Chapter 12: Building a World

Adulthood. It had sounded so grown-up, so full of promise and possibility. Now, watching Shawn navigate its choppy waters, it felt more like a trial by fire. He was playing life on hard mode—a cramped studio apartment, a minimum wage job, and the constant pressure of making ends meet in a foreign country, away from the familiar comforts of family and routine.

Yet, there was a strength in the way he shouldered his responsibilities, a determination in his eyes that I found incredibly attractive.

He’d shown me his apartment a few weeks after our reunion at the café. It was small, barely enough room to swing a cat, but it was his. He'd painted the walls pure white, hung a few framed posters of his favorite bands, and even managed to squeeze in a second-hand bookshelf overflowing with well-worn paperbacks.

"My dad always said, A Black sibling knows how to handle themselves, no matter the situation," Shawn had explained. "Self-defense, basic survival skills…even gun safety. It's kind of a family tradition."

He might have downplayed it, but I knew his skills ran deeper than simple "family tradition." He moved with an awareness and confidence that spoke of years of training and discipline.

And yeah, the fact that he looked damn good in that security guard uniform didn’t hurt either.

His apartment, despite its size, became our haven. It was our secret world, a place where we could shed the weight of expectations and just be ourselves. We'd order takeout, watch bad movies, and talk for hours, our conversations a tangled mix of dreams, anxieties, and the bittersweet reality of our unconventional situation.

He’d listen patiently as I rambled on about auditions, my voice cracking with a mix of excitement and frustration. The acting world was a tough nut to crack, even with my family's support. I’d landed a few minor roles—a delivery boy with two lines in a historical drama, a singing tomato in a ketchup commercial (don't ask)—but nothing that screamed "rising star."

"It's tough out there," I'd confessed one night, my shoulders slumping as I sank onto his worn-out couch. "Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of headshots and rejection letters."

Shawn, ever the pragmatist, had simply pulled me into a hug, the warmth of his embrace a much-needed anchor in my sea of uncertainty. "You're talented, Ryung. Don't ever forget that. The right role will come along, you just have to be patient."

He made it sound so easy. But then, Shawn had a way of cutting through the noise and getting to the heart of the matter. He never sugarcoated things, never offered empty platitudes. And in a world that often felt superficial and fleeting, his honesty was a breath of fresh air.

He still accompanied me to auditions whenever his work schedule allowed, his silent support a reassuring presence amidst the chaos of casting calls and nervous actors. He’d wait patiently outside, a comforting silhouette against the backdrop of Seoul’s bustling streets. And when I emerged, my shoulders slumped with either disappointment or relief, he’d be there, a ready smile and a reassuring squeeze of my hand.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Life had this funny way of rearranging itself, like a kaleidoscope twisting, creating new patterns with familiar pieces. Mom and Hana were gone, whisked away to Germany for Mom's work. Dad, eternally buried in law books and legal briefs, barely noticed. It was just me, rattling around our too-big house, the silence deafening.

Thank goodness for weekends. And for Shawn.

My overnight bag had become an extension of myself – a couple of t-shirts, sweatpants, maybe a book of monologues (you never know when inspiration might strike). Heading out on Friday afternoons, Dad would grunt a distracted "Be safe," from behind his mountain of paperwork. He didn't need to ask where I was going. We both knew.

Shawn’s apartment wasn't much, just a tiny studio above a noisy noodle shop. But it was ours. Our sanctuary. Stepping inside was like exhaling after holding my breath for a week. The air would be thick with the scent of instant ramen and something else, something uniquely Shawn—a hint of cedarwood and something warm and comforting, like sunshine on skin.

"Hey," he'd greet me, his face breaking into that familiar crooked grin that still sent a flutter through my stomach. No matter how crappy his day had been, seeing me seemed to chase away the shadows in his eyes. It was a look I lived for.

Weekends with Shawn were a delicious blend of mundane and magical. We'd binge-watch cheesy dramas, arguing over plot holes and swooning over the male leads (some things never change). We’d raid the convenience store down the street, returning laden with bags of chips, instant ramen, and those ridiculously overpriced peach yogurt drinks I was addicted to.

