The grip he left on my wrist

He held it three seconds longer than he needed to. I know because I counted. That is the thing I keep coming back to — not the log, not the signature, but the way his fingers pressed exactly where a bracelet would sit and he knew it. Sung knows what he is doing. He is not clumsy. He chose the linen closet because no cameras see the end of that corridor and he chose 03:00 because he knew I would be tired enough to take the paper without arguing. I hate that he was right.

Bae Yu-jin arrives tomorrow and I still do not know what I am going to say. The note is drafted. The log is locked away. But every version I rehearse sounds like someone confessing to a crime when I am the victim of one. If I say it wrong she will think I forged it myself for attention. Hotels run on reputation and I am standing in mine holding a baggie like evidence on a cop show and the fairy lights are on and I look so normal in the mirror right now, so soft in this dress I bought to feel like a person and not a uniform, and I took two photos because I needed to prove I was still her — the one who exists outside that lobby, the one who comes home to plants and tangerine cones and a locked drawer that is getting heavier every week.

My brother did not answer about Chuseok. I set the phone face-down and the floor was cold and I thought: this is what it is to keep a secret. You reach out and the room goes quiet and you sit with it.