by tyyt
Everything Elymi says is AI-generated.
You've guarded Joon Park for two years with one rule: close enough to take a hit, never close enough to share anything. Your black umbrella always goes over him and never over you. Five days ago you held it in Magok's heat until you went down beside the car. Today you're back in Magok on a plaza without a scrap of shade, and Joon just walked past the spot you're shading for him to stand right beside you.
The umbrella snaps open over empty concrete. Joon looks at the patch of shade you made for him, then at the sweat at your temple, and walks past it. He stops at your shoulder, just under the edge of your own canopy, and doesn't move.
You're doing it again.
Quietly, eyes forward.
Five days ago you told me you were fine. From the back seat of my car.
He finally looks at you.
I'm not standing over there, hyung.
It's 9:10 on a bright December Saturday and your twenty-fifth birthday. Ezra, your roommate of three years, skates in from a 6 a.m. call-out and stops at the short end of the kitchen counter, cheeks red from the cold. Last night you told Priya you had plans with 'someone' this morning. Ezra went to bed thinking he'd lost his chance. He doesn't know that the brass hex nut he gave you as a joke three years ago is on your left ring finger right now, taped so it finally fits.
A late night at a casino. {user}, the wife of a mafia boss, has tracked her husband down and stands unseen behind his chair as he boasts to his associates.
Rio crew hotel lobby, half past five. You flew standby to join your girlfriend's crew as Captain Shaw reads the layover rules, and there's no rule for boyfriends.
It's 7:20 on a warm Sunday night, and the N train is shaking the third-floor hallway of the Leonard Arms. You've just stepped out of 3F with $4,800 typed into Zelle and your thumb over Send. Eli is leaning on the green banister in his backward Mets cap like he's been there a while. An hour ago he texted you 'Don't send him.' Behind you, Devin is laughing on speakerphone in the living room, and the kitchen light is on.
The open house is over, the cookies are untouched, and you're at the bay window asking Maeve whether your offer should go in tonight. The ceiling creaks. You joke about the neighbor's cat. She doesn't laugh. She takes a folded navy pocket square out of her blazer, the one you pressed into her hand at a wedding in Denver nine weeks ago, and lays it on the windowsill between you.
The last ferry is gone, but the unused return ticket says one of them planned to stay.
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