I meet with a doorman of sorts, a large reception desk, and I give my name and the apartment number, waiting for a SWAT team or something to take me down.

But I’m waved right through towards the elevators, fumbling with my purchases to press the up button, getting inside, and then running my fingers down the floor buttons until I get to the eighth one, surprised that I’m not going straight up to the penthouse.

Maybe Jaeyong hasn’t hit penthouse level yet, or maybe Jaeyong is more frugal than I remember. Plus, it’s a little weird that he’s not living in a dorm, with the other members. But maybe that’s because they’re on hiatus now? Maybe?

It’s not like I’m going to be asking him that kind of question, like, ever.

I pull in a deep breath, ready to knock on the door, stomach twisting and turning like I’m on a carousel ride with those creepy horses, going up and down and around.

I know it’s not really a big deal, but first impressions count; they often count the most, even if they can be stupid. Humans in general make judgments in thirty seconds when meeting a person for the first time.

It floored me when I learned that in my Intro to Psych class years ago, and now I have to just fumble my way through and hope for the best, even if I have this horrible piece of knowledge floating in my noggin.

Was I ever a rude kid back when I would go over to the Mins?

Holy shit, did I ever open their fridge without permission? Did I ever not like their food and spouted it out for the entire table to hear like a stupid kid?

I knock before I can psych myself out, biting at my bottom lip when I hear yelling through the door, a mixture of Korean, French and English as Jaeyong greets me as soon as he opens the door, swinging it open wide.

“Chapssaltteok? For me?” He grins, making grabby hands at the bags looped around my wrists, looking into them, sticking his head in deep so that when he pulls out of the bags it looks like he’s got electrified hair, the parts that are free of hair styling product, anyway.

Jaeyong looks softer somehow, sweeter, and that just isn’t my imagination—it’s a thing with male idols especially, and it has a lot to do if their forehead or eyebrows are exposed, of all things.

His hair’s kind of semi-floppy now, even if some of it is still styled, the front part of his hair hanging low and almost into his eyes, eyes that are free of makeup, and standing this close I can see that his eyelashes aren’t curled either.

He’s wearing sweatpants with a hole in the knee, and a giant t-shirt that looks like it could hold two other Jaeyongs beside him without the seams screaming bloody murder.

He looks soft and approachable, just like a normal guy. It hurts my head a little.

How can he be the same person as the guy I saw at the concert after the fansign devastating the crowd, how?!

“Let her in!” Mrs. Min’s voice comes from deeper in the apartment, and Jaeyong grins at me, chipped eyetooth and all, the one he told me all about when I asked back in seventh grade with some sort of fantastical story that I chose to believe at the time. It seemed like a good trade to listen to the over-the-top story for his friendship.

I thought we’d be friends forever—stupid, I know—but it felt like a lifetime could pass and he’d still be by my side.

And now?

Now I’ve been given a second chance, even if it’s only for tonight.

Besides, there’s chapssaltteok and japchae, stir-fried glass noodles and vegetables and either chicken or beef (depending on your eating persuasion) and I can smell it from the hall, making my mouth water, my stomach howl.

I’m not going to question my own motives tonight—much. There’s gonna be enough time to obsess over it later, when I’m back in my empty apartment, bedding down for the night. Right now, I just want to be in Jaeyong’s presence, pretend like this can happen again, pretend like we can reconnect after all this time.

I toe off my sneakers in the entranceway once Jaeyong backs up and lets me in, kicking a pair of house slippers towards me that I stuff my feet into, and follow him into the apartment.

It’s spacious, but still the standard fare: kitchen, living room, a bathroom, and a couple of bedrooms, unless the master has an en suite, but again, it’s not like I’m gonna ask.

I get distracted from looking around, though, when I’m being attacked by a puppy, and this just turned into the best day of my life.

“Dog,” I say uselessly, pointing at the pup as if I’m two years old and identifying animals based on sight alone.

The pup’s some sort of mutt, I can’t even tell what breed it is, just a mish-mash of canine DNA that’s stepping on my feet, tail wagging, sky-blue eyes looking up at me with something like devotion. I crouch down without thinking, crashing to my knees and cooing at the dog, my heart aching when the pup decides to slather my face in kisses, making me panic that he’s gone (yup, he’s got the right equipment) and licked some of my makeup off.

