The last three days were a blur of organized chaos. My life, it turned out, could fit into one 23-kilogram suitcase and a guitar case.
The packing was a strategic battle. "You can't bring three pairs of workout gloves, Alex," my mom said, holding them up.
"I need them. They're for the bar."
"They have gyms in Korea, honey. They'll have... gloves."
"It's not the same," I muttered, shoving them in anyway.
In went the T-shirts (my Naruto one was non-negotiable), two pairs of jeans, my audio interface for recording music, and a truly embarrassing amount of Ukrainian chocolate ("Roshen" and "Millennium") to hand out as gifts. My dad, practical as ever, made me pack a small bottle of horilka. "For the host father," he said gruffly. "It's a sign of respect. Don't drink it yourself."
My room, stripped of its posters and with my guitar already in its hard case by the door, looked bare. It looked like the room of someone who didn't live here anymore.
The night before my flight, my grandmother organized the Last Supper. It was, by law, an emotionally manipulative feast.
"He's too thin!" she declared, dropping a mountain of potato-and-mushroom varenyky (dumplings) onto my plate. "They won't feed him there. It's all... spices and rice. You'll waste away."
"Ma," my dad said, "they eat fine. He'll be fine."
"He needs to eat!"
My mom just watched me, her eyes a little too bright. She'd been alternating between giving me helpful advice ("Make sure you separate your whites and colors, they won't do it for you") and bursting into tears in the kitchen.
"You'll call?" she asked, for the hundredth time.
"Every day, Mom. I promise."
"And you'll wear the wool socks I packed?" my grandmother chimed in. "Ba, it's Seoul, not Antarctica."
"You'll be grateful!"
It was heavy. The love, the expectations, the varenyky. I felt like I was going to explode.
I needed air. "I'm... going for a walk. With Dany."
My mom just nodded, dabbing her eye.
Dany was waiting at our spot. The courtyard. The rusty yellow horizontal bars, gleaming under the single lamppost.
We didn't say anything for a minute. He just handed me a plastic cup of kvass he'd bought from the corner stand. "So," he said, taking a sip from his own. "The day is here."
"The day is here."
I grabbed the bar above me, the metal cold and familiar against my calluses. I pulled myself up, once, twice, holding at the top.
"You're really doing it, man," he said, staring up at me. "You're a maniac."
"You're just jealous," I grunted, dropping down.
"A little," he admitted. "It's going to be boring here without you. Who am I going to argue with about Naruto?"
"You'll manage."
He kicked at the dirt.
"Just... don't, like, get all famous and start speaking in a weird accent."
"Only if it's a cool Seoul accent."
"And don't forget to send me pictures of... you know."
"Of the cultural landmarks?"
"Of the girls, idiot. The girls."
"Right. Of course."
We stood in the awkward, heavy silence of a male friendship about to be interrupted by 7,000 kilometers.
"Be safe, Motuz," he said, his voice suddenly serious.
"You too, Dany."
He stuck out his hand. I grabbed it, and he pulled me into a hard, one-armed hug, clapping me on the back. "Don't mess it up."
"I'll try not to."
I walked back to the apartment. The bags were lined up by the door. The apartment was quiet; my parents had gone to bed.
I sat on my bare mattress, my heart hammering a rhythm faster than any metal solo. I pulled out my phone.
One last check. I had my passport. I had my visa. I had the address of the host family.
I opened my language app one last time. I scrolled past the flirty phrases and the food orders, all the way to the first one I ever learned. The one LunarRabbit_04 had typed in a Minecraft chat all those years ago.
Annyeong.
Hello.
I was terrified.
For some reason I started crying at the look of my empty room.