Sometimes, we'd just…be. Curled up on his worn-out sofa, me flipping through one of his dog-eared paperbacks. The silence between us wasn't awkward, but companionable, a comfortable silence woven from shared jokes, whispered secrets, and the unspoken understanding that came from knowing someone inside and out.

Being with Shawn, even in that cramped apartment, felt more like home than my own house ever had. Here, I could be myself—moody, dramatic, occasionally prone to bouts of theatrical despair (the life of an aspiring actor, right?). He accepted it all, even seemed to find my more…intense moments endearing.

Of course, there were moments when the outside world would intrude on our bubble of domesticity. Like the time some random girl at the convenience store had gotten a little too flirty with Shawn, her eyes practically shooting laser beams of adoration at my (admittedly very handsome) boyfriend. I'd gone silent, my gaze fixed on the pickled radish display, my jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack.

"Everything alright, Ryung?" Shawn had asked, his brow furrowed with concern, oblivious.

"Peach yogurt drink," I'd muttered, pointing to the fridge with my chin. "Remember?"

He'd just chuckled, shaking his head at my (admittedly childish) behavior, completely missing the daggers I was shooting at the girl's back as she sashayed out of the store.

Later, back at his apartment, after I'd devoured my yogurt drink and calmed down considerably, Shawn had pulled me into his arms, his touch a grounding force amidst my swirling emotions.

"You know I only have eyes for you, right?" he murmured against my hair, his voice a low rumble.

I'd just buried my face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of cedarwood and sunshine. He didn't need to say the words. I knew. And in that moment, surrounded by his warmth, his love, the world outside our little bubble faded away, leaving only the comforting certainty of us.

Weekends. They were our stolen moments, a precious reprieve from the world's demands. They were a promise, whispered in the darkness, that no matter where life took us, no matter what challenges we faced, we'd face them together. And that, I was starting to realize, was a love story worth fighting for.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

The metallic weight in my palm felt heavier than it should, a tiny key with the power to unlock a universe. "Since you’ve been living here longer than you do at your own," Shawn teased, his signature grin softening the edges of his words.

He was right, of course. My own house felt more like a museum these days—spotless, echoing with silence, a shrine to my father's legal career and my mother’s sporadic modeling gigs. Hana, the only other source of warmth in that grand, lonely house, was off in Germany with Mom, leaving me adrift in a sea of empty rooms and echoing footsteps.

But here, in Shawn’s cramped studio apartment, life bloomed. It was messy, chaotic, a symphony of instant ramen aromas and the comforting scent of old books. It was our sanctuary, our escape from the world’s demands.

Having my own key changed everything. It transformed our stolen weekends into a constant, reassuring presence.

Sometimes, when my schedule was blessedly clear, I’d be waiting, curled up on his worn-out couch with a script or a wornout copy of Shakespeare (a guy's gotta stay sharp, even when he’s head over heels). The moment I heard his key in the lock, my heart would do a little flip, anticipation bubbling in my chest. Just the sound of him coming home—our home—was enough to chase away the day’s anxieties.

Even with my own key to Shawn's apartment, our Kakaotalk threads buzzed with a comforting regularity. Each morning began with a quick "Good morning, Ryung," from him, sometimes accompanied by a goofy selfie of him in his security guard uniform, his hair sticking up at odd angles. It never failed to make me grin like an idiot.

And before bed, no matter how late it was or how exhausted I felt after a long day of auditions and rehearsals, there’d be a "Sleep well, talk tomorrow," message waiting for me. It was like a ritual, a silent affirmation that even when we were apart, we were still connected, our lives intertwined in ways that went beyond physical proximity.

Sometimes, if I was out late at a rehearsal or catching a movie with Min-jun, Shawn would call, his voice a low rumble through the phone, concern tinged with relief when I answered. "Just making sure you got home safe," he’d say, and I could practically hear the smile in his voice.

It was those little things, those everyday gestures, that meant the most. They were a testament to the strength of our bonds, that didn’t need grand pronouncements or public displays of affection to feel real, to feel…right.

We were two halves of a whole, navigating the complexities of life in our own ways, yet always finding our way back to each other, our bond a steady beacon in a world that often felt uncertain and unpredictable.