At eight thirty on a Tuesday morning, without warning, my love for Esme was evicted by her landlord.

I first met Esme at an outdoor wine bar in Bed-Stuy. A surprising chill had settled that summer night. From the far end of the backyard, my eyes glanced over my untouched glass of white wine, tracing the path of two intersecting string lights, until I saw her—willowy but not exactly graceful, a fairy tattoo visible on her left thigh through the rips in her brown bootcut pants, and a shark-toothed smile that seemed to bevel the features of her face.

After years in New York City, even as I entered my thirties, the city still didn’t feel like home. I had immigrated from South Korea to Texas when I was five, and my childhood friends in Houston were now getting married, buying houses, and some were starting families. New York, with its relentless pace and high cost of living, made those milestones unattainable. Despite that, the one conviction I carried over from my twenties was love as its own kind of shelter, capable of liberating us from the pressure of other needs. Even after past breakups and the rising price of property, my belief never wavered. There might not be hope left in the city, but we could still have hope in each other. I just had to act when the moment struck.

Once her red-nailed fingers began playing with the stem of her red-lipstick-stained glass, I swallowed my wine and made up my mind. My first step toward her leopard-print shoes, I stumbled, my feet tripping over my unbroken loafers. A quick glance, she didn’t notice. Relief.

“Hey, I’m Kelvin. What’s your name?”

“Esme.” When she spoke, she drew out the last sound, as though she couldn’t quite let go.

Connecting that name to her face made me jittery, like an actor moments before his debut on stage. “You look kinda evil,” I said, “but I can tell you have a heart of gold. I like that. Can we go on a date?”

Her smile vanished. For a second, I wondered if she disliked that we were the same height, my penchant for wearing earth tones, Asian men, or just men in general. She burst out laughing, popping my thoughts.

“That was strangely sweet. Sure, we can go on a date.”

A few nights later, we went to Marsha P. Johnson Park in Brooklyn. Esme, a construction manager for the city, helped build the park and wanted to give me a personal tour. As we walked, she pointed out the garden where she’d planted the yellow primroses and purple bellflowers, and the brick-lined path where she’d wheelbarrowed in various materials. Listening to her talk about working with her hands captivated me, making my job of designing apps feel even less tangible. We continued down the path to a small, makeshift beach and sat together on a large rock. I felt her hand rustling in her pocket closest to me and glanced over as she pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. She lit a single cigarette and offered to share. I don’t smoke, but in that moment, it felt right, so we passed it back and forth, watching the East River gently crawl up and slip away from the sand.

“What was Texas like?” she asked, smoke floating from her lips.

“I never felt like I belonged,” I said, addressing the water in front of me. “K-pop wasn’t popular in the West when I was growing up, so everyone assumed all Asian faces were Chinese or Japanese.”

“Sorry,” she said, handing me the cigarette.

“It’s okay,” I said, taking a drag. “I wasn’t a victim. I stood up for myself, maybe a bit too aggressively at times.” The roach burned my fingertips, so I stubbed it against the rock. “What about upstate?”

“It was cute. My dad was the town vet. Everyone loved him. But my mom moved to Albany after the divorce.”

It was my turn to apologize.

“Nah, it’s all good. I still spend a lot of time with both of them. And like you, I never fit in back home. So, no nostalgia.”

I turned and met her blue eyes, seeing their generosity and empathy. Was this what belonging with another felt like? I asked if she thought New York City was her forever home. It was, even though nearly our entire paychecks went toward rent. I joked she should build her own home, like she built the park, and we both laughed. I reached out and rested my hand on top of hers, and she squeezed back.

A comfortable silence unfurled, and our eyes settled on the shimmering water reflecting the Manhattan skyline.

“So, what’s next?” she said.

“It’s late,” I said. “I’ll call you a car.”

As I stood at the entrance of the park watching Esme’s car disappear around the corner, I felt bound to her by concrete and clay, even though we had known each other only for ten days.

From the end of summer to the end of autumn, Esme and I were together. I hardly noticed the transition from warm evenings and full green canopies to windy mornings and red falling leaves. Most of our time, we idled in her apartment. A gorgeous, six-hundred-square-foot pre-war unit in Bed-Stuy, and most importantly, below market rate. Inside, high ceilings trimmed with wood and crown molding framed a circular living room, while the bedroom featured a large, east-facing bay window. She decorated it with framed paintings by her family and haphazardly pinned posters of punk bands like Bikini Kill and Sonic Youth—contrasting her caring personality with her love of anarchist aesthetics. But nothing revealed her thoughtfulness more than when she spoke about her landlord.

