I still remember the day I entered your ward to find the bed crease-free and neatly made. The sheets were taut over the mattress, severely tucked into the kind of hospital corners which only well-practiced nurses could achieve. The machines that had been attached to you through tubes and electrodes were banished to a side of the room, no longer beeping and flashing with your vitals. The windows were shut and the en suite bathroom was cleaned. The cheap ceramic that held a stalk of sunflower was emptied and turned upside-down.

If the nurses had a mean streak in them, they would have colluded with your family and told me that you had passed away. I would have been broken, shattered like a porcelain vase that could never be put together again. The way my eyes crackled with crazed desperation must have awakened their love and empathy for humans - qualities which had gotten them into the profession in the first place - and they confessed that you were fetched by your family.

I would have said that you were snatched by your family, but you have never liked my cynicism of the world. So let’s just say that you were spirited away, a fitting euphemism since you are a fan of Studio Ghibli. On a side note, have you caught “The Wind Rises” in the cinemas? It is the first Ghibli I have watched without you, and - don’t laugh - I cried. Though when the credits rolled and the tears did not stop, I got confused for whom or what I was crying.

It has been roughly a year since I last saw you. I only know that because leaves were exchanging their green for the tones of red, orange and yellow. 

I used to count the days you were gone. At first I did it with painful optimism, believing that one day gone meant that I was one day closer to seeing you again. A primary school kid remotely good at mathematics would be able to conclude at first glance that my chance of seeing you again was one out of fifty million, the population of South Korea. Laughably, it took me, a postdoctoral fellow who built his graduating thesis on the theory of probability, three months to realise that. 

I counted the days for a wholly different purpose after I accepted that a reunion by chance was next to impossible. I had a graph tacked to the walls of my cubicle. On the x-axis were the day numbers. The y-axis were evenly segmented and labelled with the numbers 1 to 10 (on a scale of 1 to 10, how much do I miss you today?). For a week, I transformed my longing into rigid data. I plotted the points, connected them, tried to discern some kind of pattern and extrapolate to the day that I would no longer miss you. 

I do not know why the graph seemed to be such an ingenious idea back then. The graph was intended for me to identify the day that I would finally stop thinking of you. Yet, the more I extended the graph, the more I reminded myself that I was going to forget you, and the more I thought of you, the more I did not succeed. Once, I had spent a whole day entirely immersed with the study of prime numbers. That day had very nearly became the only day which you did not cross my mind at all, if only I had not flicked a careless glance at the graph before I turned off my cubicle lights. 

Before my colleagues could discover the graph and ridicule me for its flawed logic, I fed it to the paper shredder. From that day onward, I pushed you to the back of my head where it continued to tickle, yank or hijack the stream of my consciousness, depending on how busy my day is. The level of pain that comes with the thoughts of you varies, like the cycle of high tides and low. 

On some days, the pain was kind enough to warn me. It laps my ankles in warning, and I can simply take a step away and be back on safe shore. A pinch is all that I would feel before I carry on joking or debating with my fellow mathematicians. Other days, the pain - the whole thing about missing you - hits me like a sudden and formidable wall of wave, submerging me before I can react. On those days, I have to remind myself to breathe.

It could have been worse. At least you are still alive, and knowing that should have been enough for me. But if I am completely honest with myself, I still carried the hope of seeing you again, no matter the probability, no matter that you do not remember me.

So this is how I find myself waiting at Gwanghwamun over and over again. I believe that, if love is as miraculous as generations of poets have extolled, we would come a full circle, and one day, I will see you again at the place we have first met.

::::::::::

I wonder if people remember the exact details of the day they fall in love, because I don’t. On the day you barrelled into my life, was it sunny or cloudy? Was it early morning or late afternoon? If you heard this guilty confession of mine, you’d accuse me of not being romantic enough, and I’d appease you by saying that that is because you had seized my attention entirely and the rest of the world had just simply faded away. You would blush and I would grin.

But I remember that it was windy that day. Because if it weren’t for the wind, our paths wouldn’t have crossed except for a brief moment of shoulder brushing against shoulder and a phlegmatic “Excuse me”.

