SEOUL Kim Nari sat at her desk, surrounded by an army of Spanish textbooks and handwritten notes.
Her pen, scratched against the paper, her face furrowed in concentration.
Her battle with the language of Cervantes had become a ritual, a nightly exercise in futility.
She studied with the intensity of someone trying to decipher hieroglyphics without a key.
Conjugations tangled her mind, she wondered why they had created so many useless declensions if only the present, the past and the future existed.
At last, her resolve crumbled beneath the weight of exhaustion.
She reached for the remote and turned on a Spanish drama, a desperate attempt to immerse herself in the language in another way.
The characters on screen argued in vivid scenes of passion.
Contrary to their dramatic gesticulations, their voices were so low, perhaps in the belief that they would make the characters appear more charismatic, that she could barely hear what they were saying.
Their speech lulled her into a dreamless sleep.
Hours later, she awoke to a darkened room.
Stretching wearily, she turned the screen off with a sigh, frustration seeping into her.
‘I can’t keep going like this,’ she muttered, her voice trembling with quiet rebellion.
‘Watching Spanish dramas puts me to sleep, not closer to fluency.’ Her words hung in the air, as if awaiting an answer.
She paced the room, the soft padding of her footsteps the only sound.
‘Maybe it’s time to take the next step,’ she murmured.
But the thought filled her with a quiet dread.
The vulnerability of speaking out loud in a bare room made her feel even more alone.
‘Tomorrow,’ she decided at last.
‘I’ll look for something online.
At least then, I can hide behind a screen.’ … The following evening, fortified by a glass of red wine, Kim Nari sat on the couch with her laptop.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she browsed through various language-learning websites, her expression alternating between curiosity and anticipation.
Each promised to deliver fluency in a matter of weeks.
Finally, she came across a page titled Language Exchange Community.
The interface was nothing special, but something about its simplicity reassured her.
‘Let’s see how it works,’ she murmured with cautious optimism.
She methodically filled out the required fields: ‘Language to practice: Spanish.
Age range: Anyone 18 to 70.’ Her lips curved into a faint smile at her own inclusiveness.
‘Better to be open-minded,’ she thought.
But when she reached the box labeled Introduce Yourself, her fingers hovered hesitantly.
The empty space seemed to expand before her, demanding words she didn’t know how to find.
‘Should I write something?’ she whispered to herself, her cheeks flushing at the thought of strangers reading her awkward sentences.
Her gaze shifted to the profiles of others.
Most were a chorus of repetition: ‘I like books, music, and drama.’ She grimaced.
‘What a shame.
I just can’t stand it.
I can’t even imagine speaking directly.
It’s already so hard…’ She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, summoning the strength she often used to guide her college students through their struggles.
‘Okay,’ she said aloud, ‘I deal with college students every day.
I can do this.’ Her fingers began to move, each keystroke deliberate: ‘Hi, I’m KSN, I live in Seoul.
My Spanish is terrible and I’d like to practice a little.
I’m a very shy person and this is very difficult for me.
But I want to do it.
If you find yourself in the same situation, please contact me.’ She paused, rereading her words.
A frown creased her brow.
‘Should I add, ‘females only, please’?
No…
That seems unfair.’ Her thoughts struggled with the delicate balance between caution and openness.
She settled on a compromise, adding, ‘I do language exchanges ONLINE only.’ Leaning back, she nodded to herself, a small wave of pride washing over her.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Well thought out.’ With a single click, she sent the profile.
The action felt monumental, as if she’d released a message in a bottle into a vast, unknown sea.
Closing her laptop, she took a last sip of wine and looked out at the city lights.
For the first time in weeks, she felt something stirring inside her: a fragile hope, not yet fluent but waiting, like her Spanish, to find its voice.
… BCN When Sara came home each day, exhausted after work, she no longer held out hope of having a normal conversation with her roommate.
Maria was less of a roommate and more of a fleeting presence; if not for the occasional sightings by Sara’s friends when they visited, she might have doubted Maria’s existence altogether, imagining her to be a ghost, a vision, or a spirit even more elusive than her own cat.
Like every day Sara stepped in, her bag sliding from her shoulder with a resigned sigh, and called out.
‘Hola, Maria.’ Maria, sat curled up on the couch with their tabby cat nestled in her lap.
She barely glanced up, replying curtly, ‘Hola.’ ‘How are you?
