outlandish. People roamed the pochas, buying and sharing dishes from across the market, splitting portions among several people. Jun-hee could only eat so much and frequently wished she could try more, returning on separate trips only to discover that there remained many unexplored pochas, which eventually felt daunting rather than pleasurable. In those moments of introspective sadness, she longed for her grandmother to appear in front of her with a bowl of naejang gukbap in hand. There were too many dishes to try at too many pochas. She could never try as many as she wanted, because there was no one with whom to share.

When this grew old, she began going out on Friday and Saturday nights.  It was straight to the clubs without the joys of a pregame, where friends shared cheap drinks and became tipsy while lambasting horrible bosses or recounting love-life drama before a night of degeneracy. She donned her prettiest makeup, her trendiest clothes, and her most glamorous heels–outfits she would never wear at the office. On those evenings, promoters enticed her to different clubs by waving drink coupons in her face. She took shot after shot until she hardly knew where she was–Itaewon, Seoul’s premier tourist trap for nightlife, which a friend could have told her–and wobbled home on the late-night train on several occasions. She was finally one of those late-night train girls without a care in the world. But on those nights, the booze numbed her brain so much that she had no memory of going out. Her splitting headaches required extreme doses of Advil to soothe, for she had no one to recommend the right hangover cure, and the internet was often unreliable. Even the medicine could not numb the ache in her heart.

The endless cycle of blackouts and hangovers lost its appeal, so Jun-hee chose evening sightseeing as her next pastime. A few parks made their way onto her list, with lush greenery and well-maintained walking trails in the middle of Seoul’s towering skyscrapers. The flowers were in full bloom, and Jun-hee occasionally turned to tell someone the fun facts she read about each species, though no one listened. Hongdae’s bars and restaurants stayed open well into the night, even on weeknights. But Jun-hee learned to steer clear since it was known as the sight where foreigners got laid, and she was ripe for the taking as a young, single woman roaming by herself. Fortunately, there was no shortage of window shopping in Apgujeong, where Jun-hee purchased opulent clothes she could now afford. She modeled for herself in the mirror, with occasional input from a store worker, though no one else stood with her to provide a more honest opinion. Her closet was filled with what she perceived as Seoul’s finest, though she could not say the same for her social circle. It seemed like a lonely life for Jun-hee.

​