Page 47 of From Paris to Seoul

“He is,” I admitted with a small smile. “But… we decided that what happened in Paris should stay in Paris. So… we’re not in contact anymore.”

Ji-a’s face fell. “Oh, butwhy?! Do you like him?”

I nodded.

“Do you get butterflies when you’re with him? Do you have a lot in common? Do you never run out of things to talk about?”

Three more nods.

“Then why?” she protested, her voice a little too loud. I quickly hushed her, glancing around to make sure we weren’t drawing attention.

But I couldn’t answer right away.

Because, honestly? I was embarrassed by the real reason. That my family wouldn’t approve. That they were shallow and materialistic. That I was too afraid to fight them on it.

Ji-a studied me, then softened her voice. “Did he make you happy? Even if it was just for a few days?”

I exhaled, my fingers tightening around my cup.

“The happiest I’ve felt in years,” I whispered before I could stop myself.

“Then go for him, girl! I watched you for six years with your ex—bored out of your mind. It’s like he sucked the life out of you! Now you’re finally free, you’ve met someone who actually makes you happy. What are you waiting for?”

When I didn’t answer right away, she doubled down.

“It’s not easy finding someone special, you know. Take me, for example. I haven’t dated anyone in years. The dating scene in Seoul is brutal.Brutal, I tell you. Believe me, you do not want to go back out there.” She shook her head, exasperated.

Then, as if something clicked, she narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh. Wait. Is this about your mom? She wants you to end up with some rich guy, doesn’t she?”

Bullseye.

“Bingo,” I admitted weakly, shame creeping in.

She sighed, pulling a face like she was trying to solve an impossible math problem. But in the end, nothing came out.

“Yeah… family is hard,” she finally admitted, her voice quieter now.

We both fell into silence, lost in thought as we sipped our matcha lattes.

Then Ji-a suddenly perked up, tilting her head. “Oh! I’ve been hearing this song everywhere lately! No idea who sings it, though.” She held up a finger, as if to say,Listen!, before nodding along to the tune.

A soft piano melody filled the room. I’d never heard the song before, but something about it pulled me in. Then came the voice—deep, soulful, laced with quiet melancholy.

She smiled like she had all the time in the world,

As if Paris itself whispered in her ear.

She told me her dreams, her voice like a melody,

Fingers dancing on ivory keys, lost in the moment.

A chill ran down my spine.

Then, after a brief piano interlude, the voice returned.

Was it her? Or was it just Paris?

I froze.

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