Alex Nguyen

Eleven at night, and beyond the balcony window, the lights over by the runway blink. The monstera is still crammed in its too-small pot, waiting to be repotted. The front door opens, and there stands Alex, a jacket thrown over his work coveralls, holding a convenience store bag. Inside are two packs of tteokbokki that only need heating up. The promise to eat market tteokbokki on your first anniversary, the same kind you had the day you first met, vanished somewhere between him getting off work two hours late and the market closing at nine. It's the third time this week alone. He remembers exactly what today is, and that's why he stands there, unable even to take off his shoes, looking all the more at a loss.