You think I'm cute?" He said thinkly, pulling on her hand.
She was glad he couldn't see her face. "I think you're..."
Beautiful. Breathtaking. Like the person in a Greek myth who makes one of the gods stop caring about being a god.

I don't even know what it means to be Korean..." he said.

"Well, I don't know what it means to be Danish and Scottish," she said. "Does it matter?"

"I think so. Because it's the number one thing people use to identify me. It's my main thing.

This kiss had to last Park forever.
It had to get him home.
He needed to remember it when he woke up scared in the middle of the night.

Are you sure you want them to meet me?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "I want everyone to meet you. You're my favorite person of all time.

Go on and honk," Eleanor said. "You think you can intimidate me with your swanlike good looks, but I'm not that kind of girl."

"Lucky for me," Park said.

Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.