Jisung stared at the ceiling, the digital clock on the nightstand burning 10:07 PM into the dark. A Friday night. He was in bed. The house rule, delivered with a smirk by Timothy, was lights out at ten on school nights. “Gotta keep that foreign exchange student on a healthy schedule, bro.” The duvet was too heavy, the room too quiet. He could hear the distant thump of bass from a house down the street, a party he wasn’t at.
His phone glowed in his hand, a rectangle of cool light against the linen. The group chat with his friends back in Seoul was dead. Probably out, living. He scrolled past it, his thumb hovering. The only new contact in his phone was saved under ‘Kelsey – Blue Car.’
He imagined her at a party. Some sprawling Arizona backyard with a keg and fairy lights. Some meathead jock with a varsity jacket would be talking to her, leaning in too close, saying something stupid about football or trucks. She’d be smiling that polite, distant smile she’d worn in the parking lot before he’d rapped for her. The one that didn’t reach her eyes.
His jaw tightened. He typed before he could think.
‘hey. are you at a party?’
He hit send. The three dots appeared almost immediately. A sharp, stupid relief cut through him.
‘LOL no. I’m babysitting. 3 terrors. Kohl, Jace, Tenley. They’re finally asleep.’
The image shifted, reformed. Not a backyard, but a living room strewn with toys. Her, in sweatpants, hair in a messy bun. The relief was warmer now, spreading through his chest. He shifted against the pillows, the duvet tangling around his legs.
‘sounds more fun than my friday. i have a bedtime.’
‘Shut up. You do not.’
‘timothy says lights out at 10. its a rule.’
‘Tell Timothy I said he’s a narc.’
Jisung laughed, a soft puff of air in the silent room. He could see her saying it, that blunt, unimpressed look on her face. He typed back.
‘he’s not here. he’s at the party i can hear down the street.’
‘So you’re just… lying in bed in the dark?’
‘yes.’
‘That’s deeply tragic.’
‘tell me about it.’
The pause this time was longer. He watched the dots appear, disappear, appear again. He realized he was holding his breath. The stripe of light from the hallway cut across the floor, catching the dust motes in a slow, endless dance.
‘It’s kinda nice actually,’ her next message read. ‘Quiet. I can hear myself think. Which is rare in this house.’
‘what are you thinking about?’
Another pause. He could feel the distance between them, miles of desert and suburbia, collapsing into the glow of his screen. It felt more intimate than the party down the street could ever be.
‘Your rap,’ she finally sent. ‘It was good. Really good. You meant it.’
Something in his chest clenched, tight and sweet. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed someone to hear that—not just the words, but the meaning underneath. The frustration, the isolation. She’d heard it.
‘you got it,’ he typed, his fingers feeling clumsy. ‘nobody here gets it. the… sameness. it eats you.’
‘Yeah.’
A single word. It felt like a hand reaching through the dark.
‘what do you do?’ he asked. ‘when it eats you.’
‘I drive. Windows down, music up. So loud I can’t hear my own thoughts anymore. Just the beat. Until I’m empty.’
He could see it. Her behind the wheel of that blue convertible, the desert wind whipping her hair, her face set in a fierce, private kind of freedom. The image was so vivid it made his throat ache. He wanted to be in that passenger seat. He wanted to be the music she turned up too loud.
‘i write,’ he sent. ‘the beats in my head. words. it’s the only way to get them out.’
‘Play me something.’
He blinked at the message. ‘now?’
‘You’re in bed with a bedtime. I’m on a couch with a 5-year-old who just kicked me in the kidney. There’s no better time.’
A smile tugged at his mouth. He pushed the duvet off, the cool air hitting his skin. He sat up, cross-legged on the bed, his phone cradled in his palm. He had a voice memo app. He had a hundred half-formed ideas. His heart was beating a quick, steady rhythm against his ribs.
He hit record. He didn’t plan. He just let the silence of the room, the stripe of light, the thought of her listening, fill him up. Then he started. A low, mumbled beatbox rhythm, just his breath and his teeth. Then words, soft, for her only.
“Ten PM ceasefire, a foreign policy… Hostage in a guest room, but the mind is free… See the dust in the hall light, looking like slow stars… Text glow on the ceiling, wondering where you are… Not at the party, you’re on the couch… But your silence is a frequency I’m tuning out… They hear the bass next door, but I’m catching your signal… A quiet rebellion, making it digital…”
He stopped. The recording was raw, unpolished. Just a feeling. He sent it before he could doubt.
The wait was agony. He stared at the screen, his pulse in his ears. He counted the dust motes in the light.
Her response came not in words, but in sound. A voice memo. He fumbled with his headphones, plugging them in, his hands suddenly unsteady.
He pressed play. There was a soft rustle, the creak of a couch. Then her voice, low and close, as if her lips were against his ear.
“You make the quiet sound like a secret,” she whispered. “Like something precious.” A pause. He could hear her breathing. “No one’s ever made babysitting sound cool before.”
The sound of her voice in the dark, through the wires, did something to him. It slid under his skin, warm and liquid. He felt it in the pit of his stomach, a slow, heavy pull. He was acutely aware of his body—the heat under the blankets, the way his sweatpants sat low on his hips, the restless energy coiling tight.
He typed, his thumbs moving slowly. ‘your turn.’
‘I don’t rap.’
‘not rap. just… something. a secret.’
The dots danced. He brought the headphones tighter to his ears, closing his eyes, shutting out everything but the waiting.
Her next voice memo was shorter. Just a few seconds. He played it.
It was the sound of her car engine turning over. The distinct, throaty rumble of her convertible. Then the click of the seatbelt. And a single, soft exhale.
It was an entire story. The need to escape. The moment before the flight. It was an invitation.
Heat flashed across his skin. He was hard, suddenly, achingly so, the fabric of his sweatpants straining. The sensation was sharp, undeniable, wrapped in the intimacy of her breath in his ears. He didn’t adjust himself. He let the ache sit there, a truth in the dark. For her.
‘where would you go?’ he asked, his message a bare whisper of text.
‘Right now? Anywhere. With the gas I have. Just… away.’
‘take me with you.’
The message hung there, bold and naked. He didn’t regret it. He felt reckless, buzzed on the darkness and her proximity.
Her reply was instant. ‘Okay.’
One word. It felt like a door swinging open. He could see it—the two of them, the open road, the night air, music blasting until it was the only thing in the world. The fantasy was so vivid it was a physical pain.
Down the hall, a door slammed. Timothy’s heavy footsteps thudded toward the bathroom. The real world crashed back in, a cold wave. The party was over. The house rules reasserted themselves.
Jisung’s screen lit up with a new message from her. ‘Parental units are home. Duty calls.’
The connection was breaking. He could feel it stretching, thinning. He gripped the phone.
‘kelsey.’
‘Yeah?’
He didn’t know what to say. *Don’t go. Talk to me until sunrise. Meet me tomorrow.* The words jammed in his throat, too big, too soon. He settled for a piece of the truth.
‘drive safe.’
A moment passed.
‘You too, Jisung. Even if you’re just going to the bathroom.’
He smiled, a real one, feeling it crack his face. The bathroom door down the hall opened and closed. The house fell silent again.
He was alone in the dark. But the room didn’t feel quiet anymore. It was full of her voice, the rumble of her engine, the rhythm he’d made for her. His body still hummed with the aftershock of their conversation, a low, persistent current under his skin. He stared at the ceiling, at the phantom path of dust in the light, and for the first time since he’d landed in Arizona, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for something to be over. He felt like he was waiting for something to begin.