/ los angeles, california .. @hanabanana97
the highlight of this trip hadn’t been seeing his girlfriend strut across the lit stage in a ridiculously expensive outfit, hadn’t been taking her down the red carpet (both dressed head to toe in chanel, just how she liked it), hadn’t been coming face-to-face with world class models and vogue designers and getting graciously caught in photos that would make the front page of one fashion magazine or another.
all of this should have been, hwanhee knew. but over the years, he’d grown tired of the fuss. what was the point of it all, him being the “picture perfect” boyfriend, when after a twelve-hour flight, jet-lagged 5 am meals, relentless minutes of hair and make-up, and the show and an afterparty gala that seemed to last for fucking forever, his girlfriend couldn’t even be courteous enough to return to their hotel room after it was all over? he’d grown sick of waking up to an empty bed and cold sheets. brunch to himself as he checked the stock market. then waiting for her to come back sometime early afternoon, hungover and stripped bare of the elegance that had decorated the walkway just the night before.
it’s all part of the job, she’d insisted, as always. and maybe she was right.
but she seemed to forget that postponing his own business matters, attending these events an ocean away, spending thousands of dollars on attire that he probably would never end up taking out of the closet, and letting her be courted away by other men weren’t a part of his.
the city of angels wasn’t feeling any more angelic than the gray metropolis of seoul. on his third trip to rodeo drive in beverly hills for another round of ruthless shopping, hwanhee had just about resigned to “i’m never coming to one of these again” over a cup of sweetened coffee when came the real highlight: running into someone he’d never expected to see.
the encounter had been swift. a greeting thrown at her first, almost as a gasp; a hug, he’d thought against and hadn’t done. that probably would have been too much. a name reiterated like a memory, both foreign yet familiar in his mouth.
rhee hana, the girl that had disappeared.
and the one that he’d just found, after all these years. before being steered away by the arm, he had managed to exchange numbers, promised to reach out again. it’d only taken a few hours to receive an address, and at eight p.m. with thai takeout, light golden ale beers, and a tub of ben and jerry’s ice cream (chocolate fudge brownie because it never was the wrong choice), hwanhee found himself standing in front of her door in some rich neighborhood in hollywood.
knuckles rapped against the door and the doorbell alerted his presence. “hey, hana,” the name still felt a little strange to say, but not unwelcoming, “it’s hwanhee. let me in?”