She raises her head from the sofa. “Besides what?” Her eyes are bright. She wants to know the answer.

“Besides you. You make me feel good about myself too.”

She pulls her hand out of mine. I think she’s going into retreat mode again, but no. She leans forward and kisses me instead.

I KISS HIM TO GET him to stop talking. If he keeps talking I will love him, and I don’t want to love him. I really don’t. As strategies go, it’s not my finest. Kissing is just another way of talking except without the words.

ONE DAY I WILL WRITE AN ODE about kissing. I will call it “Ode to a Kiss.”

It will be epic.

WE’D PROBABLY STILL BE KISSING if our cranky waitress hadn’t returned to demand to know if we wanted anything else to eat. We didn’t, and it was time to go anyway. I still want to take him to the Museum of Natural History, my favorite place in New York. I tell him that and we walk outside.

After the dark of the norebang, the sun seems too bright. And not just the sun—everything seems too much. The city is much too loud and much too crowded.

For a few seconds, I’m disoriented by the businesses stacked high on top of each other with Korean signage until I remember that we’re in Koreatown. This section of the city is supposed to look like Seoul. I wonder if it does. I squint against the sun and contemplate going back inside. I’m not ready for the rowdy, bustling reality of New York to reassert itself yet.

That’s the thought that brings me to my senses: Reality. This is reality. The smell of rubber and exhaust, the sound of too many cars going nowhere, the taste of ozone in the air. This is reality. In the norebang we could pretend, but not out here. It’s one of the things I like most about New York City. It deflects any attempts you make to lie to yourself.

We turn to each other at the same time. We’re holding hands, but even that feels like pretend now. I tug my hand from his to adjust my backpack. He waits for me to give it back but I’m not quite ready yet.

Area Boy Incapable of Leaving Well Enough Alone

We’re sitting side by side on the train, and even though it keeps jostling us together, I can feel her slipping away. No one is seated across from us; we watch each other in the window. My eyes slide to her face as she looks away. Her eyes slide to mine as I do the same. Her backpack’s in her lap and she’s hugging it to her chest like it might get up and walk away at any second.

I could reach out and take her hand, force the issue, but I want her to be the one to do it this time. I want her to acknowledge this thing between us out loud. I can’t leave well enough alone. I want her to say the words. We’re meant to be. Something. Anything. I need to hear them. To know that I’m not alone in this.

I should let it go.

I am going to let it go.

“What are you so afraid of?” I ask, not letting it go at all.

I HATE PRETENSE, BUT HERE I AM pretending. “What are you talking about?” I say to his reflection in the subway window instead of to him.

I ALMOST BELIEVE THAT SHE doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Our eyes meet in the window like it’s the only place we can look at each other.

“We’re meant to be,” I insist. It comes out all wrong—bossy and scolding and pleading all at the same time. “I know you feel it too.”

She doesn’t say a word, just gets up and goes to stand by the train doors. If anger were like heat, I’d be able to see the waves radiating from her body.

Part of me wants to go to her and apologize. Part of me wants to demand to know just what her problem is anyway. I make myself remain seated for the two stops left until the train finally screeches into the Eighty-First Street station.

The doors open. She pushes her way through the crowd and runs up the stairs. As soon as we’re at the top, she shunts us to the side and swings around to face me.

“Don’t you tell me what to feel,” she whisper-shouts. She’s going to say something else but decides against it. Instead, she walks away from me.

She’s frustrated, but now I am too. I catch up with her.

“What’s your problem?” I actually throw my hands up in the air as I say it.

I don’t want to be fighting with her. Central Park is just across the street. The trees are lush and beautiful in their fall colors. I want to wander through the park with her and write poems in my notebook. I want her to make fun of me for writing poems in my notebook. I want her to educate me on the how and why the leaves change color. I’m sure she knows the exact science of it.

She swings her backpack onto both shoulders and crosses her arms in front of her body. “Meant-to-be doesn’t exist,” she says.

I don’t want to have a philosophical discussion, so I concede. “Okay, but if it did, then—”

She cuts me off. “No. Enough. It just doesn’t. And even if it did, we are definitely not.”

“How can you say that?” I know I’m being unreasonable and irrational and probably lots of other things I shouldn’t be. This is not something you can fight with another person about.

You can’t persuade someone to love you.

A small breeze rustles the leaves around us. It’s colder now than it’s been all day.

“Because it’s true. We’re not meant to be, Daniel. I’m an undocumented immigrant. I’m being deported. Today is my last day in America. Tomorrow I’ll be gone.”

Maybe there’s another way to interpret her words. My brain picks out the most important ones and rearranges them, hoping for a different meaning. I even try to compose a quick poem, but the words won’t cooperate. They just sit there, too heavy for me to pick up.