A Summer Breeze in Hong Kong

Emily stared at Peter’s handsome face in the dim glow of their favorite Sheung Wan seafood restaurant, his expression caught between apology and resolve. “I can’t make it to Dave’s farewell party tonight,” he said, pushing his chopsticks around a barely plate of steamed garoupa. “There’s a meeting in Central, and Doug thinks it’s important I go.” His eyes—once bright with mischief—looked distant, like his heart was already halfway out the door.

Emily’s spirit sank, she wanted to argue, but she knew it was pointless. It was the last straw, he was slipping away. Their summer romance, a whirlwind of joy until a few weeks ago, was over. He had been the perfect boyfriend - well, almost perfect.

***

It all started in May, when Hong Kong’s summer was already in full, humid swing and she had just arrived from Chicago to take an HR job at a digital marketing agency. The city was total sensory overload—neon signs, crowded streets (even for someone from Chicago), a sticky heat that clung to her skin, and moving into a tiny apartment with a noisy ventilation fan that never turned off.

The first weekend, in one of those get to know your coworkers moves, Jessica invited her on a Saturday trip to Lamma Island, an hour ferry ride, to get outside of the city and visit the semi rural island.

On the ferry from Central to Yung Shue Wan, Emily and Jessica sat on the ferrys back open-air deck. The conversation fizzled after the usual small talk—work, school, hobbies—and Emily’s mind wandered as she looked out at the vast haze of the South China Sea. the ancient wooden slats of the bench felt uncomfortable pressing beneath her, the stench of diesel was now overpowering. Her thoughts drifted to her old life in Chicago, and wondering if she’d made the right move to come to this alien slightly nightmarish world..

“Going to Lamma?” a male voice asked.

Of course, I’m going to Lamma. Who could ask such a dumb question?

“Going to Lamma?” he asked again, louder, as if he was trying to be heard over the ship’s engines. He had a British accent.

Emily turned to see a tall, tanned youngish man leaning toward her from the next aisle, a can of Tsingtao in hand. He was amongst a rowdy group of friends—pale, paunchy guys with messy hair and loud laughs. Yet he stood out: tailored linen shirt, sharp jawline, a smile that reminded her of Jacob Elordi. And his eyes sparkled with a mix of confidence and boyish charm.

“Yes,” Emily said, suppressing a laugh at the obvious question. “We are. You too?”

“I’m Peter,” he said, extending a hand. “We’re headed to the music festival on the island. Would you care to join us.”

He had clearly had a few beers already but seemed harmless. Probably a safer bet than going on a date with another creep from Tinder.

She looked over at Jessica, who gave her a skeptical glance. Her look reminded her they had planned a day of sightseeing—hiking trails, a temple visit. But on a whim, Emily took the initiative.

“We’d love to go,” Emily said for the both of them.

Soon they were at a beach party and Peter was pushing drinks into their hands. On the crowded beach, an amateur rock band on a small stage played Oasis covers to the crowd of sunburned expats. Jessica grumbled but went along, sipping her drink while Emily and Peter laughed.

By dusk, Jessica had vanished—probably back to the ferry. Emily made a note to apologize on Monday. Peter tugged her hand, leading her down the beach, away from the crowd. A summer breeze blew in from offshore. They kissed under the stars, sand sticking to their skin. It was messy, thrilling, His warm hand moved lower. Emily knew better than to let it go too far when she was this tipsy.

She backed away. “You doing anything tomorrow, Peter?” she asked, brushing sand off her shorts.

“Free all day,” Peter grinned, his eyes catching the moonlight.

She winked at him. “Then we have a date, let’s get you another drink today.”

They stumbled back to the festival, and spent the rest of the evening partying with his friends. On the ferry ride home a crew member kept a wary eye on their group just in case anyone went overboard—literally.

The next day, she went to Peter’s elegant Mid-Levels apartment, all glass and minimalist furniture. Five minutes into a Netflix show, they abandoned the pretense, chemistry taking over.

The next few weeks were a blur of joy. Peter was everything Emily hadn’t known she wanted—charming, attentive, a lawyer with a knack for making her laugh. He showed her Hong Kong’s extremes: rooftop bars in Lan Kwai Fong, dai pai dongs in Mong Kok, junkboat trips in Sai Kung’s warm waters. He bought her cute gifts and introduced her to all his friends, first as “a friend,” then “a close friend”. She wondered if “my girlfriend” was coming next:

Peter’s Britishness fascinated her. Unlike the American men she’d dated, he seemed lighter, with a boyish side to him that persisted despite his suits and high-flying job. He talked about his “mates” as if they were high school friends, and met them for beers regularly.

She had already surmised that the UK was a country of drinkers and its ex-colony, Hong Kong, was populated by the thrill seekers amongst them, those who drank with a fervor that would probably be considered excessive even in London or Edinburgh. Emily, no stranger to a good time, matched his pace, but knew she needed more for a well-balanced life.

