Your smile was like a sharp knife for me. Every time the corners of your lips rose, they sharpened and cut me. You didn't know what was dangerous, what was love, what was us. Perhaps I didn't know. But even though I knew your gaze wavered, I stayed by your side. Even so, I wanted you to live like a star.
One, two.
One, two.
Your voice, chanting numbers, still rings in my ears. One, two. You closed your eyes on one, and I closed mine on two. I should have closed my eyes on one. You shouldn't have told me to close my eyes on two. But I closed my eyes on two. You, always closed your eyes on one.
Summertime Sadness | 26
The bitter winter wind whipped through my hair. At this time of year, I recalled myself in February, struggling to protect my hair from the icy winds. It was around seventeen. It was the end of winter, the end of a middle school graduation ceremony, the streets filled with bouquets of flowers. I was there holding a bouquet, and you were there selling them.
Between my hands, scratched and bruised by rose thorns, and the countless hands clutching bouquets, I felt a sense of disconnect, so I deliberately brushed my hand against the thorns in my unkempt bouquet. A rose bloomed at my fingertips. I wondered if the roses in your hands would bring you happiness, too. That was our first encounter. I still remember its sweet scent.
My childhood, when I foolishly asked my parents to come to my graduation ceremony, must have been quite a burden to them. After a brief pause, they handed me a bouquet of flowers and told me to go play with my friends, then left to go where they should be. I knew my parents were holding their phones longer than I was, but they certainly didn't realize that no one would be with me at graduation. That's why I called you.
You, who smiled and responded to even the most casual greeting, rescued me from my isolation and taught me to smile brighter than anyone else. Yes, that was nine years ago. Twenty-six years later, I still miss the seventeen-year-old me. I wish you weren't like this. I wish you, who knew my love and yet left, never knew what I felt.
***
Twenty, a series of brilliant moments we lived together. You always felt uncomfortable because the house I bought was my own. I cared about the burdensome look in your eyes, but I still focused on the fact that we could be happy. I should have realized that it wasn't you, but "we" that could be happy. I was too young for that.
“Why do you keep talking like that?”
“If it were you, would you be able to live quietly and play like you say?”
"I live with you because I love you, not because I pity you. How many times do I have to tell you this?"
“I love you too. That’s why I’m trying to do housework.”
"Then why don't you just apply some medicine or do the dishes without even putting a bandage on...! I don't want anything from you, I just want you to be happy.···.“
"You pay all the rent. You pay for food. How do you think I feel, holding you every night with your tired face? It's so hard for you every time you do this, Jungkook."
"still,"
“No matter how much you treat me, how precious can I be in this world where ants live in a world of nothingness?”
”······.“
"You have to do this much if you have any shame."
"I'm not like your armor..."
"I'm not the same as you. Let's just love each other as much as we love each other."
Yeah, you said you'd only do as much as you loved. But you know that, right? I don't even know how to measure my love for you, so I'm giving everything to you. And you're the same. It's already burning inside me to know that your still-bruised hands are still tending our house, and then a few days later, you wanted to follow me into the work, and we had another huge fight. I should have protected the only thing she had left. The only person in your life who could protect that was me.
Instead of love, my parents gave me strength. The power to dream. Thanks to them, I was able to get into a decent university, work part-time, and spend happy days with you. Unlike me, you started running a flower shop at fifteen. Your small shop was so far from our house that I had to take an early bus every morning to get there on time. You said your flower shop, located on the outskirts of Gyeonggi Province, was a precious asset your parents had left you. But because they left so early, you couldn't even properly finish high school and ended up running the flower shop, you said with a look of regret.
Maybe that's why, when I came home from school, he always asked me what I did today. At first, I told him everything, but as I kept asking him every day, it became harder and harder, and I couldn't tell him properly as time went on. Thinking back, I don't know why I only feel sorry for you. I wish I could tell you now. You know, I think about you most of the time. You, laughter, flowers, home, laundry, bed, you again, pillow, tears, and you again, you crying in front of me. It's not my will that makes me sadder as time goes on.
***
At twenty-two, after returning from military service. Military discipline tightened, and morning sleep became scarce. I began doing things I'd never done before: waking up earlier than you and watching you sleep, preparing the simple breakfasts you'd always made me, secretly turning off your alarm, which went off earlier and earlier. Every time, I didn't notice your face growing darker and darker.
“Are you awake?”
“You prepared it again... I’m sorry.”
"What are you sorry for, I woke up early."