“This city is so dumb,” she said as we lounged on her bed, her head resting in my lap, her dirty blonde hair soft in my fingertips. “It’s impossible to find an affordable apartment. I’m lucky I have mine. Honestly, I love my landlord. He, like, lives on the property, so things get taken care of.”

“You might be the only person in the entire city who earnestly likes their landlord,” I said.

She smiled, eyes half-closed. “I’m just super grateful because he grew up in this neighborhood, and still gave me, this rando white girl, a really good deal.” She swept a limp hand around the room. “This really feels like home. I’ve moved six times in six years. Never again.”

I drew my hand away and crossed my arms. Rando white girl. Underneath her voice was a recognition of complicity. Our class of young white-collar professionals moved into Bed-Stuy, a historically black neighborhood, because decades of racist policies like redlining and public disinvestment suppressed rents. By signing leases that benefited us, we drove up housing costs for longtime residents, displacing many and rewarding outside investors seeking to profit from a neighborhood they’d once abandoned.

“I get it,” I said. “Everyone wants a place they can afford. It’s why my family immigrated to Texas, and why we’re still renting from one place after another.” Hearing a muffled sound of gentle affirmation, I looked down. Her eyes were closed. She had fallen asleep.

I scooched my hips to let Esme’s head rest on her pillow and watched her for a moment. The following night, I'd leave for Paris and Berlin for two weeks. When I booked the trip, I felt excited. Growing up, my family never took vacations. We never even visited South Korea together. The only times we returned were when my parents went separately for funerals. But as my flight got closer, I felt a creeping sense of dread, like something bad would happen if I went away. It unsettled me so much that I put off packing. I took a deep breath, reached for the cord to turn off the lights and paused, glancing back at Esme. The amber hues brushed across her face, making her appear traced by chalk. She looked delicate, as though her entire existence could be wiped away by a single hand. I pulled the string. The room went dark, and I lay down beside her. Holding her and closing my eyes, I never suspected it would be the last time.

Morning came with rusted sunlight pouring through the iron window guards, painting her bed with black lines, a tangle of limbs, and her dog curled at our feet. Burying my face in her chest, breathing in cardamom and powder, I said, “I need to leave. Got a work meeting I can’t miss, and I still haven’t packed.”

She stretched her long arms across the bed frame, let one arm rest on my neck, and said, “Okay, I’ll miss you.”

“Promise me you won’t forget about me while I’m gone for two weeks?”

She smirked. “I’ll only promise if you’re extra sweet before you leave.”

I propped an elbow, rested my head on my hand, and I looked at her. “I love you,” I said, sounding out the words with an untrained tongue.

A closed-mouth smile on her face, almost shy. “I promise,” she whispered, “I’ll be here when you’re back.”

A weight slid from my throat to my stomach, but I remained optimistic that my words would be reciprocated sooner than later.

“I’ll write you a letter once I’m in Paris.” And left her forehead a kiss goodbye.

I closed the front door behind me and stood on the stoop, glasses on, man purse slung over my shoulder. The morning chill breezed through my oversized Sailor Moon shirt and sweats. I checked my phone: Tuesday, eight thirty, work meeting at nine, airport by six, and thirty minutes by train to get back home in the East Village.

A man's voice called out, "Can I help you?"

I looked up. An older black man I’d never seen before stood on the sidewalk about ten yards outside the property. He looked to be in his late fifties, tall, wearing a gray hoodie, his uneven shoulders slumped with strain.

I waved to the stranger. “No, no, just stumbling around. Be out in a second.”

“Stumbling around? I’ll ask you again. What the hell you doing here?”

The morning’s memory of Esme and her bed faded, replaced by annoyance. “Like I said,” I replied, “I’m leaving. I was just checking a few things on my phone.” I went down the steps to leave, hoping to avoid confrontation.

With surprising speed, the man entered the front yard through the gate and stood in front of the exit, cutting me off from leaving. Less than five feet away from me, his eyes bulged out. Dark brown like mine.

