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“What’s wrong?” Jihoon’s eyes studied me, darting over my face restlessly.

“What makes you think–”

He stepped towards me, gently putting his hands on my hips, and moving me out the way to close the door behind us.

“You were not there,” he said, releasing me and taking a step back. “You did not reply. What’s wrong?”

I opened my mouth to brush his concern away, but the denial got caught halfway up my throat. I closed my mouth and swallowed it down, realising at that moment how much I wanted someone to talk to. Someone who knew me. Knew parts of me that didn’t require a prologue’s worth of explanation in order to understand.

I exhaled heavily and turned around, walking further into the room. He followed me, and I swore I could feel each step he took. I moved back over to the window, because it was easier to have London to look at, instead of the introspection of seeing myself in his eyes.

“Not long ago I decided to look up my biological father. I don’t really know why,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself when my inhale felt too thin. “It’s not like I’m lacking a father. I just…” I floundered, shrugging helplessly for lack of having any real explanation. “I couldn’t not.” I said after a moment. “I sent him a letter in December. I couldn’t find a phone number, or email for him, but I figured he was maybe travelling abroad, or unlisted, or something. I mailed a letter to his family’s address – they’re still registered at the same town my mum taught in, can you believe it? After all this time. Although, maybe that’s not too unusual.” I realised I was rambling and forced myself to pause. I took a shaky inhale and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, just long enough that when I re-opened them, the city lights were little starbursts instead of pinpricks. I blinked rapidly.

“They closed her school down a long time ago, though. Low birth rate, apparently,” I laughed bitterly, my fingers fiddling with the hem of my shirt. The irony hadn’t escaped me.

“Anyway, I posted the letter and included my PO Box address – I didn’t want any return mail going to my mum and dad’s house, for obvious reasons. I’ve not been back in London for months…” I was rambling again, losing the threads of the narrative even as I tried to reel myself in, holding onto the fabric of my shirt like my body might break apart if I let it go.

I inhaled sharply as I felt him lay his hands on my shoulders, gently turning me around to face him. He lowered his head to stare into my eyes. His were soft, mouth gently pinched and I barely cared what expression he saw on me.

“Tell me what happened.”

My chin trembled under the weight of his stare, and I couldn’t bear it. I moved away, and his hands dropped from my shoulders. I walked over to the desk along the wall and picked up an envelope, already ripped open. I held it up so he could see.

“I got a response.”

His eyes barely landed on it before rising back to hold mine.

“What did he say?” he asked, taking a small step towards me.

“Nothing. He’s dead.” My words were almost inflectionless. Almost.

Jihoon’s step faltered.

“What?”

I nodded, but the action was so mechanical that my neck creaked, but that could have been from how stiffly I was holding my head up.

“Six years ago. Aneurysm, apparently.”

“Ky–” his hands twitched at his sides, rising slightly before he let them fall. “Who wrote back?”

“His brother. My–I guess, my uncle. Or, in theory anyway,” I scoffed to hide the slight tremble in my voice.

Jihoon frowned. “Theory?”

I looked away, taking in a small breath, and then moved from the desk to sit on the edge of the bed. I laid the letter down next to me and clasped my hands in my lap.

“They want nothing to do with me.”

“They what?” he said roughly.

I hovered my hand over the stark white envelope sitting so innocently next to me, pausing before picking it up.

“Read it, if you want.” I held it out to him.

Jihoon’s face was a conflicted pinch of expressions, and he hesitated before crossing the distance and carefully taking the letter from my fingers. He looked down at it, studying the stamps, perhaps trying to infer something from the spidery-thin handwriting on the front. I watched him open it, pulling out the paper within. I knew what it said. I’d unwillingly memorised it.

Dear Ms. Thompson,