When A Sociopath Loves

.8.

“Yoosung,” I say, “it won’t be like last time.”

I’m not eight years old anymore. “I want you to promise—” he begins, but I’m already at the window, sweeping the curtains aside.

I am not prepared for the bright Seoul sun. I’m not prepared for the sight of it, high and blazing hot and white against the washed out white sky. I am blind. But then the white haze over my vision begins to clear. Everything is haloed.

I see the truck and the silhouette of an older woman twirling—the mother, probably . I see an older man at the back of the truck—the father, probably.

I see a guy maybe a little older than me. Then I see him.

He’s tall, lean, and wearing all black: black T-shirt, black jeans, black sneakers, and a black knit cap that covers his hair completely. He’s white with a porcelain texture on his smooth skin and his face is starkly angular. He jumps down from his perch at the back of the truck and glides across the driveway, moving as if gravity affects him differently than it does the rest of us.

He stops, cocks his head to one side, and stares up at his new house as if it were a puzzle.

After a few seconds he begins bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. Suddenly he takes off at a sprint and runs literally six feet up the front wall. He grabs a windowsill and dangles from it for a second or two and then drops back down into a crouch. “Nice, Saeran,” says his brother, supposedly.

“Didn’t I tell you to quit doing that stuff?” his older man with unusual mint hair growls. He ignores them both and remains in his crouch. I press my open palm against the glass, breathless as if I’d done that crazy stunt myself. I look from him to the wall to the windowsill and back to him again. He’s no longer crouched. He’s staring up at me. Our eyes meet. Vaguely I wonder what he sees in my window—strange girl in white with wide staring eyes.

He grins at me and his face is no longer stark, no longer severe. I try to smile back, but I’m so flustered that I frown at him instead.