To the Queer Person on the Bundang Line

The weather in Korea turned dry and suffocating. The bitter cold bit my skin until the heaters of the subway station kicked on. I tore off my scarf, mimicking the other passengers struggling to find relief while we waited for the next subway car.

There’s a gentle dread that slips in whenever I take the subway. There’s a fear of being stuck next to someone creepy or smelly. But for a dollar a ride, it’s hard to complain. At least in Seongnam, the subway is clean, and the commuters are quiet. The day I saw you was no different.

We were the lucky ones who got to enter the car first. We got our seats and tried not to feel pity for those left standing on the commute. I noticed you instantly.

You shifted just far enough not to disturb the old man sitting next to you. You placed the League of Legends tote bag on your lap and dug through it until you found treasure: A book and a silver mechanical pencil.

You wore gold glasses that didn’t quite line up on your nose. They tilted to the right and made you look younger than the office worker you probably were. You kept your legs crossed, which I found charming, as I’ve grown so accustomed to Korean men manspreading. You kept your silk scarf firmly tied around your neck.

On the strap of your tote bag, I recognized a flag. You added a little metal pin. Specific enough not to ring the rainbow alarm bells. But I recognized that pink, yellow, and blue: The pansexual flag.

I wished I had a purple, gray, and black flag of my own, to show you I was on your side in quiet solidarity. Two queer folks, out and hiding, heading into the big city of Seoul.

When you pulled out the Korean translated version of Hanya Yanagihara's A Little Life, I knew you were in for a ride far graver than this stuffy subway trip.

I was too cowardly to read the book myself. I had bought a copy and left it on my shelves, forgotten until the book exploded online. Try Not to Cry challenges led people to the devastating story of self-harm and sexual assault. Feeling left out, I read the trigger warnings online and knew I wouldn’t be able to bear it. So I left it on the shelf, forgotten again, until I saw you.

Your eyes became glossy. You pinched your nose and stifled a sniffle. I smiled, a bit manic, knowing how literature can touch or attack the soul. I wanted to ask you about that rare internal shifting that only books create. Which of the triggers struck a nerve? Did your empathy blossom? Did it hit close to home?

Our eyes met for a moment, and I forgot to speak. In my mind, I’m a much cooler person. Someone who willingly makes connections with strangers on our commute.

But I’m just me. Rather shy in person and not so confident in my foreign language. So your teary eyes went back to the page, and I returned to the e-book on my phone. Eventually, I was sucked into the story on my screen, and I didn’t notice when you had gotten off, and a woman in a fur coat took your seat.

My stop came, and I had to shove my body through other bodies to get out. My backpack got caught briefly on someone else’s. I squirmed and tugged until I made it to the platform. Then I walked to work.

All the while, and for days after, I’ve thought of you and the imaginary friendship, our cross-border, queer-platonic, precious, fake friendship I created in my head. All founded on a book I was too cowardly to read.