Boundless

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I've always loved the rain. There's something inherently calming about it—the way it softens the world, quiets the noise inside my head, and soothes the skittish ache of my soul. On rainy days, time itself seems to slow, stretching out gently like a deep breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Nothing about the rain unsettles me. In fact, it grounds me. It reminds me of the places my feet have wandered, and the footprints I've left behind.

But only the rain had the power to dictate my mood. On days like this, I felt at peace—perhaps not whole, but certainly still. All I ever needed was a moment to breathe.

I rose from my desk, eyes drifting to the window. I watched raindrops cling to the glass, some trembling with the weight of their own being before slipping quietly downward.

"Ms. Jackson, we're going out for Korean barbecue tonight. Would you care to join us?" Mrs. Kim asked, her voice lilting gently in her native Korean.

For a moment, I forgot how to reply.

Then I smiled and responded in fluent, practiced Korean, "Yes, I'll join you tonight."

And I meant it. I would go. Mrs. Kim had always been so kind, just as the others had. Because of her, my time in South Korea had been nothing short of serene. She looked after me as if I were family—more like a daughter than a colleague. In her early forties, she carried herself with the gentle command of a mother, and I trusted her more than anyone else here.

As she smiled and turned to leave, I began gathering my belongings. The desk I sat at wasn't mine—not yet. It was borrowed, a placeholder until I completed my teaching certification in three months. Ninety days. An eternity wrapped in hours.

But eternity didn't seem so dreadful. Time felt empty regardless—silent and still. I was the rose among tulips, the needle in the haystack. I was lonely. I woke alone. Slept alone. My phone never rang unless I called first. I suffocated in my solitude. It was my own fear of abandonment that had led me here, to the heart of South Korea, and still I felt like a stranger among stars.

Yet it wasn't unfamiliar. I had lived here for three years. Still, I bit my lip, knowing why I said yes tonight. If I returned to my little studio apartment, the silence would taunt me, the walls would echo with my own thoughts. The quiet used to comfort me—now it bored me. Now, it ached. I had walked these streets twice in a day, just to greet the sun both coming and going.

"You look so good today," one of my coworkers said as I arrived. Ms. Oh—young, beautiful, and shrewd. A year younger than me and yet sharp with the art of flattery. She was single, but unlike me, she was never truly alone. Someone always shared her bed, even if briefly.

Ms. Oh was delicate, thin like most Korean women—not that there's anything wrong with that. Still, she made me uncomfortable in my own skin. She made me question my worth as a woman, and I hated how easily that feeling crept in. I hated the tight, performative smiles of our colleagues. I wasn't intimidating—I stood tall at 177cm, my figure a soft blend of slim lines and curved hips. My skin was velvet, warm like roasted mahogany, brown like bread and coffee.

So why did I still feel like I wasn't enough?

Was it because my cheeks didn't blush pink? Because I didn't match the powdered white beauty ideal? My hair, coiled in tight curls, thick and lively, was nothing like her soft, silk strands. I knew I was beautiful. I had always believed it. And yet, in rooms like these, that belief faltered.

"Ms. Jackson, how's school going? You look more peaceful these days," Mrs. Kim asked as she snipped slices of meat with kitchen scissors.

I smiled, a soft, forced curve of my lips. "Peace is reserved for those who've overcome their troubles. I'm still on the path, I'm afraid."

Her face grew concerned. "Sweetheart, do you want to talk about it?"

I felt Ms. Oh's eyes on me. I shook my head gently, replying in English this time, "No, I'm fine."

She held my gaze for a moment before turning her attention back to the grill. That was the last time I spoke that evening. My coworkers laughed and chatted about the students, the school, their lives—but I remained silent, adrift in my thoughts.

Eventually, I stood and excused myself for air.

Outside, the night was cool, the wind brushing my face like a familiar lover. I pulled the band from my hair and let my curls spill free. Closing my eyes, I placed my hands behind my neck and exhaled deeply.

And that's when I felt it—that tingle, that electric awareness of being watched. A presence.

Then came the scent. Masculine, arresting—pinewood, mint, and cinnamon. I wanted to drink it in.

I opened my eyes—and there he was.

Devastatingly handsome. Striking. His dark eyes, shaped like almonds, held stories. His cheekbones were proud, his jaw defined like stone, his smile—good God, his smile—could've stopped time.

"Are you okay?" he asked in English, his voice low and warm.

I cleared my throat. "I'm alright," I replied in Korean.

His eyes lit with surprise and quiet amusement. He slipped his hands into his pockets, his posture confident, not cocky. He wasn't much taller than me, but he carried himself with such ease, such grace.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Athena. Athena Jackson."

He smiled, and my breath caught.

"Athena. Nice to meet you. I'm Min Jae Eun. You can call me Jae."

I bowed slightly; he did the same.

"Why are you standing in the cold?" he asked in English.

"I needed to breathe," I said softly. "The cold doesn't bother me anymore."

Without hesitation, he shrugged off his coat and placed it over my shoulders. I inhaled sharply—or maybe I forgot how to breathe altogether. My eyes widened as he smiled again, revealing perfect teeth and a confidence that wasn't loud, but steady. Assured.

His chest, broad beneath a black button-up, rose and fell with slow breath. His jeans hugged him just right. I bit my lip without meaning to. He caught my gaze and winked. My face betrayed me—I couldn't hide the smile that bloomed.

"Don't catch a cold," he said, his hands resting gently on my shoulders.

"I know. I've lived in Korea for three years."

"Really? Then you should know better."

"And you? Have you lived in America? You're not supposed to touch strangers—especially women."

He laughed softly, his hands retreating. "I'm sorry."

I wasn't breathing again. Being near him made breathing feel like a choice I forgot to make.

"Athena," he said, voice dipping into something softer, "I'll see you again. I have to rejoin my group."

He gave a slight bow and turned to go inside. I started to slip off his coat, but he was already gone.