The weight of the vase felt like a ticking time bomb in my arms.
I glanced back at the house, half-expecting Mrs. Lee to be peering through the curtains with a magnifying glass.
With the agility of a man who had spent his life dodging coaches and gymnastic judges, I slipped around the side of the house toward the wooden shed. It was filled with rusted shovels, bags of fertilizer, and a lawnmower. I cleared a space behind a stack of terracotta pots and gently—very gently—shoved the million-won porcelain into the shadows.
"Stay there," I whispered, wiping sweat from my forehead. "If you break, I'm moving back to Smila tomorrow."
I checked my watch.
10:45 AM.
If I went back inside now, Mrs. Lee would know the "date" was a sham.
How long do normal couples stay out? Two hours? Five?
I realized with a pang of annoyance that I didn't actually know.
I pulled out my phone and shot a quick text to Sora:
[Hey, are you busy? I'm already out of the house. Meet up later?]
Then, I started walking.
The neighborhood basketball court was a slab of cracked asphalt surrounded by a chain-link fence. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a ball echoed against the nearby apartment buildings.
Myung-dae was there, wearing a black hoodie and baggy shorts, his movements fluid and solitary.
"San," he called out, not breaking his dribble.
"At least not a 'dog' anymore."
"Grab a ball."
"Can't," I said, leaning against the fence. The sight of the hoop was tempting. "I'm on a date. Or, well, I'm supposed to be."
Myung-dae stopped, spinning the ball on his finger.
He let out a sharp, mocking scoff.
"A date? In a tracksuit? You look like you're going to a 6:00 AM wrestling practice, not meeting a top-tier trainee."
"It's a long story involving a vase and my 'father'," I muttered. "Wish me luck."
"Luck?" Myung-dae dribbled back to the three-point line. He looked at the basket, then back at me, a rare, mischievous glint in his dark eyes. "Let's make it interesting. A bet, San-ah."
"I don't have time for—"
"If I make this shot," Myung-dae interrupted, squaring his shoulders, "you and Sora kiss today. If I miss, the 'Mountain' stays dry. Deal?"
I rolled my eyes, starting to walk toward the bus stop.
"See you later, Dae."
I heard the swish before I even turned around.
The ball snapped through the net without touching the rim. Myung-dae stood there, his hand still held high in a perfect follow-through.
He flashed a brief, sharp smile—the kind that usually meant trouble.
"Prophecy's written, dog," he called out. "Don't fight fate."
"Annyeong!" I yelled back, though my heart did a weird, nervous flutter.
12:30 PM.
The bus ride into Seoul gave me time to think.
As we passed the entrance to the Seoul Subway, I stared at the bright blue signs.
I had only taken the metro a handful of times in my life—mostly the deep, grand stations in Kyiv and the utilitarian lines in Kharkiv. The idea of navigating the sprawling web of the Seoul underground still felt like a final boss I wasn't ready to face yet.
My phone buzzed.
[Sora <3: I'm at the company now for an extra dance session, but I'll be done in 20! Let's meet at the "A'BOUT COFFEE & Dessert". See you soon! <3]
I liked the message, feeling a strange mix of relief and growing social anxiety.
I reached the cafe—a minimalist, glass-fronted place that looked far too expensive for my tracksuit—and ordered an iced latte.
I sat in a corner, pulling up the news.
The reports on the protests were still grim; more arrests, more tension. It felt surreal to be sitting in a climate-controlled cafe while people were fighting for history books a few miles away.
Boredom kicked in.
I opened KakaoTalk.
The "Dae's Birthday" group was a chaos of stickers and planning.
Min-ah was suggesting we rent a karaoke room, while others were debating the flavor of the cake. I ignored them and opened the H-Wnot group.
[San: Hey guys. Thinking about the Winter Festival. Should we start on a winter-themed song? Something with a bit of a 'cold' rock vibe? Why not?]
I sat back, sipping my coffee and watching the steam-brushed windows.
For a moment, I forgot I was an exchange student.
I forgot about the vase in the shed.
I was just a guy waiting for his girlfriend.
"San-ah."
The voice was soft, slightly breathless.
I looked up.
Sora was standing there, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, wearing a simple oversized hoodie and leggings.
She was glowing, a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead from her practice, looking more beautiful than she did in her "Idol" makeup.
"You waited," she said, sliding into the seat across from me.
I looked at her, then remembered Myung-dae's three-point shot.
My throat went suddenly dry.
"Yeah," I said, offering her a sip of my latte. "I waited."