I never knew you were already searching for me before I even learned to pronounce your name.
That day at the airport, I only thought you were a stranger.
How naïve I was.
Sometimes, just when everything seems withered, something opens.
Like candy bursting on the tongue—sweet, intense… but too fleeting to linger.
I leaned against the window. Mrs. Kwan was walking in the garden, smelling the roses my mother had planted before she died.
Since then, she came more often. More present than many of the living.
I didn't know much about her. Divorced. Lonely. She had a son, absent like everything else in her life.
Sometimes, I thought she came for me.
Or maybe for the part of herself my absence reflected back.
Her care was subtle… and uncomfortable. She noticed if I grew taller, if I lost weight, if my body began to change.
Comments that I never knew whether to take as consolation or offense.
"Today, you should be the one to greet her," my father said from the staircase, already tying his tie.
"Again? She was just here yesterday. I'm not in the mood."
"She is. And she's doing it for you. More than I do, even."
"Is that what you think? I just want to grieve with you—not with a stranger who shows up with cakes and good manners."
He stepped closer. I thought he might hug me. But he only opened the door.
"Hello, Mrs. Kwan," he said, his warmth mechanical.
"Hello, dear."
"Hi," I muttered, making no effort to hide my annoyance, and climbed the stairs without looking back.
I didn't make it to my room.
I stopped halfway, sitting on the steps in silence.
From there, I heard them: whispers through half-closed doors, sentences not meant for me.
At first, I thought they were lovers.
Later, I realized it was something worse: accomplices.
But what unsettled me most… was her.
The way she looked at me. The way she spoke about me.
As if I owed her something.
As if she knew more about my life than I did.
"Does she know yet?" Mrs. Kwan asked in a low voice.
"No. Not yet. She's not ready."
"Then don't tell her. Let them meet first."
"And does he know?"
"He knows enough. I told him she's beautiful. That she's been through a lot. That she might seem… guarded. But she's brilliant. Different."
"What I'm giving you doesn't come without conditions," my father said.
"I know the conditions." She smiled. "I know what I'm gaining. And what I'm risking."
"Eliz," my father called, as if he knew I was listening from the stairs.
"Yes?"
"You'll accompany Mrs. Kwan to the airport. Friday."
"Oh, will I?" I asked, not moving.
"Please, come down," she said from the hall.
I descended slowly. I didn't want to see her, but I didn't want to argue either.
She irritated me… but she cared. More than he did.
"Yes, Mrs. Kwan," I murmured, avoiding her gaze.
"Only if you want to, dear. Don't force yourself," she said, tilting my chin up with a smile.
I lied softly:
"I'm fine. I'll go with you."
She nodded, satisfied.
"We're picking up my son. I've told you about him, haven't I?"
Yes, she had. Too much.
So perfect, so absent—it almost sounded made up.
And if he resembled her, I was sure I'd dislike him even more.
The Airport
The airport smelled of air conditioning, overpriced coffee, and anxiety.
Mrs. Kwan walked briskly at my side, clutching her bag with both hands.
I followed a step behind, pretending to check my phone, when in truth I was only counting the seconds.
"There he is," she said, her tone shifting, softer—like she was speaking to a memory.
I lifted my eyes.
A tall young man with neatly styled dark hair and sunglasses walked toward us with steady steps.
His clothes were simple, but carried that effortless elegance that needed no showing off.
His face was calm, but when he removed the glasses, his eyes betrayed it all: he was evaluating. The scene. Me.
"Jong-Suk, dear," his mother greeted, arms open. "This is Eliz."
He looked at me for only a second. Just one. But it was enough.
He wasn't what I'd imagined.
Not arrogant. Not overly charming. He didn't try too hard.
And yet, something about him unsettled me.
"Nice to meet you," he said, extending his hand.
"Hi," I replied, shaking it briefly.
"Your mother has spoken a lot about you," I added, keeping my tone neutral.
"She's not my mother," he said, too quickly to take back.
Mrs. Kwan pretended not to hear.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Understood."
Silence lingered between us.
I pretended to study the luggage claim.
He watched her, already listening to her directions about the car and departure time.
But every so often, I felt his eyes on me.
As if trying to solve a puzzle.
I don't know when, but his voice reached me again:
"I didn't want to come either. But we're here now, aren't we?"
I turned to him, surprised.
A confession? A provocation?
"Then at least let's pretend this will be… interesting," I said, forcing a smile.
He tilted his head slightly.
"I'll play along."
And just like that, something began that neither of us had planned.
"I'll get some coffee," she said, clearly searching for an excuse to leave us alone.
"I can bring it," I offered.
"My dear, you should stay here. Besides…" Mrs. Kwan's soft smile carried far too much intent. "It seems you two are already getting along quite well. An old woman like me might just ruin the moment."
Ruin the moment?
What exactly was she insinuating?
"I'll go. I don't mind… Besides, I think I need the restroom anyway. I'll bring the coffee back with me," Eliz replied, struggling to keep her composure.
"All right, dear. Don't take too long," Mrs. Kwan answered with a hint of resignation—though her eyes gleamed with something far more calculated.
"Yes," Eliz nodded, walking down the hallway with hesitant steps.
"She must be nervous…" Mrs. Kwan whispered under her breath.
But before she could finish the thought, she felt a stare burn into her back.
One she knew all too well.
When she turned, she found it: Jong-Suk's gaze.
Direct.
Almost defiant.
The very same look he used to give his mother whenever he was caught in one of his childhood mischiefs.