Over a workday lunch, she compared notes with Jessica (they had patched up, Emily coworker romanced her with endless lunches and coffees).

“To get a man to commit, you need to fill up his social schedule,” she said. “Make his friends your friends. His Friday nights, your Friday nights, together.”

She began to up her game. Peter played ‘football’, which means soccer, and on Tuesday and Thursday she’d watch from the sidelines. After the match, he’d jog over, sweaty and grinning, and leave with her, his arms around her waist winking at his teammates. He began introducing her as his girlfriend. Things felt perfect.

Sunday mornings were for sleeping off hangovers, followed by lazy brunches with their interesting new friends. Life felt like a dream, the kind of summer romance you read about in novels.

In late August, Peter needed to go on a business trip to London. Off site team building he said. He returned looking drained, eyes tired “Jet lag,” he muttered. That night, they went to a friend's 30th birthday happy hour at Wooloomooloo, a rooftop bar with free-flow drinks. After two gin and tonics, Peter returned to his normal self, smiling, pulling her close.

The next morning, she remembered him sprawled on a couch with a glass of orange juice, quiet.

“I think I drank too much last night,” he said, holding his forehead.

“Not a big deal, Peter,” Emily replied, handing him a danish. “You had fun.”

“I need to do something about this. Drinking. I need a change.” Peter was soon on his phone, Googling. “There’s an AA meeting at 5 p.m. in Central. What do you think?”

He looked earnest, determined. Emily nodded. “Sounds like a good idea,” she said hoping he’d forget about it. But he didn't.

That night, he came home different—calm, almost eerily so. “I think I’ve been in love with alcohol,” he said, half-joking, half-serious. Emily laughed, but the words lingered.

Over the next few weeks, Peter changed. The late nights at bars stopped. Instead of coming home at midnight, slurring affectionate words, he spent afternoons at AA meetings, returning with a manic intensity. He talked about “making amends,” listing supposed wrongs he’d done to his parents, his sister, even coworkers. Emily, trying to be supportive, told him he didn’t seem like the type to hurt anyone, but he brushed her off. “My sponsor, Doug, says it’s part of the process.”

Doug, a 40-something pilot with tired eyes and a permanent five o’clock shadow, became Peter’s new constant. Emily met him once at a coffee shop in Sheung Wan, where he droned on about his own sobriety journey. She found him dull, a stark contrast to Peter’s young friends, but Peter hung on his every word. “Doug’s been through it,” he’d say. “He gets it.”

Peter’s conversation topics changed too. Gone were the wild anecdotes about Thailand trips and beatboxing at karaoke nights. Now, he shared sad tales of heroin addicts or talked in circles overanalyzing his emotions, dissecting every interaction like a therapist. Worst of all, he started to give her advice about her own emotions. She tried to engage, but it felt like he was speaking a new language—one she didn’t understand.

Emily still planned outings, but Peter often skipped them for “quiet nights.” When he did show up, he sipped sparkling water, not taking part in their jokes. Friends noticed, whispering to Emily that he seemed “off.” She defended him, hoping he would bounce back, but inside, she felt the distance growing. The man who’d once pulled her onto a dancefloor now sat quietly, checking his phone for texts from Doug.

One night, over dim sum in Causeway Bay, she asked, “Do you still love me?”

Peter hesitated, his chopsticks hovering over a dumpling. “Of course I do,” he said. “But it’s different now. I’m still figuring out who I am without alcohol.”

‘Different’. The word stung like a knife. Emily wanted to scream that she’d loved him as he was—wild, flawed, hers. Instead, she nodded, and they ate in silence.

By September, their lives were on separate tracks. Peter threw himself into AA, attending daily meetings. He started running in the mornings, replacing pub nights with 5K routes along Victoria Harbour. Emily admired his commitment but felt like an outsider. She kept up their old routines—dinner parties, gallery openings—but Peter’s absences left a void. Friends stopped asking where he was.

She leaned into her own life. She took on more responsibility at work. She reconnected with Jessica, who had started dating a fitness instructor and was full of new gossip. Emily became a third wheel at some of their Friday happy hours. Emily posted photos on Instagram—smiling, carefree—but each one felt like a performance, masking the loneliness creeping in.

Peter didn’t notice. He was too busy with his new routine, his new self. Their texts grew sparse, their dates infrequent. When they did meet, it was awkward—small talk about work or the weather, no longer the effortless banter of their early summer nights. Emily stopped asking him to parties; he stopped apologizing for missing them.

By November, they hadn’t seen each other in three weeks. Emily ran into Peter at a mutual friend’s birthday party in Lan Kwai Fong. He was there, sipping a soda water, looking healthier than ever—clear-eyed, lean from his runs. They hugged, exchanged pleasantries, but it felt like meeting an old acquaintance, not a lover. He talked about a half-marathon he was training for; she mentioned her upcoming Bali trip.

They promised to catch up soon.