Jaemin the Icy Prince and Me - Na Jaemin NCT

42. It's the Loving that Counts

I write this sitting in a bus rattling its way to Nami Island.

It's 8.00 am.

Most everyone is asleep.

The rocking motions of the bus tend to lull one to sleep. Junnie beside me is sound asleep, her mouth open, her head nodding rhythmically. 

Shall I take a pic of her? 

Yes, I will. 

Click. 

There she is, immortalised forever in my handphone gallery for posterity.

Why Nami Island? Well, something went wrong at the last minute, some renovation works to some gates of the Joseon Palaces that we were supposed to visit, and the organisers decided to cancel the visit, and replace it with Nami Island, instead. Nami Island was where Winter Sonata was shot. It was breathtakingly beautiful in winter. It's now the end of August, and the beginning of autumn, and I think it will be gorgeous, as well.

I'm passing a stretch of countryside, and leaving Seoul far, far behind me. How wondrous it is that the villages remain the way they are, in form and spirit, and that they link the Korea of all ages and all periods together so magically, by remaining forever unchanged in the midst of an ever-changing landscape.

I've never written in a moving bus before. With stories, even writing a page used to take me hours. But ever since I started writing to you, Jaemin my love, the words seem to flow out faster than I can get them down on paper. You would be proud of me, I think. You'd say, "Maybe you're not such an idiot after all, Kim Mina", and I'd pinch you blue-black, and you'd holler, "Abuse! Kim Mina's abusing me! I'm calling the cops!" and then you'd pull me into your arms, and kiss me breathless.

I shall now describe you, as you lie, your eyes closed, your head back against the high seat, her head bent, nodding a little on your shoulder. Your face is calm, peaceful, more sculptured in your sleep than in your wakeful hours. Why is it that one's face appears more noble, and one's nose more chiselled in sleep? Perhaps it's the lighting, the sunlight drifting in from the glass windows and resting on your face. But to me, you've never looked more beautiful, nor more remote from me.

You are sitting across from me. 

In the name of God, why did you choose that seat, of all the seats in the bus? I came up first, with Junnie, and then you followed, a few people behind. You could have sat anywhere, but you chose to sit across from me. Do you think I won't bleed, Jaemin? Do you think that my heart is made of iron? Do you know how I felt when I saw you with her, sitting across from me, your heads bent together, she whispering in your ear, you hugging her close to your side? 

Shall I describe to you what I felt? 

No? 

Yes? 

You don't care? 

Very well, then. I shall tell you what I felt. 

I felt a stab, as if you had taken a dagger, and pressed it in, deep and slow, twisting it and holding each twist, so that each jolt of pain lasted twice, thrice, four times longer than it should. 

And you know what was odd about it, Jaemin? It wasn't only pain that I felt; it was joy as well; for, in some strange, inexplicable way, happiness and misery were somehow merged, fused together, each a part of the other in that stab to my heart. 

Pleasure and pain. Pain and pleasure. How true indeed, what the poets rave about: there can be no pleasure without pain, there can be no pain without pleasure. 

I look at you, at your sleeping face, turned towards me, your eyes closed. I look, and I can't stop looking, I want to go on looking. You breathe evenly, steadily, and I feel my misery dissipate, and joy take over. Is it wrong for me to feel so happy, looking at you? Perhaps I ought to feel guilty, since she's next to you? Surely not? It can't hurt anyone but me, can it? Surely I have a right to my joy. For a brief second of time, anyway, for as long as it lasts, until you stir, or she stirs, and I force my eyes to look away.

You stir, and I turn my face away at once, and stare blindly out of the window. 

I'm not crying. I'm not.

My cheeks are wet.

It isn't any use to pretend that I'm not crying. 

Because I am.

Pause.

Give me a moment.

Better now.

I've just wiped away my tears.

I'm feeling better now. Really, I am.

Maybe I've been looking at it all wrong, Jaemin.

Maybe I should just be grateful that I fell in love with you.

Because being in love with you is the most blissful thing that I've ever known in my life.

Perhaps it's the loving that counts, and not being loved in return isn't important, after all. Perhaps the purest, truest happiness comes from true loving, and anything else that comes after it - like being loved in return - is just a bonus, a little perk. I think I'm on the brink of a great truth here, Jaemin. You're laughing at me, aren't you? You're saying, in that dreadfully dry voice of yours, "Stop kidding yourself, Kim Mina. You know you're just deluding yourself. You know you'd never be content with just loving. You know you'd want to be loved back by me. Stop fooling yourself with your big truths, they're all fake, and you know it. Just shut up, and kiss me, and I'll clear your head clean of all your nonsense, and fill it full with me..."

I think I'm going to nap for a while, Jaemin, and I'll be right back when I wake. I've still got half a page left. Shall I fill it with I love you's ? Would that be a waste of ink and paper, you think?

I'm going to do it anyway.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.