Min-jun Kim

The first thing Min-Jun noticed about them was that they looked completely, hopelessly lost. Not in the charming, tourist-with-a-map kind of way, but in the I-just-moved-to-a-foreign-country-and-I'm-questioning-all-my-life-choices kind of way. Min-Jun had seen that look before—Seoul had a way of doing that to people, especially on their first day. The overwhelming crush of humanity rushing through the streets, the rapid-fire Korean conversations swirling around them like an incomprehensible symphony, the sheer noise of the city that never seemed to take a breath. Yeah, he knew that look well. Which was why, in a moment of what he'd later defend as Good Samaritan instinct (and definitely not boredom), Min-Jun decided to approach them. "Excuse! Excuse!" he called out, jogging up with his most charming smile—the one that usually worked on everyone from his grandmother to the ajumma who ran the convenience store down the street. They turned, and up close, Min-Jun could see the exhaustion etched into their features, the way their shoulders sagged under the weight of too many carry-on bags and too little sleep. Fresh off the plane, he'd bet anything on it. "You are... new here, yes?" Min-Jun started, his English a little rusty but serviceable. He'd been practicing, actually, watching American shows and everything. This was the perfect opportunity to test it out. "I am Min-Jun. I live here very long time." Three years, but who was counting? They looked at him with a mixture of wariness and relief—the universal expression of someone who desperately needed help but had been warned about talking to strangers. Min-Jun pressed on, undeterred. "So, I have question," he said, leaning in conspiratorially, as if he was about to ask something of great cultural importance. "Can you... a twerk like... the Nicki Minaja?" The look on their face was priceless. Confusion, disbelief, and a dawning horror that suggested they were wondering if they'd somehow learned the wrong Korean customs before moving. Min-Jun had been aiming for funny, for breaking the ice, but he was realizing now—perhaps too late—that his delivery might have missed the mark. "I see in video," he continued, doubling down in that way people do when they're already committed to a bad joke. "Very popular in America, yes? The twerking?" They blinked at him. Once. Twice. Their mouth opened as if to respond, then closed again. "Also," Min-Jun added, because apparently he had decided that social suicide was the theme of the day, "do you libe alone? Live! Live alone? Here in Seoul?" If their expression before had been confusion, now it had graduated to active alarm. Their grip tightened on their bags, and they took a small, almost imperceptible step backward. Min-Jun’s brain finally caught up with his mouth, and he realized with creeping mortification that he'd just asked a stranger—a foreign stranger, alone in a new country—if they lived alone. After asking them about twerking. Smooth, Min-Jun. Real smooth. "I mean—" he tried to backtrack, holding up his hands in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. "I just mean, if you need help, I can—" But they were already moving, mumbling something that might have been "thanks but no thanks" or might have been "please leave me alone you absolute weirdo," Min-Jun couldn't quite tell. They hurried past him with renewed purpose, nearly tripping over their own luggage in their haste to escape. Min-Jin watched them go, a mixture of embarrassment and confusion washing over him. "That went well," he muttered to himself in Korean, earning a strange look from an elderly woman passing by with her grocery cart. He shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, making a mental note to maybe workshop his English conversation starters before trying them out on actual humans again. The twerking thing had seemed so much funnier in his head. In retrospect, leading with American pop culture references to a stressed, exhausted newcomer might not have been his brightest moment. Oh well. Seoul was a big city. The chances of running into them again were basically zero.

As it turned out, the universe had a sense of humor. Min-Jun was coming back from the convenience store, arms full of ramyeon and beer—the dinner of champions—when he saw them again. Same person, same exhausted expression, but now they were in his building, struggling up the stairs with a box that looked like it weighed more than they did. Another box sat precariously balanced on top, and Min-Jin could see the moment it started to slip. "Hey, watch—!" he started to call out, but it was too late. The top box tumbled, hitting the stairs with an ominous crash. Things rattled inside—hopefully nothing breakable, but from the look on their face, Min-Jun suspected otherwise. They let out a groan of frustration that transcended language barriers, setting down the box they'd managed to hold onto and reaching for the fallen one. Min-Jun’s Good Samaritan instincts kicked in again—because apparently, he hadn't learned his lesson the first time. "Here, let me help," he said, already setting down his convenience store haul and reaching for the box. "Oh, thank you so much, I—" They looked up. Their eyes met his. Recognition dawned simultaneously on both their faces. "Oh no," they said. "Oh!" Min-Jun said, his face breaking into a grin that he knew probably wasn't helping his case. "Is you! From before! The—" He stopped himself before he could say 'twerking person,' because he did have some self-preservation instincts. "From street! Earlier!" If possible, they looked even more dismayed than they had during their first encounter. They glanced at the box in his hands, then at their apartment door, then back at him, clearly calculating whether they could just grab the box and run. "Small world, yes?" Min-Jun continued, because apparently, his mouth had disconnected from his brain entirely today. "Very coincidence!" "Yeah," they said faintly. "Coincidence." They stood there in awkward silence for a moment, Min-Jun still holding the box, them looking like they wanted the earth to swallow them whole. Finally, Min-Jun gestured up the stairs. "You live here? In building?" he asked, though the answer was fairly obvious given the circumstances. They nodded slowly, and Min-Jun saw the exact moment they resigned themselves to their fate. "Fourth floor," they admitted, their voice barely above a whisper. Min-Jun’s grin widened. "Me too! Fourth floor! Which apartment?" "403," they said, and Min-Jun’s day officially went from weird to cosmically absurd. "No," he said, his voice filled with delighted disbelief. "No way. I am 402. We are neighbor!" The look on their face suggested that this was, in fact, the worst possible news they could have received. They stared at him like he'd just told them their apartment was haunted, or infested with cockroaches, or both. Min-Jun couldn't help it—he laughed. "Is fate!" he declared, picking up their box with renewed enthusiasm. "Universe bring us together! I help you move in, yes? Make up for before. I was... how do you say... too much?" "That's one way to put it," they muttered, but they didn't protest when Min-Jun started up the stairs with their box. As they climbed together, Min-Jun chattering away about the building ("The ajumma on second floor is very nice, she make good kimchi," "The elevator break often, so we take stairs," "Garbage day is Tuesday and Friday, very important to remember"), he caught them glancing at him with a mixture of resignation and something that might have been grudging amusement. Maybe, just maybe, he could recover from the disastrous first impression. After all, they were going to be neighbors. They'd probably see each other all the time—in the hallway, at the mailboxes, maybe even at the local convenience store. Min-Jun had always been good at making friends, even when he started out by being a complete and utter weirdo. This, he decided as they reached the fourth floor, was going to be interesting.