I haven’t seen you for days,’ Sara ventured, her voice tinged with cautious cheer, as if testing a new more accessible layout.
Maria said nothing.
She rose, the cat still in her arms, and disappeared into her room, her retreat punctuated by the soft click of the door.
Sara stared after her, bewildered yet unsurprised.
‘Mamma mia,’ she muttered to herself, exasperation tinged with amusement.
‘Every day gets worse.
Is she turning into a cat or what?’ Her words hung in the stillness, unanswered.
Shaking her head, Sara changed into her pajamas, their softness a small consolation after a grueling day.
She settled into the corner of the couch, pulling a well-worn photo album from beneath the coffee table.
The leather cover was cracked with age, its spine loose from years of use.
She opened it slowly, the photographs inside leaping to life as her fingers brushed over them.
There was a young girl with bright eyes and dark hair, a snapshot of herself, standing beside her mother in the warm glow of their old Italian kitchen.
Memories came flooding back suddenly, as vivid as if they had just happened.
It was an ordinary Sunday morning of twenty years earlier, the kind of morning that smelled of freshly cooked tomato sauce and the hope of staying at home doing nothing.
A ten-year-old Sara stood beside her mother, Yoo-sun, as they prepared to make pasta.
‘La Prima Cosa Bella’ played in the background on the radio, making their shared ritual even more familiar with its melody.
The kitchen table had all the ingredients neatly arranged; Yoon-sun always told her that order and cleanliness are always the first ingredients of good cooking.
Sara was weighing the flour with a serious expression, her small hands steady as she watched the scale.
Her mother was nearby, cracking eggs into a bowl with expert ease.
‘Now give me the flour,’ Yoo-sun said, her voice gentle but instructive.
Sara handed her the bag eagerly, watching in awe as her mother poured the flour onto the table.
It formed a mound, and with nimble fingers, her mother shaped a crater in its center just as her old neighbor, now one of the family, had taught her.
In her way of cooking, Korean and Italian cuisine had found a peculiar but perfect union.
She pours the eggs into the hollow, adding a precise pinch of salt.
Yoo-sun began to knead the mixture, her hands moving in steady, practiced motions that mesmerized Sara.
‘Remember, you always have to cook with a lot of love,’ her mother said.
‘With love?’ Sara asked, tilting her head curiously.
Her mother nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips.
‘If the food doesn’t turn out well, at least your father will be eating love.’ They shared a glance filled with understanding.
As the dough began to come together, Yoo-sun stepped back, dusting her hands on her apron.
‘Your turn,’ she said, motioning for Sara to take over.
‘Keep kneading…with love.’ Sara’s small hands pressed into the dough, her movements clumsy but determined.
She mimicked her mother’s technique, her face alight with concentration.
Sara often remembered those Sunday mornings spent with her mother.
She needed it so that her memory wouldn’t become more and more blurred, that was what she feared the most.
Sara sat huddled on the couch, the photo album clutched to her chest as tears streaked her cheeks.
The memory of her mother’s voice—gentle yet firm—rang in her mind, and the ache of longing bloomed like blood from a wound.
‘I need you, Mom,’ she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of her grief.
‘I need you to hug me.
I need to smell your perfume.’ Her eyes closed, shutting out the lonely present as she clung to the warmth of the past.
The scent of flour and eggs, the feel of her mother’s hands guiding hers, the music that had once filled their mornings—all of it felt achingly near and unbearably far.
‘I need your food,’ she murmured as if food could fill that void.
The photo album slipped slightly in her lap, its pages closed as if shielding its memories.
… SEOUL Seon-woo tended to his bonsai tree, his fingers moving with the precision of a surgeon, each snip and trim a meditation on patience.
The miniature tree, years of wisdom modelled into its gnarled form, seemed to absorb his thoughts.
Across the room, his sister Nari orchestrated a chaotic pans concert in the kitchen, her movements a counterpoint to her brother’s tranquility.
The aroma of homemade dishes filled the air like it hasn’t happened in a long time.
She brought two steaming bowls to the table and called out cheerfully, ‘Food’s ready!
With what was in the fridge, I couldn’t whip up anything better.’ Seon-woo joined her at the table, with a resigned expression.
‘I know.
I should go grocery shopping…
or at least tell Mrs.
Kwon what I need.
But with all the traveling I do, it slips my mind.
When I come back, I just settle for whatever’s there.’ Nari sat across from him, her expression tinged with concern.
