Chapter 7 - Screens and silences 

Back in Hong Kong, Eric couldn’t stop thinking about his last weekend in Seoul. The entire trip home was a blur due to sleep deprivation and emotional static. He had told himself that once he caught up on sleep, everything would go back to normal. That the lingering would pass. That the kiss would fade like a dream.

It didn’t.

No amount of sleep or work, God knows he tried both, could erase the sharp imprint Jihoo had left. It wasn’t even just the kiss. It was the quiet. The honesty. The way Jihoo looked at him like he was worth being seen. Now, Eric found himself running along the Kennedy Town promenade at sunrise. The pink light on the water made him think of that last dawn in Seoul. The way Jihoo had smiled after their kiss, eyes soft, lips still parted like he didn’t want to stop.

Eric shook his head and picked up his pace. At least having a crush had made him more consistent with exercise. Jihoo’s lean, athletic frame was as motivating as any personal trainer. Eric muttered to himself as he ran, “Skinny-fat Chinese uncle, no more.” But then, again, he thought of Jihoo. Time to finish that run.

Later, after freshening up and getting ready to meet his friends for brunch, very millennial of them, he hesitated over a photo he’d taken on the promenade.  A good shot: moody, golden light. He considered sending it to Jihoo with a casual “thought of you.”

Instead, he posted it to his Instagram story. Let him see it.

For the past week, they’d been texting daily, short exchanges, but always initiated by Jihoo. Eric was careful, nonchalant. Still, he checked Jihoo’s empty profile like a ritual, hoping for something new. Nothing for days. Until last night, when Jihoo reposted a video from a party, bass thumping, red lights, people dancing. Jihoo was grinning, dancing with some guy. 

Eric’s thumb hovered over Jihoo’s latest reposted story, watching that unknown man enjoying the night next to Jihoo. Nothing flirty, just standing there in the same frame, smiling wide, drink in hand. He didn’t even look tipsy. Just twenty-one. Limitless. Eric watched it multiple times, then closed the app.

The brunch spot in Soho was already buzzing when Eric arrived. His friends had claimed a corner table, mimosas in hand, already immersed in their friendly chatter like they were alone and owned the place.

“Fashionably late as usual,” Alex said, raising one perfectly-arched eyebrow. “Did your Seoul getaway teach you nothing about punctuality?”

Eric slid into his seat with a smirk. “You know, a queen always makes herself desired.”

“But I’m the main character today,” Alex fired back. “It’s my fucking birthday.”

The group laughed. The kind of joy that comes from being with people who know all your sharp edges and let you keep them anyway.

Despite living in the same city, the five of them rarely managed to gather. Between Alex’s constant business trips, Denise’s charity event circuit, Raymond’s homebody tendencies, and Carmen’s chaos-ridden parenting schedule, it was a miracle they were all in the same room. But for one of their birthdays, they’d made the effort.

Glasses clinked. Pastries arrived. Conversations layered and overlapped until it was Eric’s turn.

“So?” Carmen asked, balancing her cappuccino in one hand and a sticker-covered phone in the other. “How was Seoul?”

Eric waved a hand dismissively. “Minwoo corrupted my liver. Like usual. End of story.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Come on. You’re practically glowing. Did you... taste some Korean food?”

“I had the usual,” Eric deadpanned. “Chimaek, kimchi jjigae, samgyetang. You know my taste.”

Denise leaned in, smacking her lips together. “Oh, we know your taste, tall, sporty, soft skin, dimples that can ruin lives.”

Eric flushed. “Same taste as you, Denise. Don’t drag me down alone.”

They laughed again, letting it go, for now. But Eric couldn’t tell whether they truly believed nothing had happened, or if, like the long term friends that they were, just giving him space to say it when he was ready.

That evening back home Eric carefully lined up the wine glass beside a plate, adjusting the lighting before taking the photo. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside his apartment, where the distant lights of the ICC and M+ museum twinkled across Victoria Harbour. He settled into his couch, the soft glow from the window painting gentle shadows over the cheese platter that he prepared for himself, creamy brie, tangy goat cheese, aged comté accompanied by crusty baguette slices and a scattering of grapes and walnuts.

He added a cringey filter. Captioned it simply:
“Slow evening. Small joys.”

Then posted it to IG. Again, he stayed on the app longer than he meant to. Jihoo had reposted five stories since noon. One was a video, blurry but full of sound. A crowded table. Someone off-camera shouting his name. Jihoo flashing a peace sign, beer foam on his lip. Another guy, was that the same one from before? leaning into frame to shout something in his ear. Jihoo never posted any original video or pictures. He just let himself be tagged. As he didn’t want to share too much. Just fragments of joy, accidental intimacy, twenty seconds of chaos at a time.

Eric clicked through them twice. Then again. He didn’t know if he envied it… or if it simply made him feel old. And far. In his stories archive, his last six posts were: the sea at dusk, a black coffee and a croissant, a picture from his last trip to Shanghai, a quote from Simone de Beauvoir “On ne naît pas femme, on le devient”, Kennedy town sunrise and tonight’s dinner. Different languages. Different selves. 

He tapped out a message to Jihoo. Then deleted it. Then opened it again.

Eric:
Looks like you are having fun this weekend.

He left it unsent. He tossed the phone on the bed like it was burning. But when it buzzed a minute later, he grabbed it instantly. It was Minwoo.

Minwoo:
So… how’s the post-clubbing in Seoul existential dread going? 

