Seeing his handwriting always brings me back to the good old days. Back when we were younger, back when we didn't really know what we were doing but we didn't really care. In those days, we had to hide, but I liked it better that way. It sounds stupid now, now that I know better. But I liked the idea of having privacy, of having something secret. It felt like more of an adventure. I was scared of my family finding out, though now I know it was nothing to be ashamed of.
Today, I know I should've been more proud of what we had. I should've stood up for him more, should've considered how he felt about hiding the whole thing. I should've thought before I started to speak, took more time to dive into a relationship I wasn't willing to share with the world. The pressure and the confusion and the jealousy just got too much, and it tore us apart.
I like to think I loved him. We were very young, that's true, but the strength of emotion still haunts me today. Whenever I see certain things, whenever I smell certain scents, whenever I think of certain concepts, I just can't help thinking of him. There's something about a first love that sticks in your mind, forces you to remember the parts you'd rather forget.
The time he caught me holding hands with a girl because I didn't know how to tell her I wasn't interested. The time I had a mental breakdown because I didn't know what I wanted out of life, and he had to hold me whilst I cried into his shirt, then the moment one of our friends walked in I backed away out of sight as if nothing happened. The time I forgot to bring something for Valentine's Day, and he was just left there staring at an empty desk with tears in his eyes. I didn't have to make it obvious that it was me. I could've given him something. Anything. Even something small.
I wish things were different, of course I do, but I can't change my past mistakes. I can't go back in time, smack my younger self round the face and tell him to get his shit together. I don't know if that version of me would've listened to that advice. I don't know if either of us would've.
We were young, and we didn't really understand what we had. That's part of the experience of youth, grabbing hold of things too early and then letting them go and only seeing the reality later on.
Now, five or six years later, I don't think about that as often as I used to. It took me a while to process the breakup, longer than it probably should've, because I forced myself to hold onto pointless hopes that he'd want me back one day. He was the one who said he couldn't cope with the pressure of school and the relationship at the same time, and I accepted that at the time. Even now, I know that it was probably for the best, that things turned out as they did.
But there's small things that bring me back to that old mindset, that remind me of the person that I fell in love with. And I can't escape them. I can't forget them. It's like a broken record, sometimes repeating in my mind until I feel like I'm going insane. Maybe there's a part of me that still loves him, even after all this time. I don't know. Maybe I haven't processed it as well as I thought I did. I don't know. Maybe, just maybe, destiny will bring us back together. I don't know.
But it's not fair on him if I demand that from him. He's got his own life now, I don't doubt. He'll have finished university now, and he'll be walking into the work force. Maybe he's already a successful artist, with a loving husband and a set of three adorable puppies he refers to as his babies. Maybe he's still figuring things out, still trying to find his place in the world. Maybe he's turned a new leaf, gone into a different line of work.
He was always good at everything. I was always so proud of that.
Standing here, in the loft of my parents' house, trying to sort through my belongings, there are traces of him here. Some of the letters he wrote to me are still lying in a wrapped box somewhere up here, the paper crinkled from the times I read them after the breakup, crying onto the letters. The ink's probably smudged and dried a million times now. I don't even know if they're readable anymore. Or if I should be thinking about reading them again, after all this time.
I thought I'd gotten over that. Clearly not.
Then there's the little stuffed toy he won for me at the carnival, that I pretended I'd won at some dumb raffle somewhere. Really, I was the one to pick it out, and demand that he win it for me if he could. I still remember the focus in his eyes when I promised him a kiss if he could succeed in that dumb game. There was something incredibly attractive about him in that moment, the way his eyebrows furrowed, the way he shifted his stance as if he suddenly took it way more seriously.
He got it on the first try, and I can still remember the look of excitement and fierce joy in his eyes, the desperate way he tugged me round the tents until we could find a private place. For a few seconds, we'd found a little way to forget about everything. There's a part of me that misses those moments of carelessness, when the fear faded away and was replaced by the sheer adrenaline of it all.
Those were the good old days.
I pick up the stuffed toy, looking it over as I stand looking through my old stuff. It's an old purple teddy, with one of those silk bows round the neck, and a heart on the stomach. It's ridiculously childish, even for the sixteen year old who loved it back then. My parents thought pretty much the same, but I kept it in my room for months, even after the breakup. It was only when a friend was planning to come round that I agreed to stash it in the back of the cupboard, and eventually in the loft. I never agreed to throwing it out though.