The neighborhood fell silent. The only sound was his gravelly breathing.

Raising his fist, he yelled, “Boy, I’ll beat your ass if you don’t answer me.”

Since I was young, I’ve had a stronger fight response than flight, so I laughed louder than I should have. “What? Go for it.”

Looking surprised, he said, “I’m calling the cops on you for trespassing and stealing. This is my property. I’m the landlord!”

Flooded with memories of childhood embarrassment, fabricating excuses to friends about why they couldn’t come over to my apartment, envious of their swimming pools and giant televisions with channels that went up to nine hundred ninety-nine, I’ve always lived under landlords and I can't envision a future where I won't. So rather than bend the knee, I chose defiance. I’d stand here without apologizing, and I wouldn’t endanger Esme by mentioning her.

“Sure, bring the officers. I’ll wait right here. I’ve done nothing wrong. They can search my stuff and waste everyone’s time.”

He dialed 911. His phone trembled in his grip. Over the sound of my heart hammering against my ribs, I heard him mutter, “Trespassing. Stealing. My property.”

His eyes never left me. I expected sirens at any second.

“If I was younger, I’d beat your ass right now,” he said.

“Go ahead and take a swing, man. Cops are already on the way, right?”

He hung up. He stepped closer. “If I was in your neighborhood on Park Ave, you know you’d call the cops on me, too.”

My emotions ranged from amusement to confusion. Was I a petty thief breaking and entering, or was I a privileged millionaire living in a penthouse?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I said. “I’m not that guy. I don’t live on Park Ave, and I would never call the cops on you.”

We kept staring at each other, then he stepped to the side, opened the front gate, and whispered, “Leave.”

Exhaling, I said, “Look, I’m sorry. Can we talk it out and get on the same page?”

“Fuck you, we’ll never be cool.”

“Alright, I hope you have a great week.” I left his building. It was eight thirty-five. I’d be late for my meeting. Hurrying to the station, I passed couples walking their dogs and a coffee shop that also sold houseplants. On the train, I closed my eyes, reassuring myself Esme and I would laugh about this later, together.

An hour later, my phone buzzed with a text:

[Esme]: did you talk to my landlord this morning?

[Me]: Yeah, I did. It was bizarre. It deescalated, and I walked away.

[Esme]: yeah he was really mad at me.

[Me]: I’m sorry, are you okay?

[Esme]: yaaaa im not sure. he texted our tenant group chat asking who invited the asian boy. i said i did. then he knocked on my door and yelled at me. he kept repeating he would’ve beat your ass if he was younger.

[Me]: That’s insane he yelled at you. I’m so sorry for putting you in that situation. Do you want me to call? I’m more than happy to talk to your landlord and apologize.

[Esme]: nah not necessary. he calmed down. hes a nice guy. i think your trip and the space will be good for us.

[Me]: Nice guy? He’s an asshole. What do you mean by space? I’ll text you when I land in Paris. Let’s talk soon?

[No response.]

I wanted nothing more than to cancel my trip and stay in the city to repair our relationship. But would that heighten the tension rather than resolve it? I wasn’t sure, so I found myself sitting in a cramped economy seat, staring out of an oval window into a starless black sky, and wondering how in five minutes, Esme and I’s foundation that I believed to be sturdy, now lay scattered like a rubble of craft sticks coated with dried glue.

The next two weeks passed in a hollow blur. Esme wanted space, so I spent each day waiting for her call, but it never came. I barely remembered the trip. Only two memories stood out. At the Musée Rodin in Paris, I lost myself in sculptures that appeared both motionless and in constant struggle, straining toward a destination they would never reach. And in Berlin, as I walked along the East Side Gallery, each spray of graffiti reminded me of self-inflicted wounds attempting to relieve the lingering pain of Germany’s past. Restless nights drove me to buy my first pack of Marlboro Reds. Every evening, I’d light one and wander along Canal Saint-Martin or the Berlin Wall. After a few days, my throat got irritated. I wasn’t used to smoking an entire cigarette by myself.

It wasn’t until my last day in Europe, while in Berlin, that Esme finally called. Early in the afternoon, I was lying on the couch in my Airbnb when her name lit up my phone. I answered before the second ring.

“Hey. How have you been?”

“Good.” She paused. “Yeah, good.”

“That’s good. My trip has been rough,” I added. “How are you feeling about everything?”

