XX.

Seulgi watched her friend, Irene, as she bundled herself underneath her duvet, squirming and wailing and then quieting herself down as if she had found temporary peace at the whole situation she was in. A terrible situation, it was. It had been three years yet Irene was still the same, if not slightly better than before.

Irene had not been quite herself, really. Although the time she had been with Wendy was a pleasant surprise of a change, this change right now was nowhere near beautiful but rather heart-breaking to watch. It was as if Irene had gone through a phase: from a timid, little college student to an egotistical, cold-hearted conglomerate tyrant to a bowl of mushy, gooey, fluffy mess being Wendy’s girlfriend and now to a wreckage resulting from a broken heart.

It was known, said by many that time healed, but three years since Irene and Wendy’s break-up and Irene had not recovered, not quite fully. Instead, she had succumbed into the dark, preferring the night than the day. Sometimes, she was on the edge of insanity, a madwoman trembling at her loss, refusing to grasp the reality of the now. At most, she was lost, as if she didn’t know the purpose of living anymore.

Seulgi patted the bundle of duvet. That was all she thought she could do at these moments, when Irene would crumble into irreparable pieces, pieces that only Wendy could repair. Irene had refused to eat, drinking only when Seulgi would insist on that cup of water.

“You have to have something,” Seulgi had asked, begged at one point.

Irene, a barren of a soul, barely shifted from where she sat. Her eyes dried up from the countless tears she had shed. Nothing more left to cry out yet Seulgi could tell that Irene was still on the verge of it, Irene’s bloodshot eyes not telling a lie. Her voice came out as a croak. “I’m not—I don’t really fancy anything.”

Seulgi urged. She really had to or worse could come. “Come on, Irene. Please? You’ll end up in the hospital if you don’t have something.”

There was a sad glimmer there in Irene’s eyes. A glint of hope that she wanted to keep alive, even though, she fully knew that it was nothing but a hopeless hope. “Will Wendy come and visit me then?”

“I-I can’t promise that. I don’t know.”

“Will she ever come back? W-Why did she leave me, Seulgi?”

A question that was always left unanswered. An open wound that couldn’t be closed. That was what Irene carried.

Seulgi wanted to despise Wendy. Wendy, who reciprocated Irene’s feelings, cared for her in Seulgi’s absence and showed Irene how to love and eventually become a better person. Now, Wendy had left Irene, breaking up with her all of a sudden. It wasn’t like Wendy to do that. Wendy was a kind-hearted person, reliable and amiable. Seulgi knew that and no matter how much she wanted to hate Wendy, just how could she be able to? Almost impossible. Irene must be feeling the same way.

There must be some other reason, a reason where Wendy could do nothing but end the blooming, wonderful relationship she had with Irene.

Three years of distraught, of a fallen will to adapt to the reality of now. Irene had slightly become better though, coping at times. It must hurt, Seulgi wondered. But what did she know when she had not experienced anything sort of akin to what Irene had?

Love? What was love? Seulgi thought she had loved. Two relationships, both of which she ended because they asked more of her and she thought she couldn’t deliver; she didn’t want to deliver. Was it because there was no love there? Nothing like what Irene had, that was for sure.

The love that Irene had lost… A willingness to do anything and everything for that person because of that love. The love that was now lost but not dissipating, not fully, not from Irene’s midst.

Did Seulgi love Irene? Seulgi had done a lot for Irene throughout their years of friendship: following her after college, helping out with Irene’s business, sharing a single sleeping bag when they were once homeless from all the loans that had become debts. But Seulgi didn’t like girls, though she liked Irene, but not in that way, surely. Seulgi loved Irene, but not in the same way that Irene loved Wendy. Definitely not the same.

What was it like to have that love? To be cared for, have someone to care for; to worry about the other and wonder about their day; to cry at the loss of that love? It must be a difficulty too hard to fathom, especially for Seulgi who had never had that love.

Irene sat up, clutching her knees to her chest, burying her face in her hands. Nights filled with tears, of Seulgi having to stay over to watch Irene, to pick up the pieces and try to fix them. But Seulgi knew that no matter how much she hugged Irene, wiped her tears, her pain away, it would never be enough.

“You have work tomorrow, Irene. You should get some rest,” Seulgi said as she hugged Irene, trying to hold her together, to stop those trembling shoulders.

Irene felt empty. Each day felt suffocating, dragging too long, in Wendy’s absence. Seulgi’s hug did not do much for comfort—arms that felt different, too thin and bony, unlike Wendy’s soft embrace—but it was better than nothing. At least, Irene still had Seulgi.

It was the thoughts that troubled her. The memories that replayed themselves at each second of passing, most often when she stood still, sat still, stayed still doing nothing. Nights were the worst, the memories becoming more vivid, twisting her chest tightly, making it too hard to breathe, to live. Sleeping on a bed without Wendy, never getting used to that fact. Waking up without her embrace but in the embrace of her best friend instead.

“Maybe you should move in with me—until you’ve gotten used to…this,” Seulgi had said before.

Irene didn’t know how to stop her tears. Would it ever stop? Would she ever get used to this? To a reality of the now without Wendy? Seulgi’s shirt felt damp, wet from Irene’s tears. “I don’t think I can, Seulgi… Wendy… I—I how can I? She was everything… She became my everything. H-How can I move on from that? The time I opened my heart and gave it… I let her in… Because she was Wendy… My Wendy… The young cute fool that showed me things—made me feel things… And—and—and… now… how can she do this? Am I not enough? Is it me? I-I did my best… Why did she leave me?”

“Shhh. It’s not you, sweetheart. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I—I was willing to give her e-everything. But she just left me… That phone call… Telling me to fo-forget her. How could I do that? The last ever phone call… leaving me here… cutting off contact with me… and yet… I-I can’t—I can’t hate her. I just can’t. I’m a fool... pathetic.”

“I guess that’s what love does to us, right? Makes us fools. But here we are still, continuing to love, trying our hardest to find love, because there’s a beauty in it, a joy that it gives us. You’ve found yours, Irene, and through circumstances that couldn’t be helped, you have lost it and I can’t even imagine the pain you’re experiencing right now. That’s why sometimes I don’t even know what to say, what to do, to ease that pain. All I can do is to be there for you, help you get a steady standing in your world that has crumbled,” Seulgi said, patting Irene’s head. She pulled Irene closer and tried to calm her friend, continuing her words, “Don’t lose hope, Irene. You and I know Wendy. She’s not the type of person to do this, hence the reason why you can’t seem to hate her. You, yourself, know that. Your heart knows that.”

Irene stifled a sob. “Why are you so smart at times?”

“Even I get surprised by what I say myself.”

That was three years ago. In the reality of the now, the pain still lingered, remaining in Irene like a parasite, her life out each night, as the hours slowly ticked, stretching until morning, until her eyes hurt from staying open. Her body was slowly forgetting the feeling, the touch, the embrace of her once lover. Irene disliked it, dislike how her body was adapting to the change, to the reality of the now.

But the memories were still there, vivid and fresh, as raw as her open wound. Would Irene ever forget these memories? The irony of it was that Irene didn’t want to forget them. She held onto them, onto the pain, clutching the weapon that kept her wound open, bleeding all her life out.

Irene didn’t want to forget Wen