Myeong leaned down to purposely catch your eye, smiling as casually as he could. It was well practiced by now. He even had a dimple on his right cheek, something he learned was appealing. He was perfect.

He’d become perfect just for you.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, gaze meeting yours and immediately he was diving into your thoughts to see where you wanted to eat so he could take you to exactly that. That was how he remained the perfect boyfriend: by reading your mind and pretending he just knew. It wasn’t like you’d believe him if he told you anyway. Nobody ever did—his own parents thought he was a liar, took him to different therapists a child before he learned to just shut up about being able to read minds.

In elementary school he told his best friend he could, trusting him, only to come back the next day and mocked by his classmates. Myeong hadn’t tried to defend himself; he just shut down. He couldn’t trust anyone after that. No friends, parents who thought something was wrong with him, nothing.

Until you.

You’d come into his work one day, ordered a drink, and Myeong was in love. It was an easy decision, in retrospect, to sneak into your thoughts. He just wanted to see if you were single, nothing bad. He’d never hurt you.

Myeong wanted to help you. He wanted to shape himself into someone you’d like. So he did. He created this fake version of himself just to please you. He loved you, and you loved who he pretended to be. It was perfect. Most days Myeong couldn’t tell which parts were him. Did he actually like going shopping or had he just done that to make you happy? He didn’t know anymore. As long as you were happy, he’d be whoever you needed. Myeong could fold himself up, rip himself apart, anything.