Ch7 Chuseok at Sunset

Yongsun had always been a spark of energy, and nothing showcased that more than when I called her “Solar.” She’d light up, like the nickname meant everything to her, proudly flaunting it to Aira and MC. They both found it unique and cool, and MC, ever the joker, teased her, “You’re like Sailor Moon!” Yongsun laughed, though I could see in her eyes that she preferred to keep “Solar” for special occasions—when there were crowds around or when I needed to sweeten her up for something.

When it was just us, though, I stuck to “Sol” or “Yong,” our private little nicknames. It was something intimate, ours alone. But, of course, that didn’t stop our friends—Seongho, Vincent, and Gama—from teasing us. They were in an elective on solar paneling and agriculture, so they couldn’t resist laughing at her nickname. “Solar, huh? What, she’s powering your whole house now?” they’d joke.

Yong didn’t find it as funny. For a whole week, she barely responded unless I called her "Solar" and pulled a goofy face to break the ice. Eventually, though, she opened up more, and those moments of distance faded away. I started telling her all the things that came to my mind, like how “solar batteries need daylight to recharge, just like I need you.” She loved it, of course, even when I teased her about things like my complete failure in trigonometry. “I’ll tutor you,” she said confidently, her hand resting on mine, steady and reassuring. She had this way of calming me when I doubted myself, pulling me back to her light whenever I felt like I wasn’t enough.

But there was one thing she nagged about more than anything else—Chuseok. Her to-do list for the holiday seemed never-ending, and every time I mentioned taking it slow, she’d shake her head. “We’ve already crossed off one goal, let’s just focus on the next,” I tried to reason. But Yong was determined. “I don’t like wasting time,” she said firmly. “I have to cook for your family. I want to do it for your father, Aunt Del, and May.”

I couldn’t resist teasing her. “You might end up wasting all the ingredients, you know? Even a simple bowl of ramyeon from the Korean store nearby would be enough for them.”

Yong narrowed her eyes playfully. “You underestimate me, Jess. I’m going to make this special.” She paused and gave me that look, the one that always made my heart race. “And I’m going to wear a hanbok when I serve it.”

I laughed, imagining the spectacle. “Yong, the neighbors are going to think there’s a royal parade going on if you step out in a hanbok.”

She leaned in, smirking. “Let them stare. It’s Chuseok, and I want to celebrate it right. Besides,” her voice softened, “you’ve never seen me in a hanbok. You’ll love it.”

She had me there. The thought of her in that beautiful, traditional dress made me blush. “Okay, you win. But what are you planning to cook?”

“I was thinking galbijjim,” she said confidently. “Maybe japchae and songpyeon too. Your family’s going to love it. And… you will too, even if you’re a picky eater.” She teased me, nudging my arm.

“Hey, I don’t like veggies, but I love noodles and rice cakes. Miss Kim’s cooking won me over ages ago,” I admitted, and she giggled.

But soon, her teasing gave way to something more serious. “Sometimes… it makes me sad, you know? Growing up here, I didn’t always get to appreciate these traditions. I feel like I missed out.”

I looked at her, seeing the weight behind her words. “Yong, it doesn’t matter where you grew up. You carry your traditions in your heart, and now, we’ll celebrate them together.” I paused, feeling her lean against me. “We can make it ours.”

I tried to reassure her. “It’s not like that. We’ll make our own memories.” And that’s when I got the idea of setting up simple games—games we could play together with my sister Jessa. I thought of Yutnori, a traditional Korean board game, and even came up with the idea of using beyblades for Paengichigi, a Korean top-spinning game.

Her face softened, but she couldn’t resist the playful glint in her eyes. “You’re sweet, Jess. But let’s be real, you’re also a nerd. Beyblades for Paengichigi? Really?”

I laughed, glad to see her mood lifting. “Hey, it’s modern-day Paengichigi! And you might actually beat me.”

“If I win, you’re calling me Solar for a week. And no making faces when you say it,” she said, smirking.

