It had been about ten days when that kid showed up again.
For a while, there was no contact, not even a sign of life.
We hadn’t even exchanged contact info in the first place, so it made sense. Still, after days went by with no word, I let out a pointless snort.
Yeah, of course you did.
A kid who suddenly showed up after years, left behind a casual “I’ll come back again,” and disappeared. Ahn Gunho had always been like that. He answered with silence at the most important moments, and one day, he really did vanish without a word.
So that day, I wasn’t waiting for him.
I’d just suddenly remembered the face that so easily left behind words like “I’ll come again.” And every time, I would turn off my phone screen with a vaguely unpleasant feeling I couldn’t explain. It wouldn’t have been strange if he never showed up again. If anything, that felt more like Ahn Gunho.
-
It was around eight in the evening. Not all the side dishes were on the table yet, and from the kitchen came the sound of Mom reheating soup. I was sitting on the living room floor, mindlessly scrolling through my phone screen. Then the doorbell rang.
Ding-dong—
I set my phone down and looked toward the front door. For a moment, one person’s face flashed through my head, but I quickly snorted a laugh.
No way. Even thinking that was ridiculous.
“Yeoju, can you go check?”
“Okay—”
Mom’s voice came from the kitchen. I answered briefly and stood up. A package? Or a delivery?
When I opened the door, Gunho was standing there.
He wasn’t wearing sunglasses like that day. He had a cap pulled low, and a thin jacket over a black hoodie zip-up. A faint tired look still lingered on his face. The skin under his eyes was a little dark, and his hair was tousled as if he’d just roughly fixed it.
As if nothing had happened.
I stared at that face for a while before speaking.
“You came again.”
My voice was calmer than I expected. It was the result of trying hard to act neither glad nor surprised.
Gunho blinked slowly, then answered carelessly.
“Yeah. I came again.”
“You look busy. And really tired.”
I kept talking while looking at the dark circles under his eyes after our gaze met. Gunho lifted a hand and lightly touched from his chin up to the corner of his eye before answering.
“I am. And tired.”
“Then why are you here?”
Only then did Gunho let out a small laugh. When he was standing there expressionless, he looked strangely mature, but when he smiled like that, his face suddenly looked younger. It was like the Ahn Gunho I remembered was briefly showing through.
“I’ve got to see everything I missed.”
I let out a dumbfounded laugh.
“What kind of logic is that?”
I couldn’t tell whether he meant to make up for years of not seeing each other in just a few days, or whether he thought I’d say something if he said that. Still, I didn’t close the door. Maybe because Gunho’s face under the porch light looked tired, or maybe because I wasn’t really cold enough to ignore that line even after hearing it.
In the end, I stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Gunho gave a short nod and came inside. The way he took off his shoes was more careful than last time. It wasn’t the same attitude as before, when he’d strode straight into the gate before even hearing a reply. I couldn’t tell what he’d been thinking over those days, or whether he just didn’t have the energy today.
“Oh my, Gunho’s here?”
Mom, coming out of the kitchen, brightened up. Her voice was just as warm as before. As if Gunho weren’t a kid who’d just come back after years, but a neighbor’s son who used to stop by now and then. I watched the scene with my arms folded, feeling awkward.
“Hello.”
Gunho greeted her while taking off his cap. Mom looked him over, and the look in her eyes, full of happiness, quickly shifted into concern.
“You look really tired. Did you come straight from filming?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t nearby, but I had a little free time.”
It wasn’t nearby.
That line strangely stayed in my ears. If he came all the way here because he had a little free time, just how much free time had he actually had? Or was he still saying things like that as if it were nothing?
I had things I wanted to ask, but I kept my mouth shut.
Gunho didn’t sit down in the living room so much as slowly look around the house. An old picture frame, the little cabinet at the end of the hallway, even the potted plant under the stairs. His gaze lingered as if he were checking off each piece of lost time.
Then suddenly he looked my way.
“Is the rooftop still there?”
That question came too suddenly. I briefly forgot how to answer.
The rooftop.
That one word felt like the handle of a drawer I’d kept closed for a long time.
“Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”
I answered a little curtly for no reason. Gunho smiled faintly.
“Can I go up?”
I glanced toward the kitchen. Mom muttered, “Oh, right,” and went back to the pot. The sound of soup boiling and the hurried click of the gas being turned off came from inside the kitchen. Either way, sitting in the living room until dinner was ready would only make things more awkward.
“I’m going up to the rooftop for a bit.”
When I said that, Mom just poked her head out.
“Okay. I’ll call you when the meal’s ready. Don’t stay up there too long. Gunho looks really tired.”
“Okay.”
I walked first toward the stairs. Behind me came the sound of Gunho following. His footsteps, after taking off his shoes, were quieter than I expected. Back then, every time he climbed the stairs, he used to pound up them so hard I’d complain about how noisy he was, but now even that tiny sound had changed.
