6. Chapter Six #6
The school year crawls toward summer. Exams come and go, final projects get turned in, the weather warms until we’re all sweating through our uniforms by midday.
Sohee and I break up the week before summer break starts.
She says she thinks I’m not really present, that I’m always distracted.
I tell her I’m sorry and mean it. She smiles sadly and pats my cheek and says take care of yourself.
I wake one morning to the sound of something tapping at my window.
I roll over, squinting at the clock on my desk. Six in the morning. The tapping comes again, soft but insistent. I drag myself out of bed, rubbing sleep from my eyes, and pull the curtain back.
Ryowoon stands in the narrow space between the house and the wall, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. No uniform. His bag is slung over one shoulder and there’s an emptiness in his expression.
I unlatch the window and slide it open.
“What are you doing?”
“Want to skip school with me?”
I stare at him. His face is calm, blank, but his eyes are too bright.
I know enough.
“Yeah.”
I grab my backpack, stuff it with the snacks I keep stashed in my desk drawer, pull on jeans and a shirt. My mom is already gone, left for the restaurant an hour ago. I climb out the window and drop into the space beside him.
We walk down the hill in silence, past the empty streets, past Mrs. Nam’s store where the roll-down doors are still shut.
The bus station sits at the edge of town, a small concrete building with a faded schedule tacked to the wall outside.
Ryowoon buys two tickets to Busan with a wad of crumpled bills he pulls from his pocket, money from selling cigarettes at school.
The bus pulls up ten minutes later and we climb aboard.
We sit near the back, the vinyl seats cracked and sticky under our legs.
I pull out the bag of shrimp chips and two bottles of cider from my backpack and pass one to Ryowoon.
He takes it without a word, twisting the cap off with his good hand.
The bus rumbles out of the station and we sit there munching chips, watching the countryside blur past the windows.
The ride takes an hour. Ryowoon stares out the window the whole time, his jaw tight, the bottle of cider balanced on his knee.
When we get to Busan the city swallows us immediately.
The noise, the crowds, the smell of exhaust and grilled meat and salt from the harbor.
Ryowoon guides us through the maze of streets like he’s been here before, even though I know he hasn’t.
We wander the market first, weaving between stalls piled high with dried fish and vegetables and cheap clothing.
Ryowoon buys hotteok from a vendor, the sweet dough oozing honey and cinnamon when I bite into it.
We eat fishcakes on sticks as we walk, the broth dripping down our wrists.
At another stall he gets us tteokbokki, spicy and chewy, and we sit on a bench shoving pieces into our mouths until my tongue is burning.
By the time we reach Haeundae the afternoon sun is blazing, the beach packed with families and couples sprawled across the sand.
Ryowoon rolls up the legs of his jeans and kicks off his shoes.
I do the same. We walk into the surf together, the cold water shocking against our ankles, foam swirling around our feet.
The waves crash and recede, pulling the sand out from under us.
We find a spot away from the crowds and sit in the warm sand. I pull out the rest of the snacks from my bag and we eat in silence, watching kids build sandcastles while their parents lounge under umbrellas.
I wait. Give him space. But eventually I can’t hold it in anymore.
“What happened?”
Ryowoon doesn’t look at me. He tears a piece of hotteok in half, stares at it, then sets it back down on the paper wrapper between us.
“He came home and destroyed the house.”
His voice is flat and empty. Like he’s describing something that happened to someone else.
“I locked myself in my room until he passed out. Then I grabbed my bag and left.”
I want to ask where he slept, if he’s planning on going back, what he’s going to do now. But the look on his face tells me he doesn’t have answers to any of those questions. So I keep my mouth shut.
We stay until the sun dips toward the horizon, the sky streaked with orange and pink.
Families start packing up, shaking sand from their towels, hauling coolers and tired children toward the parking lot.
Ryowoon and I walk back through the cooling sand, brushing it off our feet before shoving them back into our shoes.
The last bus back to Haemok leaves at eight. We buy two more ciders at a convenience store near the station and drink them on the ride, the bus nearly empty now. Ryowoon tips his head against the window, his eyes half-closed, and I lean back in my seat, exhaustion creeping through my limbs.
His head drops onto my shoulder, his breathing evening out. I glance down at him, his face slack with sleep, the bruises from weeks ago long faded but the shadows under his eyes still dark.
I tip my head against his and close my eyes.