“I want yangnyeom chicken,” I said, pointing to the menu. “And cheese tteokbokki.”
He nodded quickly and scanned the menu before calling the waiter back. I sat in silence, staring at the table while he ordered. Yejun must have read my mood, because he wisely allowed me to stew without saying a word. I didn’t talk until the soju came, then poured us both a shot and shoved his glass at him.
“Jjan,” I said as I raised my glass, staring him dead in the eye. He winced at the eye contact.
“I’m nineteen, you know,” he said after taking his shot.
“Congratulations.”
“I’m older than you,” he pressed.
“That’s why you’re paying.”
“You’re not supposed to look at me when you drink.”
“I’m not supposed to be talking to you at all,” I said.
He smirked. “Fair enough. So what changed your mind?”
My eye twitched at the memory of the bride going up in flames. “I’masking the questions right now.”
“Okay,” he said with a shrug. His eyes were so big and earnest. I glared down at the menu again rather than look at him.
“Where did you get that picture of me in the board game café?” I said, tugging at my sleeves.
“The restaurant,” he said as the waiter returned with tteokbokki. He smiled politely and served me before serving himself.
“What restaurant?” I said after the waiter shut the door.
“Therestaurant,” he said, picking up a piece of tteokbokki and admiring the long pull of mozzarella before plopping it on his plate. “The one that sits outside of time. Anything inside it isn’t impacted by timeline changes. Any pictures on your phone would be deleted once it reconnected outside the restaurant, but paper photographs stay the same. All those pictures were in the shoe rack.”
I grimaced, pouring myself another shot. That meant I’d been unknowingly carrying around paradox paraphernalia, which was definitely a crime.
“But why was there a picture ofme?” I said.
Yejun frowned. “I don’t know,” he said, twirling the cheese around one of his chopsticks. “I know that’s a bad answer—”
“It’s not an answer at all.”
“—but I don’t have a better one for you. The timeline wipes my memory just like everyone else’s.”
How convenient, I thought, putting more tteokbokki on my plate so Yejun couldn’t take the part with all the cheese. Did he honestly think I would agree to his plan when he wouldn’t explain a thing? I didn’t know what I’d expected him to say, but it looked like all I was going to get out of this night was some free food.
Yejun set his chopsticks down and rolled up his sleeves, so I seized the chance to grab the best-looking pieces of chicken and plop them on my plate. As he pulled back his left sleeve, three lines of text appeared on the inside of his forearm in dark ink—a tattoo.I frowned and tried to read it upside down, but he caught my gaze and turned his arm to face me.
My dearest Yejun,
I love you always
In every timeline
I set down my chopsticks, drawing back against the booth.In every timeline.“What does that mean?” I said.
“It was written on a napkin that I found in my shoe at the restaurant,” Yejun said, picking up another bite of food. “I was afraid I’d lose it or forget it, so I wanted to make it permanent.”
“But why?” I said. “Who is it from?”
Yejun hesitated before taking another bite. His gaze dropped, the tteokbokki sagging in his chopsticks. “I think it’s from my mom.”
