Chapter Eleven – Her Breaking Point
The crackle of the bonfire filled the night, sparks rising into the dark sky, but Amara barely heard the laughter around her as she walked back, her steps sharp and heavy.
Her wrist still tingled where Joon-Ho had gripped her. Her ears still rang with his voice.
Why him?
I can’t stand watching it.
Anger burned hotter with every memory. She had tried to forget what happened between them at the party, bury it deep under piles of schoolwork and polite smiles. But now he had dragged her out into the night, spitting jealousy in her face, as if she had been the one at fault.
She forced herself to keep walking, even though every part of her wanted to turn back, to shout more, to demand why he thought it was okay to avoid her for days only to show up furious.
Sliding back onto the log near her roommate, Amara plastered on a small smile, hoping no one noticed her stormy expression.
“There you are,” Daniel said, flashing her that easy smile. He was seated across from her, his face lit by the orange firelight. “Thought maybe the ghosts in the woods got you.”
A ripple of laughter came from the students nearby. Amara chuckled faintly, shaking her head. “Just needed a walk.”
Daniel tilted his head, eyes lingering on her face a little too long. His voice softened. “Well, glad you’re back.”
Her roommate, Hana, leaned closer, studying her expression. “Are you okay?” she whispered. “You look… rattled.”
“I’m fine,” Amara replied quickly. Too quickly.
Hana gave her a skeptical look, but said nothing.
The fire popped loudly, sending a spray of sparks into the air. Amara wrapped her arms tighter around herself, staring into the flames. She heard the chatter around her—stories, laughter, gossip—but it all blurred.
All she could hear was him.
All she could see was the way he had looked at her.
Jealous.
Conflicted.
Like she mattered more than he wanted her to.
Her chest ached, and she shook her head violently, as if to push the thought away. No. Don’t fall for it. Don’t you dare.
He had left her alone that morning. He had ignored her since. And yet, a single heated confrontation was enough to pull her back into the chaos of him.
“Stop it,” she whispered under her breath. “Don’t be stupid.”
But her eyes betrayed her. They kept drifting to the edge of the crowd, scanning the shadows for a tall frame, dark hair, that unreadable gaze.
He wasn’t there.
Her throat tightened. She hated herself for noticing.
⸻
Later, when the bonfire died down and students returned to their guesthouse rooms, Amara lay in bed staring at the wooden beams above her. Hana was already fast asleep, her breathing soft and steady.
The silence pressed against Amara, her thoughts screaming louder in the stillness.
Every detail of their fight replayed in her mind—the intensity in his eyes, the way his voice had broken when he said I don’t want to be jealous, but I am.
Her chest burned, anger and longing tangled together. She pulled the blanket up to her chin, curling into herself.
“Why does it hurt so much to care?” she whispered into the dark.
She thought of her mother back in Cameroon, of evenings when they would sit outside their small balcony, sharing roasted plantains and warm stories. If her mother were here, she would tell her to protect her heart. To stay strong, to not let any boy—no matter how handsome or charming—make her feel small.
But Seoul wasn’t Douala. Her mother wasn’t here. And Joon-Ho had already slipped past her defenses, leaving her vulnerable in a way that scared her.
Amara pressed her palms to her eyes, as if she could press away the memories, the ache, the image of his face inches from hers.
But no matter how tightly she shut her eyes, his voice lingered in her chest.
And it was that haunting memory—not the laughter, not Daniel’s smile, not even the warmth of the fire—that followed her into restless sleep.
