“MAYBE I SHOULD WATCH K-dramas,” Owen announced.

“What?” Park responds, caught off guard

They lay on the floor in Owen’s living room taking a break, because Owen had complained of a headache. Owen has an arm slung over his eyes, one leg raised while Park flattens his palms on his stomach.

“You’re Korean but I know nothing about Korea. You learn from seeing, right? So, K-dramas.”

“Me being Korean doesn’t mean you have to watch K-dramas.”

“Yes, It does. You’re my friend—”

“I'm your tutor,” Park corrects automatically, tracing small lines on the leg of the table.

“You’re my friend,” Owen emphasizes as Park knows he would, “And I know nothing about your homeland.”

The reasoning is solid. Not that Park will ever tell Owen that. Them having things in common is a recipe Park wants to keep to himself.

Owen shifts to his side and tucks an arm under his head. “Tell me. What’s Korea like?”

Park pauses at the question. He’s looking directly at Owen and is thrown off by how bright his brown eyes are. Bright like sienna. His eyes are unlike anything Park has ever seen.

“Earth to Park,” Owen sing-songs, a smile playing on his lips.

Park blinks at his thoughts. “Uh… It’s a mildly populated country with overpopulated security cameras. Small sized. Regularly threatened by North Korea. Their low birth rate increases, most are worried.”

Owen bursts out laughing, rolling onto his back. “You sound like a reporter reading off a teleprompter.”

He turns back to his side, one arm tucked under his head while the other drapes across his body, palm flat against the floor.

“Come on,” Owen prods. "I can find out all that from Google. Tell me about Korea from your personal experience.”

Park hesitates. Searching through his memories, he realizes he has little to share about Korea itself and only fleeting experiences from his short time living there. Those experiences aren’t ones he’s eager to share. He’s disappointed —morose— at the lack of enjoyable memories of the country.

“I had a pet canary once,” Park offers instead, taking a slice from the past.

“What was that like?”

Park shrugs, choosing his words carefully. “Like having a pet, except it’s a bird. Her wings were clipped so she couldn’t fly, but at least she wasn’t caged. I had to learn how, when and what to feed her, how to play with her, giving her strict but healthy sleep schedules... Essentially, I was more of a groomer than anything.”

“What was she like? What was her name? How were her songs? Did she ever have a friend or a mate?” Owen fires off questions, eyes widening with each question.

Park’s expression softens, recalling what was once his greatest companion.

“Petite and cute. She had this golden-yellow feathers that lights up when she hops by the window. Her name was Bada. It means ‘the ocean’in Korean. Grandfather gave her to me when we went sailing. She was chirpy, cheerful. And no, no friends, no mate.”

“That’s not true," Owen counters gently, “You were her friend.”

Park stares at Owen, seeing he believes the assumption in those eyes. Park used to be like that too until he was corrected. Carefully, Park schools his features to remain neutral. He takes a slow breath through his mouth. 

Bringing Bada up was a mistake. There are hundred other things he could’ve said about Korea: food, culture, music, art, even the damn language Owen wants to learn. 

But no. Park had to open his big mouth. He needs to change the subject. Now.

“How’s your headache?" 

“Hmm? Fine now, I guess,” Owen replies, distracted.

Park sits up, eager to move on. “Let’s continue.”

Owen doesn’t follow suit. Park twists around and finds Owen watching him, his gaze searching.

“Did Bada die? You’re unwilling to talk about her.”

“She’s fine. She’s not my pet anymore.”

“Why?”

“You ask a lot of questions. That attitude is good if you implement it in your studying.”

If Owen hears the irritation in Park’s voice, he doesn’t show it. “I ask a lot of questions because you barely answer any.”

Park rolls his eyes, but Owen persists. 

“Why isn’t she your pet anymore?”

“I got wiser.” 

“What does that mean?”

Park gestures vaguely at the room around them. “I didn’t have time for a pet."

“How old were you then? How old is she?” Owen continues his barrage of questions.

“Owen,” Park warns, his patience wearing thin.

“What? I can't be curious about my friend?”

“We’re not friends,” Park grits his teeth 

Propping his head on his arm, Owen scoffs. “Pshaw. Yes, we are. Friends talk. Friends spend time together. That's what we’re doing.”

“Don’t you have too many friends?” 

“You can never have too many friends.” Owen declares.

“Yes, you can. You totally can.”

Owen grins. “Besides, Oyin is my friend too. The friend of my friend is my friend."

Despite himself, Park has to force in a chuckle. He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by the door opening. Owen’s mom walks in, a tired smile on her face.

“Hey guys. Don’t mind me. Continue studying,” she says, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Her skin is pale, and her gaze unfocused.

Owen notices immediately and jumps to his feet. “What’s wrong, Ma? You don’t look so good.”

His mother waves away his concerns, but Owen is already in motion. He gently guides her to a kitchen stool, telling her to “Wait there”.

Park watches silently as Owen bustles around the kitchen . He boils water for tea, noiselessly opens cupboards to retrieve crackers, and arranges everything on a plate. Once the tea is ready, he brings both the mug and plate to his mother. His hand brushes her forehead, and he frowns.

