hayoon has always liked jungwon.
jungwon has never liked her back.
but after the most humiliating ex-
perience of his life, the thought of
hayoon grows a little less badly day
by day. but just as he realised he
was chasing the wrong girl, he also
...
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— SEOUL, FEBRUARY 1999
❝stay in the middle, like you a little, don't want no riddle, 말해줘 say it back, oh, say it ditto.❞
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there is nothing quite so damaging to the body and soul as anger is in itself.
jungwon never knew he could feel such a force himself. it was sickening, the way his throat bubbled up with rage, the way his knuckles ached in pride and hurt, from the punch he'd thrown at the funeral, the way his entire body still thrummed with the memory of screaming truths no one else had dared to say.
he should've felt lighter. vindicated. after all, people finally knew.
but that wouldn't bring her back.
there were too many things he wished to tell her.
he wanted to tell her he didn't judge her for smoking. she probably went home thinking he cared. he did, but for all other reasons. he hadn't thought less of her. he'd been worried, yes. but not in the way she probably assumed. she probably went home thinking he was disappointed, that he saw her differently after that day.
she was wrong.
he did care — deeply, painfully, but for all the other reasons. for the way she curled in on herself when nervous. for the way she always noticed when someone was hurting, even when she was hurting more. for the way she could capture life on her camcorder like it was art. because it was art. it was her own, beautiful art. it was an art he wanted to bury himself in and never see the glimpse of light yet again.
he cared because she was hayoon.
because she was hers in the way her laughter echoed even after it stopped. because when she said "i'm fine," he always knew she wasn't, and he wanted so badly to do something about it — even if all he could do was sit beside her.
but now, the seat beside him was empty. and it always would be.
and he would never get the chance to say all the things he should've said sooner.
he turned over in bed, dragging the blanket over his head like it might suffocate the ache away. but it didn't. if anything, it made it louder.
it had been a few days from the funeral, but he felt no different. he didn't bother getting out of his room. nor did he bother with school. his parents tried — and failed. he didn't talk.
the meals left by the door went cold and untouched. the sunlight filtered in through the curtains, soft and forgiving, but even that felt like an insult. he didn't want light. he didn't want warmth. he wanted her.
he kept seeing her. in the corner of his eye. in his dreams. sitting in the back-left row of the auditorium like she always did, camcorder tucked under her chin, cheeks flushed with some new idea she couldn't wait to tell him about.