A forced smile swallowed the breakfast I'd made. I stared at your fingers, oblivious to it. I should have realized that your heart hurt more than a finger scratched by a thorn, but because you laughed so hard, I couldn't help but dismiss the doubts I'd harbored. Whenever I recall that moment, I ask myself the same question you asked me: Did I love you, or did I love us? I shouldn't have put us before you. Your face grew blurry.
Twenty-five, those peaceful days when I got a job and became financially secure. A year ago, when I'd come home from work at 7 p.m. and live each day like a fire, waiting for your kiss, I no longer felt pity for you. Twenty-year-old me thought I loved you, but now that I think about it, pity was stronger than love. I finally understand what you said when you told me not to pity myself. You knew I loved you from then on. That breaks my heart even more.
Seventeen, the first look I gave you when I told you I loved you. Twenty-five, the eighth year of our love. Do you still love me? When did that lingering lingering feeling in your eyes disappear? Are you okay without me? Our love has been this long and arduous, yet you are so quiet and desolate. Your voice was quiet. It was a tropical night in August.
"Should we stop?"
"Why...? What are you talking about all of a sudden?"
"Did you know I sold my flower shop?"
"what···?"
"The romance of holding flowers ended at twenty-four. When you went to work, I also started working part-time and earned money."
"I told you not to do it, so I insisted on it."
"It's so hard being with you."
"······."
"Especially when you wake up in the morning and even cook breakfast, the fact that I can't do anything for you is so horrible that I even thought it would be better to sleep on the streets."
"I am···."
"You're not the only one who loves me, Jungkook. I love you too. But you keep rejecting and holding back my love, leaving me to receive only yours. Your love... is too heavy for me."
“······.”
"So I wish you would stop. Please stop. Please save me, okay?"
From some point on, whenever I thought of you, tears filled my eyes. You were crying as I walked to work, during lunch, when I was scolded by my boss, and even when I left work. At no point was you truly building happiness. And the words you spoke—words I've mentioned many times before—that you loved us, not yourself. Only then did I realize. Ah, my you had been torn apart by me for so long.
I couldn't bear to look at you, crying and begging for you to stop, so I closed my eyes tightly. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. Come to think of it, the happiest you ever seemed was when we first met at seventeen. Maybe that was where we should have ended. I bit my lip for a long moment before finally speaking. It had been eight years.
"okay."
“······.”
“Let’s stop.”
I wanted to die. I deserved to die, having killed you and me, your love, my love, and even us all. The hand you reached out to me, thanking me, felt a coldness I'd never experienced before. Your knuckles were thin. What was your expression then? Were you crying, or laughing? Perhaps both? Now that you'd escaped the orbit of my love, you had endless opportunities to unfold yours.
***
So, at twenty-six, I ate breakfast alone for the first time in a long time, since I met you. The two spoons I'd carried around out of habit were rolling around the living room pitifully. When did your belongings disappear? It seems you had carefully, step by step, started packing them away without me knowing. It was clearly yesterday that you left, but the only traces of you left were memories in my head. It seems your image, flashing before my eyes, was meant to remain only in my amygdala. Thinking of you made me feel miserable. I felt dizzy.
One, two.
One, two.
One, you love me.
Two, I love you.
One, you noticed my love.
Two, I didn't notice my love.
One, you cried.
Two, I didn't know you were crying.
One, you closed your eyes before me.
Two, I didn't even notice you closing your eyes.
One, you loved me.
Two, I love you.
One, one, one.
How long will you be the first to do everything? Talking about love, launching the hot air balloon of "the future," filling it with the fire of "us," only to realize that the balloon has, at some point, broken down into indefinable pieces. Just how far do you intend to bring me misery? Why did you love me? Why did you bring tragedy upon yourself?
My dear, my love. Why didn't you say anything when I made you cry? Why didn't you say anything when I neglected you? Why did you love me, why did you love us, even when you sensed that your love for us was greater than yours? I can't fathom why your love is so secretive, why it was directed at me. Seventeen smiles must have been quite beautiful.
The two spoons I held in my hands had already fallen. I hoped our hot air balloon would land, not crash. But my hopes were all selfish, so I'd long since given up on any hope of it coming true. I couldn't stand up without you. Sweat, tears, or whatever, fell to the cold floor, just like your hands. My miserable misfortune, please smile just once. Tell me my love didn't hurt you.
If I had said this to you last night, I knew you would smile again, so I let you go, crying against my will. You couldn't be in my arms any longer. Even the cheerful music of the rice cooker made me weep loudly. How many times must you have covered your face with your pale hands in this house without a single fan? A warm breeze blew through the crack in the window you left open.
It was a chilly twenty-sixth day in an unusually hot August.
It was fun doing it together☺️
We are young, and now we were young.