We didn’t say a word while going up the stairs.
-
The lights on the first floor grew distant, and the higher we went, the colder the air became. It smelled like an old house. Dust soaked into the walls, concrete that had been warmed during the day cooling down, dinner side dishes drifting from somewhere. The things I normally wouldn’t even notice because they were so familiar became vivid, one by one, with Gunho beside me.
When I opened the rooftop door, the night air rushed in first.
Gunho let out a very small breath.
“It’s the same.”
“……”
The rooftop really was almost exactly the same. The old wooden platform in one corner, the low railing, a few old flowerpots placed in the edge. Of course, time hadn’t passed it by completely. The wood of the platform had faded more, and patches of paint had peeled off the railing. Still, it was there.
As if the nights we once left here were still buried somewhere around here.
Gunho slowly walked over and stopped in front of the platform.
“It’s still here.”
His voice was low. For some reason, those words tugged at a corner of my heart.
“Yeah.”
“Why are you even talking in the past tense?”
Gunho chuckled and answered. You can’t seriously not know why.
I kept quiet to the questions he was asking about why I’d barely come back up here since then. It had already been several years. I closed my mouth tightly.
When I was little, our house was a detached home. At the top of the stairs was a small rooftop, and on one side of it sat an old wooden platform. In summer, the day’s heat stored in the wood lingered faintly into the night, and in winter, even wrapped in a blanket, my toes went cold.
Still, young me and Ahn Gunho would lie side by side on it whenever we had the chance. Gunho was always first to memorize constellation names and check meteor shower dates. He was the one who begged to go to the observatory, and the one who always fell asleep first while watching space documentaries.
Their parents were unusually close too, so we grew up almost like siblings under one roof. We’d naturally drift between each other’s homes even while eating, and after meeting under the excuse of homework, we’d end up going up to the rooftop to watch the stars.
Back then, I thought that time would go on forever. It was so natural that I never even imagined it could end someday.
Then he disappeared.
More exactly, Gunho’s family moved away. Without saying a word.
When I heard about it from Mom, I first thought I’d misheard. I couldn’t believe the kid who had been at our house just yesterday, the kid who had sat beside me so casually, had suddenly disappeared from this neighborhood.
‘Oh my, Gunho didn’t tell you?’
At Mom’s one line, I couldn’t say anything. Instead, I slammed my door shut. Thinking about it now, it was childish. But back then, that was the best I could do. I learned for the first time at that age that there are no words for someone who leaves without a word.
Time passed, and by chance I saw Gunho on TV. Under a strange nameplate, with a strange face, but clearly with the same eyes I knew, he was looking at the camera.
Ah, so he liked stars and ended up becoming one, huh.
I muttered that to myself and changed the channel. That was all. After that, Ahn Gunho stayed with me as nothing more than a person on television, at exactly that distance.
But today, that distance collapsed.
The kid who had disappeared without a word years ago was standing in front of this platform again.
“Can I sit?”
Gunho asked.
“Since when did you ever ask before sitting down?”
“You’ve gotten a little sharper.”
At my words, Gunho gave a faint smile and continued. Then he carefully sat on the edge of the platform. Thinking maybe I’d been too snippy, I sat a little apart too. If it had been before, we would’ve just lain down carelessly and looked up at the sky, but now that felt strangely hard.
Even though we were sitting on the same platform, years of silence stretched long between us.
Gunho stared at the sky for a while.
The city night sky was much brighter than before. There were almost no stars visible. Still, a few lights remained faintly. Looking at those small lights made the old us come back too easily. Gunho’s side profile as he connected stars with his fingers. That face when he confidently said the wrong constellation names, then pouted when I laughed. And then, one day, the seat beside me had simply gone empty without a trace.
In the end, I couldn’t hold it in and spoke.
“Back then.”
Ahn Gunho turned his head. I could feel his gaze on me. I didn’t look back at him.
I rubbed the grain of the platform’s wood with my fingertips for no reason. The old wooden surface caught at my fingertips, rough. Once I said it, it felt like something would change, but the words that had risen all the way to my throat wouldn’t come out easily.
But since I’d come up here all the way, I couldn’t pretend not to know anymore.
“Why did you disappear without saying anything back then?”
Gunho didn’t answer right away. No, maybe it was more accurate to say he couldn’t answer. The gaze that had been fixed on me soon returned to the night sky, and his lips parted a few times before quietly closing.
I hated that silence.
I had hated it years ago too. I felt hurt because he said nothing, and I hated him because he said nothing. But even now, after meeting again, he was sitting in front of me the same way. I wish he’d at least made an excuse. If he’d given me even a ridiculous reason, I could’ve grabbed onto it and gotten angry.
“Forget it.”