“Deal,” I grinned, knowing full well I’d let her win just to see that smile.

As Chuseok approached, we worked together to set up games. We planned for Yutnori and Tuho, simple but fun. I even talked to some of our Korean schoolmates, but they were celebrating with their families. Still, we had a plan. “We’ll ask Mr. and Mrs. Kim if they can celebrate with us,” I suggested. “And my family too. They’re a little hesitant, but they’ll help us make it special for you.”

Yong smiled, relieved. But the real test came when she approached Mrs. Kim about the food. She wanted to tackle the cooking head-on, even though she was still new to it. “Mrs. Kim,” I overheard her ask one evening, “do you think… I can do this? I want to cook for Jess’s family, but I don’t want to mess it up.”

Mrs. Kim, always the gentle guide, smiled warmly. “You’ll do just fine, Yong. Cooking is about love and care, and you have plenty of that. I’ll be here to help.”

They decided on galbijjim, japchae, and songpyeon for the meal, and as they prepared, I couldn’t help but feel proud of her. She was determined to bring a piece of her world to my family, to share her culture and her heart.

Later that night, as we wrapped up the day, Yongsun looked at me with a soft smile and whispered, “You know, Jess, I can’t wait for Chuseok. Not just because of the food or the games, but because… it feels like we’re building something. Something that’s just ours.”

I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close. “We are, Yong. We really are.

Yongsun stood beside Mrs. Kim, her apron tied tightly around her waist, sleeves rolled up, and hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. The kitchen was filled with the delicious, warm aromas of garlic, soy sauce, and simmering beef—signs that something special was in the making. I had never seen her so determined and focused, yet a bit of nervousness lingered in her eyes.

"Are you sure I'm doing this right, halmeoni?" she asked, her hands slightly trembling as she sliced vegetables for the japchae. Her grandmother, Mrs. Kim, stood beside her, watching with the calm patience only an elder could have.

"Slow down, Yong," Mrs. Kim gently reminded her in Korean. "It’s not about being fast. It’s about taking care with every slice, making sure everything is even, so it cooks properly. You’ll get there."

Yongsun sighed, pausing for a moment to brush a strand of hair out of her face, leaving a streak of sauce on her cheek. I could see her frustration building; she had always been so determined to be perfect in everything she did, and cooking was no exception. But today, it was proving to be a bit more challenging than she’d expected.

She went back to cutting the carrots, her slices uneven and a bit clumsy, but Mrs. Kim smiled and patted her shoulder. "Don’t worry, sweet girl. The food will taste good because you’re making it with love."

"Maybe, but… I don’t want to ruin it, halmeoni," Yongsun mumbled, her voice barely audible as she focused on the galbijjim. "Jess will eat it, and so will his family. What if I mess it up?"

I leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching her as she moved with careful precision, though every so often I caught a glimpse of the slight panic in her eyes. I couldn’t help but smile. Even when she was struggling, there was something beautiful about the way she poured herself into everything she did.

Mrs. Kim chuckled softly. "You’re doing fine, Yong. Just keep stirring the sauce, let the ribs soak in all that flavor. They’ll turn out delicious."

Yongsun’s lips curved into a small, grateful smile, though the tension in her shoulders hadn’t quite disappeared. She worked through her hesitations, adjusting the seasoning, checking the consistency of the noodles for the japchae, and waiting patiently as the galbijjim simmered. Her movements became more confident as time went on, though I could still see the doubt lingering in her.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Yongsun wiped her hands on a towel and stood back, surveying her work. The dishes were ready—galbijjim, japchae, and songpyeon, arranged neatly on the table, their vibrant colors and rich aromas filling the room.

“Jess, it’s ready,” she called out, her voice a mixture of excitement and nerves. She glanced at Mrs. Kim for reassurance, who nodded proudly.