That teddy is part of history, in its own little way.
After a moments' consideration, I throw it into the bag at my side, the one destined to come with me to my new house. The box of letters, the few memories of the things we used to share, appears under a pile of random folders a few minutes later, and I find myself throwing that into the 'to-come-with-me' bag as well.
It's stupid, maybe a little weird, but I don't want to let that go. I don't want to forget about those good times. He'd probably curse me out for it, I don't know. But I don't want to let those memories go. They're a part of my journey, a part of how I learned to process who I was and understand what I wanted out of life. Maybe it's childish, maybe it makes no sense in retrospect. But there's something deep within me that just refuses to accept that I should move on completely.
And he always did have beautiful handwriting.
I stumble down the stairs several hours later, the different bags dumped around my feet. My mother looks up from the cup of tea she's holding in her hand, raises an eyebrow at me. "That took you longer than I thought it would," she comments quietly, and then she frowns, putting the mug down. "Tae, have you been crying?"
"No," I mutter, half to myself, and she raises an eyebrow at me.
"You know, I don't believe that for a second. Is everything okay?" I nod, take a deep breath.
"It's fine. I guess I just didn't realise how much I missed all that stuff, how much it meant to me when I was a kid. It's stupid."
Her eyebrows furrow together, and she beckons me over to the kitchen table. I sit down reluctantly opposite her, wincing at the unexpected twinge of pain in my lower back. "It's not stupid to look at the past and wonder if things could've been different, Tae. You're not stupid for that. It's important to think about what you would do now, how you would approach things if you experienced them today. You're a good person. You've grown since you had some of those things, and that's okay."
I shrug. "So why am I so attached to them?" She just smiles wisely, taking a sip of her tea, and then putting the mug back down.
"Because they're an important part of your journey. Whatever those items brought you back to, those events mattered enough that you held onto them for years. That means they matter, whether they make practical sense today or not. And you deserve to have things that matter to you, that bring you back to how you understood the world when you were younger. Memory is a gift. Treasure it, and don't let it take away from your understanding of yourself. These things are part of you, and that's okay. Whether they're good or bad, they've influenced your personality today.
I nod a little, sighing and settling in the seat beside her, placing my stuff on floor in front of me. "When did you know what you wanted out of life?"
"The truth is, I still don't know," she returns quietly, taking another sip of her tea. "Part of growing up is realising that there is no predetermined path to follow, no proper way to live. You have to carve out your existence in whatever way suits you, but you mustn't limit yourself based on what you think you're supposed to do." She lets out a long sigh.
"When I was young, I never expected to be a mother, and yet here I am talking to my own son. Life is a series of events, experiences, and moments that we can't control or relive. We just have to take whatever happens, and try and process it as we go. That doesn't mean you deserve the bad things in life, of course it doesn't. And they suck, no matter what we do. Horrible events are horrible, and they shouldn't happen to anyone. But they do. And they are a fact of existence. Part of being alive is trying to make sense of them and then realising there is no sense to them. There is no pattern, no fair explanation for any of it. You just have to live, out of spite for those moments. Out of spite for the universe."
I look down at the box, at the memories it contains. "Should I dump this stuff, Mum? Am I being childish if I don't want to let any of it go?"
"Does it still mean something to you?" she asks quietly. I just nod, and a sad smile crosses over her face for a moment. "If you still draw meaning from it, if it helps you cope with the passage of time, then that is a good enough reason to keep it. People grow old, but they don't necessarily grow up. I still don't see myself as an adult, not really. And yet I have a child, who is about to move out. In a sense, I've checked off everything on the list. Does that mean my time is up? Does that mean I've grown up?"
I tilt my head at her. "Mum, what do you think love is?"
She pauses, looking down at the box for a moment, and then she shrugs. "It depends on what kind of love you're referring to. But all kinds of love, no matter the source, focus on one key idea: selfless care for another human being. Regardless of the services or offerings they bring to you, you feel like you have a duty to care for them or make them happy. You feel like they deserve good things, and you will do whatever it takes to bring those good things to them. Love is about dedication, and understanding. It's about accepting that someone's existence is entirely separate from you."
