13. Jae
Chapter thirteen
Jae
The late afternoon light through my apartment window is a golden haze, like the city is being viewed through an Instagram filter.
I’m pacing.
Again.
The coffee table is a disaster zone of snack wrappers and a half-empty water bottle that’s been sitting there since yesterday, and I should really clean it up.
Instead, I’m replaying the same thirty seconds of last Thursday’s study session in my head.
Amiyah laughing.
Not the polite little laugh people give when they’re being nice.
Like an actual real one.
It came out sharp and quipped.
Like it escaped before she could stop it.
Then she looked down at her notes afterward and pretended nothing happened.
But something did happen.
Her pen paused halfway through a sentence.
Her eyebrows pulled together.
And for half a second, she forgot to look annoyed with me.
It was probably some of the cutest shit I’ve ever seen and because of that, my brain has decided that half a second is worth studying.
What can I say? I’m a masochist.
I drop onto the couch.
The cushions smell like my deodorant and the garlic noodles I ordered last night, which is not a combination I recommend.
My phone is on the coffee table, screen-down, next to a crumpled protein bar wrapper.
I pick it up and see that I’ve gotten a text from Kiho.
I open our thread.
It's long.
Obscenely long.
Memes. A screenshot of a TikTok where a guy is aggressively eating a bowl of ramen while crying.
A photo of a cat wearing a tiny hat. Photos of food we either loved or hated.
A few games of smash or pass (before he went and got a girlfriend).
Years of stupid arguments that somehow never turned into actual arguments because neither of us is capable of staying mad for more than ten minutes.
We’ve known each other since we were kids. He was an upcoming child actor who was staring in a kpop drama I despised until we became friends. Now, I watch it religiously.
I go to shoot him a text but Kiho has already beaten me to it.
Three messages already, actually.
[image: a screenshot of a ridiculous $18 iced latte receipt, captioned “LA math”]
[image: a guy asleep on a bench with a textbook over his face]
Kiho: Is this actually how you’re living lol
I type back.
Me: ? ?? ??? ??. ?? ???. (The second picture is accurate.)
I'm running on fumes. My vet med prof assigned a 400-page textbook reading for next week and I haven't even cracked the cover yet.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Kiho's response comes back before I've even set the phone down.
[image: a man dramatically collapsing onto a bed]
I laugh under my breath.
Kiho: ? ???? ??? (What’s the hold up?)
Me: ????? ?? ?? ???? ? ???? ? ???? ? ? ????. Dead ass? There is this law student I got partnered with on a project for my Ethics class.
Kiho : ???? (And?)
I stare at the screen for a moment before my thumbs spring into action.
Me: ???... ?? ???? ? ??? ??. ??? ???? ????, ??? ?? ?? ???.
???? ?? ??? ?? ??????? ????? ??? ??. ??? ? ???? ???? ? ????, ???? ?? ????? ?? ?? ??? ??? ??.
???... ? ???? ??? ??. (And…she's a piece of work.
Smart as hell. Annoying as fuck. She argued with me about a seat on the first day and hasn't stopped since. She literally color codes her notes. Obsessed with pink, but can handle her own. It’s kind of… interesting.)
I hit send.
There is a pause.
Kiho: ?, ?? '???' ?? ?? ?? ??? ? ???? (Hyung, tell me you aren’t fucking some pick me girl.)
I stare at the screen.
Me: ?? ??? ?? ???? (What are you talking about?)
Kiho: ?? ???? ???. ???? ??? ??? ??? ??? ?? ?? ???. (American girls. You know, the ones who act special to get guys to like them.)
I actually laugh.
Absolutely not. Well…actually there was this other girl I hooked up with my first week here, but that’s beside the point. Amiyah is different.
Keep telling yourself that.
What’s that supposed to mean?
It means that if she knew who you really are, she would be just like the rest of them.
The muscle in my job twitches when I read the last part.
Bro, you don’t even know her.
And you think you do?
Kiho: [image: man laughing diabolically while pointing] ?? ? ? ?? 4?? ???.
??? ? ?? ???? ? ??? ?? ????? ??? ??? ??.
??? ? ? ? ???, ?? ??? ? ?? ??? ???? ???.
(You’ve been there for four weeks. Don’t go getting yourself attached to some American girl when you know it can’t be permanent.
You only have three semesters—then you’re back in Seoul.)
I frown.
Me: ???? (So?)
Kiho: ??? ?? ? ??? ???? (So why bother?)
My thumbs are instantly at war with the screen, tapping at a rapid speed only for me to delete my two paragraph reply where I get petty when two more messages come through.
Kiho: ??, ?. ???? ??? ??? ?? ??? (Seriously, Hyung, how much longer are you going to keep pretending to be a normal person?)
My thumbs go still.
Kiho:??? ??? ???? ?? ? ???, ??? ?? ??? ?? ??????? ??? ?? ?? ???? (Are you actually here because you're trying to find yourself or are you just spending a lot of money to piss off your parents?)