‘You really shouldn’t neglect yourself like this.
You used to be the healthiest guy I knew…
and now look at you.’ ‘Are you saying I’m not handsome anymore?’ he teased, the corners of his mouth curving upward.
She nodded solemnly, the jest on her lips carrying the weight of truth.
‘You didn’t always look so tired.
It’s like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders…
like Atlas…
you with your love for Greek mythology.’ Seon-woo’s lips twitched, his penchant for precision surfacing.
‘Actually, Atlas held up the sky, not the earth.’ ‘Swot,’ she muttered, rolling her eyes.
‘You and your know-it-all tendencies.
No wonder girls don’t flock to you.’ ‘Precisely why I should like to them,’ he countered with mock indignation.
‘I’m not an ignorant donkey.
And why do you think girls don’t like me?’ ‘Well,’ she said, her voice teasing, ‘your love life hasn’t exactly been buzzing lately.’ ‘It’s because I’m always working,’ he replied with a shrug.
‘I don’t have time for dates.’ ‘When was the last time you went on a date with someone?’ she pressed, her curiosity no longer hidden.
He paused, his brow furrowing.
‘Depends on what you mean by dating.’ Nari’s gaze sharpened, and he sighed.
‘Okay, fine.
There was someone.
She left after a few months because she said I wasn’t sufficiently involved.
To be honest, I didn’t really question it…
so the breakup wasn’t dramatic.’ ‘It’s because you didn’t like her enough,’ she said simply.
‘That sounds familiar,’ he admitted.
‘Sang-in said something similar the other day.’ ‘Sang-in is a wise man,’ she said with a small laugh.
‘I love his theories.
It’s a shame he applied them a little late.’ Their conversation was interrupted by the soft buzz of Nari’s phone.
She unlocked it, her mother’s name flashing on the screen.
Reading the text aloud her voice tinged with disbelief: ‘This is the phone number of Choi Eu-jin, Nam Ji-yeon’s son.
Be nice, make an appointment with him!’ ‘Nam Ji-yeon?
The one from the Japan trip?’ Seon-woo asked.
‘Yes, that’s her,’ Nari confirmed.
‘Her son must be around our age.
Went to the US for work.
Mom says he’s in medical research.’ ‘What’s she asking you to help him with?’ ‘To make friends, I think,’ Nari mused.
‘He doesn’t know many people here.’ ‘Sounds like another matchmaking attempt from Mom,’ Seon-woo said, his amusement evident.
‘That’s what I thought too,’ she confessed.
‘But then I started thinking about him—how hard it must be to start fresh: social life, making friends, a new workplace.’ ‘Sister, you are a really good person,’ he said, his voice softening.
Nari stretched and yawned, her good nature never far from her teasing.
‘Yes, I am!
And I bet he’s very ugly.
You know, the learned, scholarly types usually are.’ Seon-woo laughed, his voice a deep rumble.
‘But you like the ugly ones.
Because you think no one else sees them.’ ‘Beauty standards are subjective,’ she retorted, her tone defensive but playful.
‘I like unique ones, not necessarily ugly ones.’ ‘You mean uniquely ugly!’ Seon-woo said, his grin wide.
‘My dear Snow White…’ ‘Stop calling me that!’ she cried, laughing.
‘And for your information, my last boyfriend wasn’t that short.’ Their laughter echoed in the apartment, a camaraderie between brothers that allowed them to often tease each other.
Finally, Nari sobered, her phone still in hand.
‘What do I write to him?
Help me—you’re a man.’ Seon-woo tapped his chin, feigning deep thought.
‘Hmm…
You could text him something like, ‘Hi, I’m Kim Nari, Kim Jin-na’s daughter.
I wanted to know if you’re a shorty man, so we could go out together.” Nari burst out laughing.
‘Don’t joke!
Help me for real!’ ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, grinning.
‘Write something simple.
We guys really appreciate that.’ ‘How about: ‘Hi, I’m Kim Nari, Kim Jin-na’s daughter.
If you want, we can meet for coffee one day.’ Too simple?’ ‘It’s perfect.
Less is more,’ he assured her.
‘Do you have your photo on your profile?’ ‘Yes, why?’ ‘If he’s not silly, he’ll answer you quickly,’ Seon-woo quipped.
Nari saved the number with a mischievous grin, labeling it ‘Ugly Investigator.’