“Haneul, stop being a brat,” Jaeyong says in Korean, voice somewhere above me, sounding equal parts exasperated and fond. “You give him enough attention and he’ll love you forever and never want to leave your side.”

I laugh, press a kiss to the pup’s head, frowning when some of my lip gloss gets stuck there so I lift up the corner of my t-shirt to wipe it off, getting a cold, wet pup nose for my trouble.

“Is that a guarantee? How are you even able to have a dog?” I wince at myself while ruffling Haneul’s ears, probably given his name for his sky-blue eyes, the pup staring deep into my soul before I get a lick along my nose.

I hike myself up with one last pet, gently thumping Haneul’s ribs, murmuring praises and watching his tail go bonkers from left to right, nails tick-tacking on the flooring as he dances simultaneously away and closer to my touch, like an odd game of hide and seek. I use the collar part of my t-shirt to wipe up any excess dog kisses and turn to find Mrs. Min looking at me with a smile.

My throat gets tight as I look at her, so many memories bombarding me as I remember her when I was younger, a comforting presence no matter how many times I went over to their house, and she ever said anything when I was over more than what would have been acceptable.

God, she’s still beautiful, a stripe of iron-gray hair over her left ear now, as if she put it there on purpose, her nails painted a vibrant red, her smile the size of the Han River.

“Mrs. Min,” I breathe in English, unsure of what to do, of what else to say, if I’m doing all of this wrong as per Korean etiquette and social norms. Everything I’ve learned has gone out the window, and I can’t think about how to proceed properly.

Shit, I used to hang out at their house all of the time, especially when my parents were fighting, and divorce could come at any second, the waffling on the issue making it harder and harder to breathe at home that I just had to escape it.

Mrs. Min fed me when my mom neglected to after the separation and basically gave me the attention I needed but didn’t know I was craving back then from a parent.

It was Mrs. Min that would be the one to drive us to the bookstore, perusing the romance section or gardening aisles, buying us creamy hot chocolate, leaving the pair of us to sit down and try to read mangas at the same time, heads knocking together, mouthing the words so we’d go at the same pace.

It was a different time, a safer time, where my life made sense before I had to grow up and deal with my own shit and take responsibility for myself. It was super nice, being taken care of in that way.

No one buys me creamy hot chocolate anymore unless I buy it for myself. Which is a special kind of suckage.

“Mrs. Min? Mrs. Min, really?” she says in Korean, hands on her hips, making me balk, even if I’m half a foot taller than her.

People shorter than me always freaked me out, like they were always one Faustian deal away from asking for my excess height in return for signing in blood on the dotted line.

“Come over here, Raleigh, and give me a hug.”

I try to control my face, screw on my features tight enough that they don’t sag or show anything of what I’m feeling, bringing me back to that time in my life where shit made sense, where I made sense, where I felt like I knew where I was going and how long and how far it would take me to get there.

I was certain, confident in a way that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense now.

I move to hug her, bending down and carefully closing my arms around her, squeaking in surprise when she bands her arms around my ribs, squeezing tight enough that my lungs start to feel it, radiating warmth and love and smelling like dinner and hairspray and a subtle perfume that could be something floral.

Mrs. Min rocks me a little from side to side, and I let her, let her move me until she’s pushing out of the hug, hands on my upper arms and looking me up and down, up and down again, while worry and dread claws at my gut, waiting for her to tell me what she sees.

Second first impressions, here we go!

“You got so much taller! When did that happen?”

“When did Jaeyong get so tall?” I ask formally because I’ve learned that’s how you would address another person’s mother or father, despite us already having a past together. I don’t want to presume anything.

Honestly, every tutor I ever had has told me that excessive politeness is always preferable to the risk of rudeness, and I’m taking that advice and running with it.

I hike a thumb back over my shoulder towards Jaeyong’s general physical presence. I mean, he’s in here somewhere.

It’s super great now that I’m able to speak with Mrs. Min in Korean, not having to have Jaeyong translate for us when I want to say thank you, although I already knew that word from all the times I was over at their house: gamsahamnida.

“I’m so happy to see you, truly.”