I walked over to the table, my stomach growling at the sight of the spread before me. Yongsun stood there, watching me intently as I picked up my chopsticks and took my first bite of the galbijjim. The beef practically melted in my mouth, the sweet and savory sauce perfectly balanced. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.

“This is amazing, Yong,” I said between bites, reaching for more. “Seriously, it’s delicious.”

She looked at me, wide-eyed, as if she didn’t believe me. "Are you lying? Because I know I was horrible at slicing everything. I was so slow, and halmeoni had to help me so much. Be honest, Jess," she pleaded, her eyes searching mine for any sign of a fib.

I shook my head, still chewing. “No lies, I promise. It’s perfect. It’s not about how you sliced the vegetables or how slow you were. It’s about the thought and effort you put into it, Yong. That’s what makes it special.”

Yongsun let out a sigh of relief, a small, satisfied smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

I reached for the japchae next, eagerly devouring it. “I’m not just saying it, trust me. If it wasn’t good, I wouldn’t be eating this much,” I said with a grin, already reaching for another helping of the galbijjim. “My family’s going to love it, too.”

Yongsun’s face softened, her cheeks tinged with a slight blush. “I’m so glad you think so,” she said quietly, glancing back at Mrs. Kim, who nodded approvingly.

For two weeks, I had been saving up money, putting aside every little bit I could to buy the ingredients Yongsun needed for her cooking. She’d been practicing diligently, even though I could tell she was a little nervous about it all. Cooking wasn’t something she grew up mastering, but she wanted to learn, and she wanted to impress my family. That meant the world to me, watching her dive into something new, all for us.

Yongsun had been asking Aira for tips on how to cook different meals. One day, during one of their conversations, Aira chuckled softly and said, “Yong, you need practice, that’s for sure. But remember, you’re in the theater club. We’re the ones in the cooking club.”

Yong grinned sheepishly, knowing Aira was right. But she didn’t back down. “I know, I know. But I still want to try.”

MC, who was standing nearby, threw in their two cents with a laugh. “I’m bad at cooking too, Yong. You’re not alone.”

But I, of course, had to defend her. “Yong’s a great cook. She’s just warming up.”

At that, she blushed furiously, her cheeks turning a rosy red. “Don’t brag, Jess. Not until I’ve proven it. Let’s wait until the day comes, okay?” she said, flustered but determined.

That’s how she was—humble, even when she didn’t need to be. A few days later, Yongsun came to my house, determined to learn some Filipino dishes. She wanted to surprise my family with more than just Korean food for Chuseok. My father, who had once worked as a cook for the president, took her under his wing in the kitchen, teaching her how to make Kalderetang Kambing, a rich, flavorful goat stew that was one of my family’s favorites. I stood back, watching them work together, my heart swelling with pride.

Dad moved slowly through the steps, making sure she understood each part. He showed her how to sear the meat just right, how to let the flavors meld together in the stew until it reached that perfect balance of savory and sweet. Yongsun followed along diligently, though I could tell from the way she bit her lip that she was nervous about messing it up. But my father was patient, encouraging her with every step.

When the stew was finally done, the scent of it filled the kitchen, warm and comforting, like something straight out of a family reunion. We all sat down to eat, and the moment Yongsun took her first bite, her face lit up. “This is so good! I want to taste more!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement.

We ate a lot that day, the kitchen filled with laughter and conversation as we bonded over food. I couldn’t stop eating, and neither could Yongsun, though by the end, she was so full she could barely move. I ended up carrying her home, her head resting gently on my shoulder as we walked.

“You know,” she murmured, her voice soft and sleepy, “your father is the best. He encouraged me to try and try again. He said he can’t wait to taste what I make next.”

I smiled down at her, heart full. “And you’ll love it too, just like he does. I know it.”

A few days later, when I got home, Yongsun told me she’d been watching fusion cooking videos on YouTube. Her enthusiasm was infectious, but I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yong, it’s way too early for that. Let’s stick to the basics for now,” I teased.