She sips her tea again. "But love can also be wholly selfish, in some ways. I knew when I met your father that I never wanted anything bad to happen to him, but I also wanted to keep him for myself. In a similar way, I still don't really want you to go, because I love you. You're my son. I want you to stay here." My eyes widen, and the small smile returns for a moment on her face. She leans forward, puts her hand on mine.
"But I know, somewhere deep within, that I have to let you go. And maybe that is an element of love as well. I'm proud of you, and what you've achieved in your life so far. I'm proud of myself, because I can call myself your mother. But that doesn't detract from the fact that you exist entirely separate from me. That doesn't mean I have any power to control you, no matter what my instincts say. Love is a sacrifice and love is a conflict between the different parts of yourself. It can be difficult, and it can be confusing. But it is mainly a positive thing, a way of caring for another human being. You're a person, your own individual. And I like to think I helped with that. But I do not own that."
She gestures towards the box. "These things are a reference to the things you've loved, whatever those are. They are symbols of you, at different points in your journey. I don't know what each thing means, but that doesn't mean I can't encourage you to keep a hold of those things. Don't let them go, because they are a massive part of who you are. You need them, even if you don't always realise it. You need them, because they help you see the journey you've already made. Only when we see where we've been, can we figure out where to go next."
For a moment, I just sit there, listening, and then she stands up, picking up her mug of tea with her. "I should clean the oven, I told myself I would do that today." She glances back over in my direction, and the focused expression softens for a moment. "Tae, take all the time you need to pick out what to keep and what to throw away. I've always told you that it's bad to have attachments to things, bad to be materialistic, but these are parts of you. Don't let go of everything if you don't want to."
Her words echo in my head as I continue to search through my old belongings, though I don't fully know what I'm looking for anymore. A remnant trace, some proof that maybe I should've stayed in contact with the boy I thought I loved, after we left school. Maybe I should've tried again, asked if he wanted to keep some level of communication between us. Maybe I shouldn't have let him go entirely.
Even when I'm sitting on the train, the box on my lap, my suitcase beside me, I find myself leafing through the old letters. Looking back at the handwriting that I used to love. It's not really as neat as I remember, but there's an odd beauty to it, even now, half a decade later. And I don't regret having that relationship. I think at the time I needed that confirmation that I wasn't making it up, that I wasn't wrong for loving someone that wasn't conventionally expected of me.
I miss it. I'm not ashamed to say that. I miss the passion I felt when I was younger, the creative drive that came from the heartbreak and the intensity of my emotions. I miss the way that I felt when I was in that relationship, how loved and appreciated I felt. Yes, there were moments where I hated myself because my thoughts drifted from him to something else. But I was young. And I should've done better. I have regrets about part of it. I won't lie to myself about that anymore. But the relationship itself wasn't wrong. The feelings I had were real.
But all the doubts, all the thoughts, the diary entries in which I sketched out my identity and tried to understand what I was feeling. The quiet moments, when I sat down and wondered what I would do with my life, why I was wasting time on things that didn't matter that much. They were part of the journey. I can't forget about that. The pain is part of that. It doesn't mean that people deserve pain. They don't. And I'd never expect anyone to feel grateful for the horrible things that happen to people in this world. But for my own personal understanding of myself, some of those moments had a contribution. I can't ignore that.
Someone coughs, extremely close, and I immediately throw the letters back into the box, hiding them with the lid. "Hey, is it okay if I sit here?"
The voice is familiar, but I try not to think about it. I just nod. "Sure, I don't mind. I'm not very talkative, I hope that's okay?" The person chuckles at that.
"I don't mind. I'm a bit of an introvert myself, so it's fine."
I finally finish forcing the lid onto the box, and that's when I look up, and meet the expressive brown eyes of an old friend.
He's changed a lot since I last saw him. That golden skin, the doe eyes, the bunny smile, they're all the same. But I don't recognise the black hair, the glint of metal on his ear and on his nose. I don't recognise the hint of a tattoo, crawling up his sleeve, though the image reminds me of a conversation we had once about that very topic.
