I CAN'T CHOOSE

TIME TO LEAVE

Jessica sat up first, the gray morning light cutting through the thin motel curtain. She looked around the room, eyes moving from the empty space beside her to the cold sheets where Minjun had been. “Where is he?” she asked, voice still rough from sleep. Seo-yeon stirred, propped herself on one elbow, and followed Jessica’s gaze. Both women felt the sudden quiet of the room settle over them like dust.

Seo-yeon swung her legs off the bed and walked to the small table. A single folded paper waited there. She picked it up, unfolded it carefully, and read the short lines in silence. After a moment she turned and held the note out. “This is from Minjun,” she said. “It is addressed to you.” Jessica took the paper and read the words aloud in a flat voice. “See you this afternoon. Speak with your father and prepare my visa. I leave tonight.”

Seo-yeon waited for more. Nothing else appeared on the page. No greeting, no apology, no word meant for her. She sat back down on the edge of the mattress and stared at the floor. The absence of her name settled inside her chest with a heavy, final weight. Minjun had already decided she no longer mattered enough for a single line of goodbye.

They dressed without speaking. Jessica buttoned her shirt with slow fingers. Seo-yeon pulled her skirt straight and fixed her hair in the mirror. The earlier heat of the night had cooled into something thin and distant between them. When the room was tidy enough, they left the motel together and stepped into the bright morning without looking back at the door.

Minjun reached his family’s apartment later that morning and climbed the stairs two at a time. He knocked on his mother’s door and called, “Mama, I’m back. Are you there?” No answer came. He pushed the door open and found her still lying in bed, eyes closed. His heart jumped hard against his ribs. He stepped closer and touched her shoulder. She opened her eyes at once and frowned at him.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I was only sleeping. You do not need to look so frightened.” She studied his face for a moment. “You are leaving tonight, aren’t you?” He nodded. “Yes. Tonight.” She watched him a little longer, then closed her eyes again and told him to go pack. The quiet acceptance in her voice made the room feel smaller than before.

In his own room, Minjun pulled a bag from the closet and began filling it with the last of his clothes and papers. When the bag was nearly full, he realized he still needed a larger box for a few remaining items. He returned to his mother’s doorway and told her he was going to the market. “I will buy what I need and come straight back,” he said. “Rest a little more. I will prepare something for you to eat later.” She only nodded, and he left the apartment.

He took a taxi instead of his bicycle. The ride to the market was short and silent. Once there he walked between the stalls until he found a shop stacked with cardboard boxes of every size. He pointed to a large one and asked the price. The shopkeeper looked him up and down, taking in the simple clothes and the tired face, then shook his head.

“Those boxes are too expensive for someone like you,” the man said. “Move along. You are only scaring away real customers.” Minjun’s jaw tightened. He asked again how much the box cost, voice low and steady. The shopkeeper waved him away and repeated that only people with money could buy from his stall. Minjun’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “To hell with your boxes,” he said, and turned to leave.

A calm voice stopped him. “Hey. Come here.” He looked back and saw an American woman standing near a red jeep. She was older than him, perhaps old enough to be his mother, yet her posture was straight and her expression open. She called him over with a small motion of her hand. He walked toward her, still angry from the shopkeeper’s words.

She turned to the man behind the stall. “How much for the boxes?” The shopkeeper’s tone changed at once. “Fifty yuan each.” She paid for two without hesitation and handed one to Minjun. “What’s your name?” she asked. He answered, “Minjun.” She smiled and said,“I’m Annabel.”

“Okay, Mrs. Annabel.”

“Not Mrs. Annabel. I’m not married.” The correction surprised him, but he nodded and thanked her for the help.

Annabel offered him a ride home. Minjun hesitated, tired of unexpected women and their sudden kindness, yet the red jeep waited and the market felt suddenly too loud. He climbed into the passenger seat. As they drove she asked if he wanted the air conditioning higher. He shook his head. “I’m fine.” She glanced at the bag at his feet. “Traveling?” He told her he was leaving for America that same night.

Her eyes lit with interest. “I’m from Los Angeles. My flight is at six this evening.” Minjun looked at her more carefully. “I’m going to Los Angeles too.” The shared destination settled between them like an unexpected bridge. She told him he was handsome, that he looked strong, that he clearly spent time in the gym. He turned his face toward the side window and answered only that he played basketball and trained often. The compliment made his ears warm.

When the jeep stopped in front of his building, Minjun stepped out and thanked her again. Annabel asked for his number. He typed it into her phone, still half-smiling from the strange turn of the morning. She looked at the entrance and said she would like a glass of water before she left. He hesitated, then opened the door and called up the stairwell, “Mama, I’m home. I brought a guest.”

No answer came. He called again, louder. Still nothing. A tight feeling rose in his chest.

“Mama! Mama!” he called, but there was still no reply.

Frightened, he finally called her by her name. “Mrs. Park!”

He knocked once more at his mother’s door, then pushed it open. Annabel followed closely behind him. The room beyond was quiet and wrong. Minjun froze in the doorway, staring at what waited inside.