My Summer in Seoul

Prologue

Naive: Having or showing a lack of experience, judgment, or information; Credulous. See Also: Grace Lee.

Grace

August 2020

I stared down the exact same gate that had brought me to Seoul three months ago.

Of course it would be the same gate.

With exactly seventy-two uncomfortable blue chairs that I'd had the chance to count since I'd gotten to the airport three hours early.

I'd run away.

After the yelling.

After the fight.

After the tears, though some of them still lingered on my cheeks. It was no use wiping them away, more just managed to leak their way from my burning eyes down onto my blotchy skin.

Perfect country to cry in, someone almost always pointed out that you looked tired, or old, or just plain ugly when expressing any sort of emotion. Add that to the fact that I was tan—well you can imagine the horrified looks I got.

I couldn't bring myself to think about it, his indifferent stare, the way he didn't even flinch, like he had no intention past his confession and couldn't fathom why I would even be upset.

I squeezed my eyes shut and rested my head on my hands as my elbows dug into my denim-clad thighs.

They weren't coming.

Mainly him.

He wasn't coming.

Stupid, that with all of the Korean dramas I'd been subjected to over the last few months, I still held out hope that he would appear at the airport, last minute, like the perfect hero expressing his undying love. We'd stare longingly into each other's eyes for what would almost seem an uncomfortable amount of time, and then I would close my eyes, he would close his.

Fireworks.

True love.

Marriage.

Okay, maybe not marriage, but at least a declaration that what we'd shared was more than just a summer fling with a foreigner. Maybe that was what made my skin crawl—the fact that my insecurity caused me to wonder if the only reason he went after me was because I was different.

And he was famous.

I sucked the tears in. It caused a painful tightening in my throat like a golf ball that refused to progress through my esophagus; it had been there for hours and would probably continue to make its presence known the entire eleven-hour trip back to Seattle.

The airport was silent except for the few conversations taking place around me and the constant announcements over the PA system.

Ridiculous, how it used to annoy me, all the shrieks from girls.

Now? I would do anything in the world to hear the screaming.

Anything.

Because it would mean they were close.

My friends.

It would mean he was with them.

The love of my life.

Another hour went by.

And then two.

I waited longer than I should have.

I was just as pathetic as they'd said the day I got off the plane.

Just as naive.

Just as ignorant.

"Final call for Delta Flight 9011 nonstop to Seattle." The cheerful voice made my heart pound in my chest while at the same time stealing the last breath of hope I had that I was something more than a fling or a publicity stunt. My legs were heavy as I stood, my tears hot as they slid one after another off my chin.

One step.

Two.

My hand shook as I flipped over my cell phone to scan my boarding pass with finality.

Over.

It was so over.

I lowered my head and whispered, "Goodbye."