She sighed. “He’s not letting it go. I think, I think I have to take his side.”

“I don’t understand. You haven’t even asked if I was okay. And I’m not asking you to pick a side, fight my fight, or break your lease. I just want us to talk shit about your landlord for a second.”

“No. He’s a nice guy. He’s just protective. He grew up here, and he’s seen things happen. I don’t hate you. It's complicated. I mean, he gave me a really good deal, and it’s his home. He lives here.”

I wished we were having a romantic argument, something with fire and passion. This was transactional, like a calculator computing zero. My mind raced to present the best arguments to convince Esme to stay: Eight thirty on Tuesday morning. He blocked the exit. He physically threatened me. He called the cops. Tenant laws protect invited guests. All those headlines about the Castle Doctrine, Stand-Your-Ground laws, and violent landlords. Maybe the travel had fatigued me, because my usual defiant self had abandoned me, and instead I said, “Esme, before I left, you promised.”

The other end stayed silent. I heard the clanking of the radiator. Then, with clarity, she said, “I’m sorry. It’s hard for me too. But this is my home. I love this apartment. After what happened, it doesn’t feel right anymore. I can’t be with someone my landlord hates.”

She’d decided the risk wasn’t worth the return on investment.

 She hung up. A smoldering bruise in my gut—a pain so deep, I wished the landlord would find me in Europe and punch me, just to distract from the hurt I couldn’t reach.

When I got back to New York, I turned down invitations and shut out friends who wanted to hear about my trip. I couldn’t pretend it had been fun, and I wasn’t ready to talk about Esme. For weeks, I isolated, replaying that Tuesday morning. In my mind she was waiting for me in bed, the cardamom scent of her sheets, her tattooed leg poking out from under the covers, and her smile welcoming me back. But here, Esme never arrived. Her landlord had stood there, blocking my way home, accusing me of trespassing, insinuating I was a privileged racist. But I was a guest, and he was the one who called the police—America’s most racist institution. I resented them. Esme, the selfish gentrifier. Her landlord, the rent-seeking tyrant. Soon my anger gave way to something weaker, something more humiliating. I imagined alternative scenarios of that morning obsessively: exiting the apartment first and then checking the train schedule or apologizing immediately and groveling at the landlord’s feet. Through this, I found no respite, each speculative path twisting my insides. It didn’t change the one truth. I was alone.

It wasn’t until Christmas, the first one in years where it snowed in New York City, that I socialized again. I bundled up in a jacket, laced up my winter boots, and trekked to a white elephant party with friends who stayed behind for the holidays. The sidewalks blanketed in white, salt dusted the roads, and barren branches clung to trees by peeling frozen bark. Even at my lowest, seeing a White Christmas made me cautiously optimistic. When the city freezes over, everything looks momentarily renewed, as though the icy, glassy sheen could purify the grime.

At the party, we exchanged gifts, drank hot cider, and shared each of our Spotify Wrapped. I was grateful to slip back into the familiar rhythm of close friends. Around midnight, as I said my goodbyes, Rehan, one of my oldest friends, stopped me at the door.

“I wanted you to know. Once Kelly and my lease is up in the summer, we’re moving to Philly,” he said.

I froze, jacket half-zipped. “Moving to Philly,” I echoed.

“Yeah, we’re thinking about starting a family. We’d love to stay, but it’s impossible here. You know how it is.”

Nodding, I finished zipping up my jacket, and we hugged.

“Promise y’all will visit for birthdays?”

“Of course.”

Outside, the icy streets reminded me how one slip could make things undone. I’d always believed love was a shelter from the cold logic of rent checks and material conditions. How naive I’d been. Most relationships arrive at a crossroads, where intimacy stops transcending and starts to be measured. Sometimes, you choose each other, like my two friends did. But sometimes, like Esme, you choose your apartment.

Walking up 1st Avenue, one month after that Tuesday morning, toward a building I call home more out of habit than truth, my mind drifts back to that encounter. Her landlord and I had each confronted an intruder. Me, stepping onto his property, reminding him of countless others reshaping his neighborhood; him, stepping between me and someone I loved. Snow crunches beneath my boots as I climb the narrow stoop, blurring the footprints left by strangers. My fingers wrap around the cold doorknob, and I step forward into the warmth of my apartment.