My voice came out smaller than I expected.
Gunho looked at me.
“Yeoju.”
It was the first time in years he’d called my name properly. For some reason, my chest sank a little. His voice still lacked strength. It was low and slow, but not as light as usual.
I deliberately turned my head away.
“I think dinner’s ready. Let’s go down.”
Maybe I just didn’t have the courage to hear his answer. Or maybe I just didn’t have the confidence to withstand any more silence. I stood up first. The wooden platform creaked softly and spread through the night air.
Gunho sat still for a moment longer, then got up a little late.
Even on the way down the stairs, we didn’t say anything. The silence felt heavier than when we’d come up. I walked a step ahead for no reason. If I looked back, I’d end up checking Gunho’s face. And if that face had even the faintest trace of guilt on it, I felt like I’d be the first one to waver.
-
When we went downstairs, the smell of dinner welcomed us. Rice and side dishes were already on the table. As soon as Mom saw us, she brought out extra spoons.
“You came down just in time. Gunho, eat before you go.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Gunho didn’t refuse. He’d always been like that. Back then too, he almost never said no when told to stay and eat at our place. The only difference was that it had felt completely natural then, while now it somehow seemed careful.
We sat at the table. Mom pushed more side dishes toward Gunho and asked him about this and that. Was filming hard these days? Was he eating well? How were his parents doing? Gunho answered each one slowly. He smiled sometimes and nodded sometimes. Maybe because he’d done a lot of interviews after becoming an actor, his answers were much more polished than before.
Even so, I could tell.
That the question from the rooftop was still lingering between us.
“So where are you living now?”
Mom asked casually.
Gunho smiled, chopsticks in hand, and answered right away.
“These days I’m moving between a place near the set and work. My home’s by the Han River.”
“Oh my, then you came all the way here from far away.”
Mom meant it with absolutely no hidden meaning. Just a normal, warm remark that the kid who’d come after so long had traveled a long way.
But for some reason, that made my throat tighten.
From far away.
Only then did the tiredness left on Gunho’s face show again. The eyelids that had been slightly lowered at the front door, his hair tousled when he took off his cap, the weary look hidden behind his smiling face. The fact that he’d come here because he had a little free time, even though it wasn’t nearby, finally stuck in my mind.
I stabbed at just the grains of rice with my chopsticks for no reason.
Was I too sharp earlier?
As that thought brushed past me, my heart got complicated again. I was the one who felt left behind. I was the one who’d been abandoned without a word. And yet I couldn’t understand why I was the one feeling sorry. It felt unfair, and still sorry. I acted like I wasn’t glad to see him, but I hated myself more for having thought of his face, even for a moment.
Gunho answered Mom with a smile.
“It is far, but it’s worth coming.”
What did he mean? Why was he coming? The fundamental questions rose up. I wanted to ask, but I didn’t. Today I’d already pulled out one question I’d kept buried for too long, and that question had been left hanging between us without a proper answer. If I asked more, I felt like something even more complicated would spill out.
After the meal, Gunho didn’t stay long. Maybe he really did have just a little free time; a trace of regret flickered across his face when he checked his phone. He politely said goodbye to Mom and Dad and headed for the front door.
I followed him out.
It wasn’t exactly that I meant to see him off. It just would’ve felt strange not to. Under the front light, Gunho pulled his cap low again. His fingertips hesitated for a moment. It looked like he might say something, and also like he might be avoiding an answer.
I spoke first.
“If you’re busy, you don’t have to force yourself to come.”
Right after saying it, I regretted it. I’d wanted it to sound like concern, but somehow it came out more like I was pushing him away.
Gunho looked at me quietly. When his face was expressionless, it really did feel unfamiliar. Like someone who had grown up in a time I didn’t know. Then the corners of his mouth slowly relaxed. As soon as he smiled, his face became young again.
“I’ll come again.”
I didn’t answer.
Gunho paused briefly, then added,
“I don’t know when, though.”
For some reason, those words eased my mind a little. It wasn’t a light promise to come every day, and not the obvious line about seeing each other again soon. If anything, that made it sound more sincere. A promise to come back again, even knowing his own time wasn’t something he could control.
I looked at Gunho with my hand still on the doorknob.
“Yeah.”
That was all I managed to say.
The front door closed, and his footsteps faded beyond the gate. I stood there for a long while. My head still wasn’t sorted out. If anything, it was even more complicated than last time.
The kid who hadn’t answered when I asked why he’d disappeared without a word.
And yet the kid who had come all this way from far away.
I looked up the stairs again. At the end of that narrow staircase leading to the rooftop, where the old platform was. The place I thought I’d forgotten so casually for years had become clear again today.
Ahn Gunho was still slow to answer.
And I was still the one whose heart grew complicated first in front of that slow silence.
Today got a bit long 🙏