Eric:
Bold of you to assume I didn’t already live there full-time. 

Minwoo:
Touché. You eating properly tho?
Or still pretending black coffee is breakfast and guilt is protein?

Eric smiled as his friend truly knew him the best.

Eric:
Earlier this week I had congee and fruit. I am reborn.

Minwoo:
Damn. HK must be working wonders.
Or you’re just spiraling in higher-resolution now.

There was a pause.

Minwoo:
You can tell me if you’re feeling weird, you know. It doesn’t always have to be jokes.
(Not that I’m stopping. I’m hilarious.)

Eric stared at the message longer than he should have.

Eric:
Weird is normal.
Normal is fine.
I’m okay.

Minwoo:
Sure. But even fine people need dumplings and a rant sometimes.
Video call soon. You owe me your face.

Later that night, Eric found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, damp hair from his shower, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram again. He’d expected nothing, but there it was, the DM that he was waiting for all day. 

Jihoo:
👀 You’ve been waking up early lately…

Eric blinked. A grin crept in, unwillingly.

Eric:
Just trying to outrun regret. And carbs.

Jihoo:
The sunrise reminded me of something… familiar. That’s all. 😊

He let it sit for a second, cool, detached. Then typed.

Eric:
I’m just generous with my golden hour content.

Jihoo:
Golden hour… or “I miss our golden” hour? 😏

Eric laughed softly, caught completely off guard. This was a new tone. Not the polite flirtiness from Seoul. This was cheeky. Confident. A little dangerous. Eric didn’t reply immediately. He tossed the phone aside, trying to be adult about it, but a minute later, he picked it back up.

Eric:
Bold for someone who hasn’t sent me a sunrise in return.

Jihoo:
You’d only zoom in on my bed hair and judge.
Or worse, fall in love.

Eric stared at that message for a while. The beat skipped in his chest was irritating. He didn't want it. He wasn’t even sure what this was. Eric stared at the typing indicator. Then it disappeared. Came back. Disappeared again. Finally another message popped up. A photo. When the image finally landed, he wasn’t ready for it. The kind that made Eric sit up straighter without meaning to.

A silhouette, backlit by the morning sun flooding through a window. Jihoo shirtless, his face turned toward the light, still soft with sleep. The outline of his collarbones, the messy hair, the glow that made it feel almost too intimate. Framed carefully… not your typical genuine shot. It was carefully curated.

Jihoo:
My turn to be generous. But don’t overanalyze the bedhead. That’s art, okay?

Eric stared at the image too long. Saved it. Set it as his lockscreen before removing it and adding to his favourites. Then stared at the chat again. He could hear his own heart like static in his ears.

Eric:
Unsolicited content like this… I could report you for emotional harassment.

Jihoo:
Too late. Emotional damage is the whole point. 😌

He typed slowly.

Eric:
Should I be worried you’re this charming with everyone?

Jihoo:
No. Only with people who run early in the morning and post sunrise to lure innocent students.

Eric:
That was art.

Jihoo:
That was bait. 🐟

That night, they messaged until 1am. Nothing too intense—music recs, food debates, Jihoo’s roommate snoring stories, Eric teasing Jihoo for his subpar French pronunciation. The next night, it happened again. And the night after that, until one day it turned into a phone call.

"Just five minutes," Jihoo had said.

It lasted over an hour. They didn’t even realize.

By mid-December, they were talking almost every night. Not always flirty—sometimes quiet. Jihoo walking home from late classes. Eric in his apartment, cooking. They talked about school, burnout, loneliness. About what it meant to try and want someone when the world made it complicated.

One night, Jihoo finally asked that burning question.

"Are you coming back to Korea soon?"

Eric paused, lying on his bed in the dark, voice low against his phone.

“Not for now. I’m flying to Paris for Christmas. Family tradition.”

There was a short silence on the other end. Jihoo didn’t sound surprised but he was clearly disappointed.

“Oh right. Yeah. I should have figured it out.”

“You wanted me to come for Christmas?” asked Eric, surprised, knowing quite well what Christmas meant in Korea for couples.

“Kinda… yeah,” Jihoo said. Then with a forced laugh: “Dumb, I know…”

Eric swallowed. He wanted to say next year. He wanted to say I wish I could. But instead he said:

“We’ll talk more when I'm back. In January. I’ll probably have another work trip before the lunar new year.”

Another beat of silence.

“Cool,” Jihoo said, clearly disappointed that Eric didn’t plan the trip just for him but squeezing him in his work schedule. “I’ll keep my calendar clear.”

Later Jihoo sent a follow-up message that stayed in Eric’s mind.

Jihoo:
Sorry for sounding weird earlier. I get it. Priorities.

The day of his flight, Eric dragged his suitcase through the sleek terminal of Hong Kong airport. The Christmas decorations everywhere made everything feel louder than it should.

He sat at the gate, plugged in his headphones, and tapped open Jihoo’s story. A party again. Bright lights. Same guy as before, arm wrapped casually around Jihoo’s shoulders as they shouted lyrics into a mic. Jihoo laughing, beer in hand, glowing.

Eric watched it twice. Then tucked his phone away and leaned back in the airport chair, letting the pre-boarding call drown out the sound of whatever it was he didn’t want to name.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time not sure about what to do, still feeling guilty about how he handled the next Korean trip talk.

The gate light blinked.
The plane boarded.
Eric left.