She pouted a little, but I knew she understood. That weekend, we went to the mall and tried sisig, a sizzling Filipino dish made from chopped pork, onions, and chili. She loved it, even though she was always conscious about her weight and didn’t want to eat too much rice. That was my Yong—always trying to balance everything, including how much she ate.

When the food arrived, I made sure to separate the onions and peppers, knowing she wasn’t the biggest fan of overly strong flavors. But of course, she couldn’t resist teasing me. She reached over and mixed them all back in, pushing the plate toward me. “Come on, Jess. You’re so picky,” she said with mock disappointment.

I groaned, knowing what was coming. “You know I don’t like vegetables,” I complained, but when I saw the look on her face—the playful glint in her eyes—I caved. With a sigh, I took a bite, chewing through the onions and peppers, trying to hide my distaste.

Yongsun smiled, that bright, mischievous smile that always made me weak. “See? Isn’t it better with the onions?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I nodded, swallowing quickly. “It’s really good, Yong,” I said, half-laughing.

She grinned wider, clearly enjoying herself. “You’re just saying that because I made you eat it.”

“Maybe,” I admitted, grinning back at her.

But then, her expression softened, and she leaned closer, her voice gentle. “Jess… would you still love me if I wasn’t doing all of this? The cooking, the games, everything?”

I looked at her, my heart swelling with affection. “Of course I would, Yong. Even if I’m picky, I’d do anything you ask. I love you for who you are, not for the things you do.”

Her eyes shimmered for a moment before she leaned in and kissed me softly. “Thank you,” she whispered, her breath warm against my lips.

As we continued eating, Yongsun suddenly scrunched up her nose. “The food’s too savory, and it stinks of onion,” she said, sounding a little unsure of herself now.

I blinked, surprised by her sudden change in mood. “Don’t worry,” I said quickly, probably looking more shocked than I meant to. “It’s fine, really. I love it. And I love you, Yongsun. Always.”

She smiled at me then, a quiet, soft smile that held so much warmth. That smile—it meant everything to me. After we finished, we went to buy ingredients for her next Chuseok dish, preparing for the big day. Mrs. Kim, her grandmother, gave Yongsun a beautiful hanbok to try on for the celebration. The fabric was vibrant, elegant, and when Yongsun held it up, her face lit up like the stars.

I’m going to wear this for Chuseok,” she said excitedly, her fingers brushing against the delicate material.

“You’ll look amazing,” I told her, unable to hide my smile. “But maybe change inside the house so you don’t attract too much attention.”

She laughed, the sound light and full of joy. “What, you don’t want to show me off to the neighborhood?”

I shook my head, chuckling. “Not when they’ll think I’m marrying royalty.”

She smiled, that mischievous glint in her eyes once again. “I just want to make Chuseok special for you and your family.”

I pulled her close, pressing my forehead gently against hers. “You already have, Yong. I promise, I’ll make it special for you too.”

In that moment, standing there with her, I realized that no matter what came next—whether her dishes were perfect or not, whether the celebrations went as planned—none of it really mattered. What mattered was the way she loved, the way she gave everything of herself. That’s what made this Chuseok, and every moment with her, unforgettable.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the house as we prepared for Chuseok. I could hear the faint hum of excitement in the air, the sound of laughter from my family as they gathered in the living room, eagerly waiting for the feast Yongsun had been preparing for days. She was in the kitchen now, putting the final touches on the galbijjim and japchae, her concentration so intense you could almost feel it in the room.

The smell of savory, sweet braised short ribs filled the house, the kind of aroma that felt like a warm hug. It mingled with the slight nuttiness of the glass noodles and vegetables from the japchae. Yongsun had been nervous, but I knew she had nothing to worry about. My father had already peeked in several times, his face lighting up as he caught a whiff of the food.