"She doesn't know, does she?" he said, rubbing his temple with quiet disapproval. "You brought me here to marry her… but she doesn't know."
"Well…" his mother hesitated. "She's not ready for that conversation yet. We didn't expect what happened with Jeru. But, my dear, she'll find great comfort in you."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying. I'm… giving her time."
"And you? Are you sure you're not lying to yourself?"
She had no answer. She only looked at him, as if even he was part of a gamble too high-staked to admit.
Mrs. Kwan never lied—not exactly. But she rarely spoke the whole truth either.
And lying to Jong-Suk was useless. He was too intuitive. Too perceptive.
"If you need more time, we can delay things a little longer. For now, just get to know each other. That's the first step."
"I want to marry her," he said, straightening his sleeves and combing his hair back with his fingers.
"Didn't you hesitate before? And now, all of a sudden, you're fine with it?"
"I'll pretend I don't know either," he replied with a half-smile, tilting his head. "As for your question… I spent years abroad, met countless girls, but…"
He paused.
"You promised good things if I married her."
But that wasn't the real reason.
He was pretending—and he did it well.
Because long ago, he had already noticed her.
The first time was before moving abroad with his father.
That day, he was crying outside his mother's office while his parents fought over custody.
Through his tears, he saw Mr. Kang arrive with his little daughter.
The argument inside grew louder… and then it happened.
She—curious, fearless—ran up to him.
She opened her small hand and offered her last piece of candy.
"I love these. They pop in your mouth, but I can't eat too many or they'll hurt my stomach," she told him sweetly.
And just like that, he stopped crying.
It was such a pure, unexpectedly beautiful gesture that it burned itself into his memory.
But when the door opened and fear struck him, he snatched the candy and shoved her away.
She fell, crying, and Mr. Kang rushed to pick her up as the adults bent down to negotiate with him.
Still, from that day on, Jong-Suk never stopped thinking about that girl.
Whenever his mother spoke of her or showed a picture, he pretended not to care.
But inside, he was glad.
And at the airport, when he finally saw her again—standing beside her mother—his body betrayed him.
Goosebumps.
Shaking hands.
A flush rising to his face.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to walk toward her.
Because he knew. The moment had come.
And when he finally stood close to her, relief washed over him.
She didn't recognize him as that rude boy.
When their hands met in a handshake, heat surged through his chest.
His cheeks burned.
His stomach trembled.
She blossoms with every blink, he thought.
"Everything will go as planned. But it depends on you. Treat her well," his mother urged.
"I'll help," he answered, just as Eliz returned with two cups of coffee.
"No need," she murmured, unconsciously pulling her hand away—a gesture so quick it made him smile faintly.
"There's something in your hair."
He leaned close, near her ear, and whispered, "It doesn't just shine too much…"
She froze.
The tickle of his voice against her ear was like lightning.
Jong-Suk was impossibly attractive, and she had never been this close to a boy before.
"Th-thank you," she stammered nervously. "I brought you some coffee. You looked tired… you didn't seem very lively."
Their hands brushed as she handed it to him.
A fleeting second—perfect, infinite.
Her cheeks flushed red instantly.
Later, we sat in the car after Mrs. Kwan hastily arranged a private outing.
He played soft instrumental music. Notes floating, pretending nothing had happened.
"Do you think cactuses dream?"
"What?"
"Maybe they dream of having legs… and running to the supermarket."
I laughed—against my will.
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
"Logic doesn't interest me. I'm drawn to things that make no sense."
"Like what?"
"Like naming cars. This one's Sir Ernest the Third."
"And the first two?"
"A tricycle and a bike. The second betrayed me."
I laughed again.
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye.
"I like the way you laugh," he murmured.
I said nothing.
But I felt it—like a touch beneath the skin.
"And you? What's your shampoo's name?"
"What?" I laughed.
"It's important."
"'Heavenly Foam.'"
"What does it smell like?"
"Like things that pop in your mouth. Like candy."
He went silent.
"Then it really is you," he whispered.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just… it smells nice."
A sudden bump in the road.
My hand landed on his.
Neither of us moved.
Warmth.
A second of eternity.
Then I pulled away.
"Sorry…"
"Don't apologize," he said without looking at me.
I stared at him.
He wasn't just attractive anymore.
He was someone carrying scars too deep to see.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yes. It's just that…"
I stopped.
It's just that I want to touch you again, I thought.
"Just that…?"
I looked into his eyes.
His gaze caught mine.
The Return
The house was quiet when we arrived.
Jong-Suk turned off the engine.
Neither of us moved.
It wasn't just awkwardness. It was something heavier.
A tension that buzzed like electricity beneath the skin.
The echo of our hands still burning in memory.
"Thank you for the ride," I whispered, avoiding his eyes.
"Of course," he answered politely.
I opened the door. The night air was cool, but it couldn't calm the heat still rising to my cheeks.
"Rest well," he added just before I shut the door.
I nodded.
The see you soon stayed unspoken between us.
I went upstairs in silence, sat before the mirror, warmth still lingering on my cheeks.
My fingers brushed my lips. Then my chest.
How could something so brief feel so… irreversible?
Meanwhile
Elsewhere in the city, Jong-Suk paced his darkened apartment.
He needed to unpack.
The first thing he pulled from his suitcase was a small wooden box, carefully wrapped.
Inside lay the last of those candies.
The same one she had once offered him as a child.
He held it between his fingers.
This wasn't coincidence.
She spoke the same way.
She had the same gestures.
But she didn't remember.
And maybe that was for the best.
Because he did.
Every detail.
And he could never forget her.
END OF CHAPTER 1