Page 33 of The Secret Of Us

“Is she okay?” I lean down to look through the window at my dad, who’s still sitting in the car. I realise these are the first words I’ve said to him in over a week.

“She’ll be fine. She wanted Eomma to drop her off today but something came up, so I had to,” he explains.

I nod, not sure what else to say to him. He doesn’t seem to know either, his eyes tracking across my face as we silently watch each other. It’s like he’s trying to see if I’ve changed since the last time I saw him a month ago, when school started. I’ve still been avoiding my parents as much as I can, the distance between us only growing the longer I do it.

“You can call me anytime, Adeul,” he says softly, reaching a hand out of the window as if he wants to take mine, but he stops himself. Instead, he grips the door, his fingers tensing.

I wish I could call him, but there’s still something holding me back. There’s that tiny voice in the back of my head that constantly tells me my parents’ separation is my fault. Even now, after not speaking for over a week, I still can’t find the right words to say to him. It feels like whatever I say will just end up hurting both of us.

I step back from the car, straightening as I do so, and he moves his hand to the steering wheel.

“Drive safe,” I tell him, my hand covering the place his has just left. He looks at me one last time before I let go and turn around.

The walk back to my room feels endless, my steps heavy with guilt pressing down on me. I wish this could be easier, that I could look at it the way Mina seems to be.

Logically, I know my parents must have had other issues that they hid from us and that led to their separation. But my brain keeps thinking I was the catalyst that made them pull the plug. It’s no coincidence that Appa left home as soon as we got confirmation from my old school that I wasn’t allowed to return.

I overheard them talking that night, hearing the arguments from both sides about what I’d done. Eomma defended me, saying I was just looking after Mina like she would expect me to. But Appa was different. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about exactly, but he mentioned not wanting a repeat of the past and that they needed to do something before it got any worse. That conversation plays over and over in my mind every time I consider speaking to him, and it always stops me.

Just before I reach the dorm building, I stop walking, tilting my head up to the sky and letting the sun warm my face. Birds chirp from the trees that line the campus, and the distant murmur of students chatting creates a white noise that fills my brain and stops me from thinking.

I enter the building and go to my room, closing the door behind me. The curtains are still drawn, covering the room in darkness with only a thin strip of light coming through. It’s easier to spiral in your own thoughts when there’s no bright lights.

I sit at my desk, looking ahead at the picture of Halabeoji perfectly framed by that thin light. His face smiles back at me, a pink flower in his hands that he holds out toward me behind the camera. He takes pride in his garden, growing flowers for Halmeoni to show his love for her.

He told me that when they first started dating, he would bring flowers for her every day until he found out what her favourite ones were. Once he did, he started growing them. He joked that it was to save money, but really, I know it was because he never wanted to run out of them.

A heavy breath leaves me, my chest tightening as I think of him. I speak to him more than my parents, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. I find myself going to sleep earlier these days. My waking hours are filled with worries and at least in sleep I can get some kind of reprieve. But the eight-hour time difference means we don’t get to talk as much.

I take my phone out of my pocket, opening it to our messages. Every day, I wake up to a good morning text from him with an update on what he’s been up to so far that day. I reply with cute stickers that I know cheer him up and give him only the positive updates that I have, which usually revolve around my grades.

He’s asleep now, and I know that if I message him, he’ll respond when he wakes up. But what can I say to him? How can I tell him I’ve been here for a month and still don’t have any friends? Well, I have Izzy. Explaining whatever kind of relationship I seem to be developing with her sounds even more complicated though.

I lock my phone, placing it down on my desk as my thoughts go to her again. It happens more and more often these days, and every time it does my heart starts pounding in my chest.

I shake the thoughts of her away, standing to open the curtains and let some light in before the sun sets. I crack open the window, and when I glance down at the field between the two dorm buildings, I see her.

She’s gesturing wildly as she talks to her friends, something I’ve noticed a lot when she’s with them. She doesn’t act like that with me though, and I don’t want to wonder why.

I lean closer to the window, my ears straining to hear what she’s saying. My curiosity about her is never-ending, and I know I need to stop wanting to know more about her, but I can’t. Every time I try to avoid thinking about her, I inevitably end up replaying all our interactions.

Friday morning’s confrontation with Ryan played over in my head all weekend. Seeing her after school and realising she felt like she had to go home to escape him annoyed me more than it should have. But seeing her like this, so happy with her friends, gets rid of all those bad feelings.

My nose crashes against the glass, and I recoil, lifting my hand to it. I didn’t realise how close I’d gotten to the window; how desperate I was to hear just a glimpse of how her weekend went. I take my aching nose as a sign to shift my focus to my homework instead of the girl consuming all my thoughts.

* * *

The hallways arebusy as they usually are on Monday mornings. Everyone drags their feet as if making the journey to homeroom slower can delay the whole day.

I shuffle through the crowds to get to the classroom, and you’d think after a few weeks that people would be tired of staring at me, but I guess not. Eyes follow me as I make my way toward the door barely a few feet ahead of me. Whispers behind hand-covered mouths sound like a relentless hum now, a constant background noise that I’m starting to get used to.

I sigh, keeping my head down until there’s a tug on my arm. I look to my side and it’s Izzy, a crease between her brows as her hand lingers on my upper arm. I hope she doesn’t feel the goosebumps rising on my skin.

“Can I talk to you?” Her eyes shift quickly to the people around us. “In private?”

“Of course,” I tell her, worry starting to clog my throat because she has that same expression on her face from Friday morning. If Ryan has been bothering her again, we need to do something about it.

Her hand is still on my arm as she guides me away from the classroom and down an empty corridor. No one else is around, and I stop walking a millisecond after she does. She steps in front of me but doesn’t look at me. Her hand is still on my arm, and I don’t want her to let go.

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