He told me he'd always wanted to get tattoos, and I guess he finally got a chance to get one done. Or maybe more. I don't know. Either way, there's a moment of shock as our eyes meet, and then I shrink into the train seat as his entire face shifts into one of shock.
"Taehyung? Kim Taehyung? Is that you?"
"Hi, Kook. It's been a while." To my surprise, a wide smile crosses over his face. "Oh my god, it's been at least three years, right?" I nod, trying not to be too expressive. I am glad to see him, but I'm scared he'll realise that I haven't totally forgotten about the relationship we once had. He's probably moved on now, enough that he doesn't need a reminder of what happened in the past.
"Something like that," I eventually force out, and his smile just widens further. He sets down his phone on the table between us, and places his bag on the seat beside him.
"How've you been, what are you up to these days?" he asks, tilting his head at me. "I barely remember what you said you were planning to do after we left school."
"Nothing interesting, I finished uni, and now I'm just sort of trying to find my place in the world," I admit, and the corner of his lip raises in that familiar wry smile of his. "What about you, how's life treating you?"
"I'm in the same boat, to be honest. I'm not really sure what the future holds, but I'm hoping that whatever lies ahead is positive. Where are you headed today?" His gaze falls on the box, on the suitcase, and something seems to click. "Wait, are you moving out today?"
I shift a little in my seat, hugging the box to me a little protectively. "I am, yeah. Collected all the stuff I need, threw out some of the things I don't need anymore. I've got an apartment in Seoul that I'm renting. It's on the suburbs, so I can afford to live there on my own." I look over at his phone, surprisingly not blowing up with notifications. "Where are you headed?"
"To Seoul," he admits. "I'm gonna be looking for somewhere to live. I'm hoping to find a job there, something to do with writing or something along those lines."
"You always were a good writer," I return, a wave of nostalgia passing through me for a moment. Then I realise what I just said, and my eyes widen. "Sorry, I mean-"
"It's okay. I don't expect you to pretend like nothing happened in our past," he murmurs, his gaze returning to the box.
"What are you thinking of writing about?" I ask, tightening my hold on the box. He shrugs, glancing out of the train window.
"I'm still not entirely sure. There's a part of me that wants to explore some kind of....this is gonna upset you, probably, but I want to write a story based around letters that people send to each other. I don't know why, but the idea just keeps haunting me. I mean, haunting is a bad word, because I really liked writing you letters when that was a thing, but I can't forget about that concept in terms of writing, I just want to be able to explore it further and maybe even-"
He breaks off, and then sighs. "I'm sorry. I told myself that if we ever met again I wasn't going to bring that up. I don't want to upset you. I know we parted on good terms, at least from my perspective, and you've always been a very forgiving person. Can we talk about something else? I don't want this to be a negative experience for you. You're moving out, that must be exciting."
"Don't be sorry for that," I return simply. "They're not negative memories for me either. I like the idea of a book about that. It could be interesting. I'd read it, to be honest." He perks up a little, his eyes widening.
"You would?"
"I mean, I don't want you to be uncomfortable either. I wouldn't if you didn't want me to. Like I said, you've always been good at writing, and-"
The faint sound of a chuckle cuts me off, and I pause. "What is it?"
"We've both become anxious messes around each other now, haven't we?" he comments quietly. "When did I become so scared of conversation with you?"
"I was just worried that you felt like you'd been let down by everything," I respond after a few seconds' consideration. "I didn't want to burden you with any of that kind of thing. I thought it was selfish of me. I wanted you to feel like you didn't have to deal with me anymore, unless you wanted to-"
"Tae. You are not a burden to me. I don't regret our old relationship, and to be honest there is a part of me that thinks about it every so often. I did like writing those letters. They were a big part of my journey in learning how to express myself on paper, and I know it was mainly to support you and ensure you felt safe and didn't have to 'out' yourself to anyone, but it had a benefit for me as well, in a weird way."
He shifts a little in his seat, biting his lip. "Tae, do you think we could maybe meet up sometime in Seoul? To talk about the letters, see which parts of them we remember? I know you've probably not got them anymore, but it would be a good starting point to think about what kinds of things we used to say. With the book, I mean. And also just to remember the past. I did miss you, in my own way. I still care about your existence, even though things are different now."
I just smile, my grip on the box loosening a little. "I think I'd be cool with that."