“You’re burning up.”

“I’m just tired. It’s—" His mother starts to protest, but Owen has already walked away. He returns with small bottles that Park assumes is medicine.

“Use these,” Owen instructs, and his mother takes them without argument. Owen sits on the stool opposite her and gently lifts her feet onto his lap.

“Owen, I’m fine.” 

Owen ignores her weak protest and begins massaging her feet. Park notes this display of filial piety with interest. His own mother would love a son like Owen.

Owen’s mom smiles awkwardly at Park, seeming almost embarrassed by the attention. “Sorry for interrupting you two. He’ll be done in a minute.”

“Ten minutes,” Owen corrects.

His mother reaches to swat his arm, but he avoids her. “Don't make your friend wait. Go study.”

“It’s fine," Park surprises himself by speaking up. “We’re on a break.”

Owen whips his head around in surprise and a pleased smile spreads across his face. “My friend is considerate, isn’t he? So warm-hearted. Ready to answer any questions I ask him.”

Owen is teasing him.

“Don’t stress him out,” his mom warns.

“Ma!”

“I know you. You’re full of high energy.”

“And stubborn,” Park adds.

Owen’s mom clicks her fingers in agreement. “And stubborn. You’re pig-headed and do whatever you like.”

Owen laughs. “I’m your husband in a son.”

This time when his mom playfully slaps his shoulder, he doesn’t duck away.

“Your father was worse than you at your age.” 

“I know. He wooed you relentlessly.” 

His mother laughs, the sound like tinkling bells. It should be annoying, but somehow comforting. Kind of like Owen’s. 

“He didn't woo me then. He was more interested in taking pictures than in girls.”

“Taking pictures of you,” Owen boops his mom on the nose. “I can see why. If I was him, I’d take photos of you too.”

“You’re flirting with Ma again,” a new voice says from the doorway. Park hadn’t heard her come in. 

“Pa should watch out—”

 “Ma!” A short boy wearing football jersey with hair the exact same shade as Owen’s bursts into the room, drops his bag before wrapping his arms around his mother’s leg.

“Ma, Ma. Guess what? I made three goals today,” the boy exclaims, practically vibrating with excitement. “I kept scoring and scoring and scoring…” 

He plops down on the floor, launching into an animated retelling of his soccer exploits.

The girl – Owen’s sister, Park guesses – approaches him. Her red hair is a darker shade than her brothers, matching her mother's.

“You must be the tutor?”

Rising to his feet, Park wipes his hands on his pants and offers a handshake. “I’m Park. Nice to meet you.” 

The girl looks amused, though Park isn’t sure why until she speaks. “A boy with manners. Owen, you can learn a thing or two from him.”

“I learned my mannerlessness from you.”Owen quips.

“I’m Nora,” she says, accepting his handshake.

Her eyes, Park notices, are the exact color of a fern leaf. Green, like her mom’s.

“I’m Finn!” the younger boy shouts, and Owen winces.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” She reach for Owen’s forehead in concern.

“I’m fine,” Owen assures her. “Just have a bit of a headache.”

His mom tries to stand, but Owen gently keeps her feet in place. “I’m fine. I’m not done yet.”

In three long strides, Nora is at Owen’s side. She has his head in a playful headlock before he can react.

“Open your mouth,” she commands, dropping a pill onto his tongue. Finn appears at her side, offering a glass of water.

Park observes the scene before him. Owen’s mom receives her foot massage while Nora skitter about making sandwiches, Finn acting as her eager little helper. Owen cracks jokes, and Nora fires back witty retorts. Their easy camaraderie is palpable.

His stomach churns. He wants to throw up. Without drawing attention to himself, he walks back to the dining table, tidies his books, and slides them into his bag.

“I’ll be leaving now,” he announces, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Now?” Owen questions, surprise evident in his voice.

Nora looks up from her sandwich-making. “But I'm making a sandwich for you.”

“You don't have to—” Owen begins but Park cuts him off.

“You have a headache, rest up.” 

From the corner of his eye, Park spies CeeCee appear at the landing, yawning wide. Finn dives for her, clutches her to his chest and coos at her. 

“And I’m not hungry, but thanks,” Park adds hastily. “We’ll pick it up later.”

“Wai—” Owen starts to say, but Park is already out the door.

He rushes down the stairs to his bicycle, pedaling away before Owen or anyone else can stop him. The wind whips against his face as he rides, he couldn't shake the image of Owen’s family. A different warm, chaotic scene than what he’s used to.

Park’s mind wanders to Bada. He’d told Owen the bare minimum because the truth was better left forgotten. Bada had been a bright spot in his life. But like everything else in his life, she hadn’t stayed.

As he nears his house, Park slows, knowing what awaits him inside. Silence. Heaviness. Expectations. No one will want to hear how his day was if there isn’t success in the story. Much like Finn except no one had stared him down and whipped out an iPad. 

Shaking off these thoughts, Park stations his bike and goes inside, murmuring a greeting back to the family’s cook as he heads straight to his room. He has work to do after all. And if his thoughts occasionally drifts to bright Sienna eyes and a tinkling laugh, that’s an ordeal he’ll bury another day.