I read them twice.
Something hot coils under my ribs—a tight, angry heat that spreads through my chest and into my clench jaw.
My best friend just reduced the most meaningful stretch of my adult life to a rebellion phase like I’m a fucking teenager.
As if it’s just a performance art designed to upset my parents and not the fact that I actually felt like I was literally suffocating to death in my own skin.
As if wanting to be something other than a brand isn’t a real enough reason to exist. As if wanting a life where I’m helping others rather than just being their entertainment isn’t something worth fighting for.
I could say a lot.
I don’t.
Rather, I type a short clipped message.
Me: ??? ?? ?? ? ?????. ?? ? ????. (You really don’t know me and it shows.)
I hit send.
Lock my phone.
Throw it onto the couch beside me.
Thirty seconds pass.
Maybe less.
“Fuck.”
I stand.
Sitting still isn't helping.
So I stop sitting.
I change in thirty seconds flat.
Worn black shorts, and a faded grey compression shirt that’s seen more wash cycles than it was designed for.
Grabbing my gym bag from the closet, I stuff my gloves, wraps, and a water bottle inside, sling the strap over my shoulder, and slam the door behind me hard enough that the neighbor’s dog starts barking.
The walk to the boxing gym takes eight minutes if I don't stop at the crosswalk.
I don't stop.
The city changes block by block.
Neat hedges and university signage fall away behind me. The sidewalk buckles. Storefronts get older, closer together. Somewhere between the bubble tea shop and the dry cleaner, the boxing gym appears.
The front door is glass, but the glass has been spray-painted from the inside, matte black, so you can’t see through it. The sign above the door reads “HARDKNOCKS” in letters that look like they were welded together from scrap metal, and the “O” in “KNOCKS” has been replaced with a fist.
I pull open the door and the smell hits me—sweat and leather and the sharp chemical tang of the floor cleaner they use between sessions—the tantalizing smell of a place where people come to hurt themselves on purpose.
The front desk guy barely looks up. He’s got a tattoo sleeve that starts at his wrist and disappears into a tank top two sizes too small, and he’s reading something on his phone that makes him snort every thirty seconds.
I scan my membership card and the guy looks up from him phone long enough to say “what’s up” as I bypass to the mats.
One guy near the lockers is packing up his gloves.
He nods.
I nod back.
I spot a vacant bench beneath a flickering fluorescent tube and lower myself onto its hard, varnished slats.
My gym bag thumps against the floor. I pull out a roll of hand wraps, unspooling cool cotton between my fingers.
Starting at my left wrist, I circle the fabric around bone, then snake it across my palm, weaving between each finger like threading fishing line through hooks.
I spiral it around my knuckles, layer by layer—wrap, cross, pull, tighten—before slapping on the stiff Velcro.
I flex my fingers. The snug fabric bites into my knuckles.
Perfect.
I rise, pull on my gloves, and pad across the rubber mat toward the heavy bag stationed at the far end of the room—a hulking cylinder of worn leather festooned with scuff marks.
I plant my feet shoulder-width apart, shift my weight into my heels, and drive a quick jab. The bag answers with a hollow thud.
Cross: the chains overhead rattle. Hook: a jolt stabs through my shoulder.
Again. Jab. Cross. Hook. Uppercut. With each strike, the bag swings farther, the chains creaking like old floorboards.
My lungs inhale cold air and exhale in a rasp.
Years of boxing classes and dance training have smoothed my footwork.
I make a pivot here, a hip turn there, my shoulders whiplashing in sync.
Everything has a rhythm.
Everything except my head.
Kiho's message sits behind my eyes.
How much longer are you going to keep pretending to be a normal person?
Jab.
The bag thuds.
Are you actually here to find yourself?
Cross.
The chain snaps tight.
Or is this just an expensive way to piss off your parents?
Hook.
My shoulder burns.
I strike harder. The bag swings farther; I catch it and shove it back, then hit it again and again. My rhythm fractures.
Sweat beads at my temple and my shirt clings to my back.
Technique turns into brute force until my hands ache and my lungs burn.
The anger is still there, but it’s quieter now.
That’s exactly what I needed—less noise.
I stop punching and catch the bag with a gloved hand, slowing it to a stop.
Resting my head against the cool leather of the bag, I inhale a deep breath before letting it out in a slow, steady exhale.
I unwrap my hands slowly. The wraps are damp; my knuckles glow pink underneath.
The pain is clean.
Simple.
Nothing complicated about it.
I grab my phone.
No new messages from Kiho.
I open our thread anyway.
His last question is still sitting there.
I stare at it.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I could reply. I don’t—because I don’t know. And that’s what stings: not his doubt, but that fleeting moment I thought he might be right.
I lock the phone, sling my bag over my shoulder, and nod at the attendant on my way out. The evening air hits me—cool, smoggy LA, a mix of car exhaust and sweet syrup from the bubble-tea shop next door.
The edge is gone, even if the question remains.