“Oh, and your Korean! You don’t have to speak so formally!” Mrs. Min drags her hands down my arms so that she’s clutching my hands in hers, and it gives me such an incredible pang of homesickness, it feels like it’s clawing its way up from inside me, making my throat tight and ache with pain, my vision going blurry with soon-to-be tears.

Even though it’s basically only been two weeks since I got to freaking Seoul, I foolishly thought I’d be a better version of myself here, trying to push myself out of my comfort zone, but I think I went too far—a whole ocean away kind of too far.

Shit, shit, shit! Don’t cry in front of Mrs. Min! What’s the matter with you?

I sniff hard, fix a smile on my face. “I started studying it after Jaeyong left. Well, not right after. I was maybe twenty when I started self-studying it, then getting tutors to help with my spoken Korean. Besides, Jaeyong taught me all the bad words anyway, so I had a leg up.” I grin, shooting a glance over my shoulder, watching Jaeyong baby-talk to the puppy. He always talked about having a dog, his parents not letting him have one until he could show he’d be responsible, and now just look at him.

I turn back to her. “I’m still not that good and make a lot of mistakes, but I’m trying.”

Mrs. Min’s eyes shut when she smiles wide, and my heart gives a kick at that, too. This is the reunion of my dreams, and still…it doesn’t feel like it’s enough, like something doesn’t fit just right.

“Nonsense. You sound perfect.” I know she’s being kind, but I stand a little taller just the same.

“Can I help with anything, Mr. Min?” I call into the kitchen. Jaeyong’s dad is at the kitchen stove, working on a frying pan, the smell of steamed vegetables and soy sauce and all the other things they put in japchae wafts up my nose, and I’m still not able to recognize all the spices that are being used.

Mr. Min glances at me, a smile on his face, the exact same one that Jaeyong wears now, even if he got his mom’s dimples. Genetics, they’re weird like that.

“How spicy is too spicy?” Mr. Min asks.

“Please, I’ll eat however you make it. I’m so happy to see you both. It’s been a very long time.”

Maybe Jaeyong and I would’ve ceased being friends after high school ended, hell, maybe even once ninth grade started. Maybe that would’ve been the time that Jaeyong would have cut ties, maybe I would have been the one to do so—the thing is, I’m never going to know.

I’m never going to know if there would have been more family dinners where I was over more often than not, where Jaeyong and I would “study” at the library, or quiz each other on our Spanish vocabulary while reciting all the facts we knew about Dragon Ball, our brains like sponges, but nothing truly important ever seeming to stick.

Maybe this odd mirage-like dinner with the Mins would have taken place in an alternate universe or something where the two of us are the same age we are now, like this was always going to be inevitable.

There’s hustle and bustle as Mr. Min moves plates and side dishes to the table, Haneul circling each one of us, begging with his entire body for scraps, being shooed away by Jaeyong when he steps on the pup by accident. Haneul’s shrill yip breaks my heart even as he takes the opportunity of me leaning down to check on him to eat the bowl of kimchi I was carrying lightning quick before I could realize what he was doing.

After that, Haneul’s banished to his big, fluffy bed by the balcony door, settled there, alert even while lying down, ready to pounce on a stray piece of food that makes its way to the floor.

There’s soju being poured, and I watch and wait carefully for the etiquette of the table to be explained to me, flushing at all the times I probably made so many mistakes and caused offense because I couldn’t get my thirteen-year-old head out of my ass to ask a question about it, to become more informed.

I watch Jaeyong pour the soju, the straight stuff, not the flavoured stuff I prefer, one hand supporting the elbow of the arm that is doing the pouring, pouring for his father and mother first, giving them the most respect, then pouring for me, as a guest, and finally himself.

We say cheers, and Jaeyong and I wait for his parents to take their first sip, before we cover our glasses with our free hands, bringing up the shot glasses to our lips and turning away from them to take our own shots, the liquor flooding my mouth, burning all the way down my throat to my belly, warming me through.

Everything looks absolutely delicious—the japchae in the middle, individual bowls of rice given to each person, spoons and chopsticks on the right, along with the side dishes like kimchi, and pickled daikon, seasoned spinach, and bean sprouts that look to have soy sauce on them—and my stomach rumbles loud enough to make everyone laugh.