The games were set up outside, a little makeshift area where we planned to play Yutnori, Tuho, and even a modern twist on Paengichigi using beyblades, just like I had promised. It felt like we were bringing a piece of Korea here to the Philippines, a blend of our cultures that made this Chuseok special in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

Yongsun finally emerged from the kitchen, carrying the dishes carefully. She was wearing the hanbok her grandmother, Mrs. Kim, had given her—a stunning piece of traditional clothing with vibrant pink and soft blue hues. The delicate folds of the silk fabric shimmered under the light, and her hair was pulled back in a soft, elegant bun, her face lightly touched with makeup. When she looked at me, I felt a tinge in my chest, something that made my heart race. She was breathtaking, like a vision out of a dream.

As she placed the food on the table, my father leaned in to take a closer look, his eyes wide with approval. He picked up his chopsticks and took a bite of the galbijjim, chewing slowly, savoring the taste. For a moment, everything seemed to hold still.

“This is incredible,” he said finally, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. He looked at Yongsun with a broad smile. “I can’t wait until you become a family member. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Yongsun blushed, her smile shy but radiant. She glanced at me, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of relief and pride, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of love for her. She had worked so hard to make this day special, and now it was clear that she had succeeded.

After we ate—my father going back for seconds, and then thirds—we moved outside to play the traditional Korean games. We started with Yutnori, tossing the wooden sticks into the air and cheering as we moved our markers across the board. Yongsun laughed every time I missed a turn, her laughter light and joyful, making the whole game feel like more than just a competition.

Then came Tuho, the simple yet fun throwing game where we tried to get sticks into a narrow-necked jar. Yongsun was surprisingly good at it, her focus sharp as she made one successful throw after another. We cheered, the excitement of the game washing over us like a wave. And finally, we played Paengichigi, the modern twist we’d added, using beyblades to keep the spirit of the game alive. It felt like a mix of our worlds, combining tradition with a bit of playful creativity.

As the evening wore on, the sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting a soft glow over the yard. The air was cooler now, filled with the sounds of laughter and the gentle rustling of the trees. Yongsun and I stood a little apart from the others, the warmth of the day still lingering between us.

Without saying a word, I pulled out a small box from my pocket. Her eyes widened in surprise as I opened it, revealing a simple but elegant promise ring. Beside it, I held a handmade flower wreath, delicate and beautiful, just like her.

I gently placed the wreath on her head, and for a moment, she looked like a fairy—a creature from a magical world, ethereal and radiant. “You look like a fairy,” I whispered, my voice soft, barely audible over the sounds of the night.

Her cheeks flushed, and she smiled up at me, her eyes filled with emotion. I took her hand and slid the promise ring onto her finger, the cool metal a symbol of everything I felt for her, everything we had shared.

“Jess…” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“I promise,” I said, my eyes locked with hers. “I promise I’ll always be here for you, Yong. I love you.”

She took a shaky breath, her eyes glistening with tears she was trying to hold back. “I love you too,” she whispered.

We danced under the stars, just the two of us. No music played, but we didn’t need it. The sound of our hearts beating in sync, the rustle of the leaves in the wind, and the soft hum of the night were enough. As we swayed together, her head rested gently on my chest, and I knew this moment was one I would carry with me forever.

Later, after the festivities had quieted down and the house had settled into a peaceful lull, Yongsun and I found ourselves alone in my room. She sat on the edge of the bed, still in her hanbok, her face slightly flushed from all the excitement. I sat beside her, wrapping my arms around her, pulling her close.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude. “Thank you for making this Chuseok so special. I never thought I could feel so at home, so far from home.”

I pressed a kiss to her forehead, my heart full. “I love you, Yong. Truly. And I’m glad we got to do this together. You’ve made this day unforgettable.”

We stayed there, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, the weight of the day finally settling over us. I looked down at her and smiled, feeling a quiet peace in my heart.

“We can cross this off our list now,” I whispered, knowing this was a moment we’d both remember for the rest of our lives.

She smiled, her head resting against my shoulder. “Yeah, we can.”