Back then, I was still a graduate student on the final sprint toward graduation. I had to cross Gwanghwamun Plaza to get to the campus from the station and vice versa. That day, I was engrossed in a sheaf of unstapled articles to not see you walking my way. You were engrossed in something too, possibly your phone; I can’t say for sure. From above, we must have looked like two black dots that were heading toward a life-changing collision.

The impact when your head clashed against my chest sent us stumbling a few steps back each. I dropped the papers that I was holding, and the wind scattered them in all directions. You started to chase, and I followed. In hindsight, we didn’t have to do that. The articles weren’t confidential, and I had the soft copies saved in my computer. I didn’t think of that. As for you, you weren’t aware of it. On top of that, you were always eager to help. 

We scrambled around the plaza. We pounced on the papers like clumsy predators, grabbing at thin air when the wily wind sent them cartwheeling and scudding out of our reach. I shouted directions and you squealed. We drew the annoyance of prissy natives. We put up a spectacle for the tourists snapping away at the weather-beaten monolith of King Sejong, leaving them to wonder if most Seoulites behaved this way.

When the last slip of paper was retrieved, we collapsed on all-fours, heaving in exertion and heedless of the dirty looks sent our way. Our eyes met, and I realised how beautiful you were - still are. Your eyes were bright, your lips were small and rosy, and your cheeks were full. I heard a hiss and a hopeful crack inside of me, like a match coming to life.

The magic of the moment vanished when you broke into a laughter that was punctuated by little hiccups of breathlessness. I started to laugh along with you. We laughed like two children.

Since the day you left, I have never seen a smile or heard a laugh as beautiful as yours. No matter who I meet, they always pale in comparison to you.

::::::::::

It was love at first sight for you, too.

The way we met seemed to set the tone of our relationship. We were like children. We laughed a lot when we were together. Our bickers were endless, mostly the harmless kind which tightened our bonds instead of diminishing them. We loved like children too, holding nothing back and expecting nothing in return. Even when your parents clamoured for us to separate, we stood firm with child-like determination. 

However on many silent nights, I wonder if it was this child-like aspect of our love that triggered the whole process of losing you. If I hadn’t behaved like a child on that day, would we still be together?

The fight started with something trivial: an offhand comment from you that I was so absorbed with my formula and not paying enough attention to you. You were in one of your bad moods, and so were I. When it became clear that I wasn’t going to coax you, you grabbed your bag and left the restaurant in a huff. 

If I knew what would happen, I would have snag your elbow and made you stay. But at that time, I was only determined not to be the one giving in. 

I was about to slip back into my world of numbers and esoteric symbols when I heard a loud bang. I looked out of the window in time to see your body arcing across the air to land on somewhere like a mangled doll.

:::::::::

These days I feel sick. Not sick from missing you - I’ve gotten used to that - but physically sick. My headache has gone from bad to worse, like hammers thumping a heavy, unforgiving beat in my head. A bad ache has settled in my bones, and I have a fever that turns on and off according to its own whims. I’ve expected it to be a normal cold, but the discomfort did not go away even after a self-medication of paracetamol and anti-histamines. It took a nose bleed to finally convinced me that I need to see a doctor. So here I am, sitting in a hospital corridor and waiting for my turn. 

Ever since your accident, I avoided coming to the hospital as far as I could. This hospital is different from the one which you were admitted to, but the similar architecture, smell and general sense of despair evoked the memories of the days you were hospitalised.

Your mother went berserk. She hit and scratched me. The strange thing was, it didn’t hurt. My mind was on you, and so was my heart. I barely registered the stream of threats that left your father’s mouth. 

When you were wheeled out of operation, we calmed down enough to listen to the doctor. He said that your memory center had taken a great blow, and that there was a high chance you would not remember things. You’d remember older memories - how to hold a spoon, open a door and all the other stuff that allowed you to get on with everyday life - but you’d not remember recent ones. The doctor didn’t define for us the exact quantitative years that separated old memories from recent ones, but I understood that, if what he said was true, you’d probably remember your parents but you’d not remember me, the person whom you had only known for two years.

Your parents barred me from visiting you. I avoided the usual visiting hours. Most of the time, I lurked outside the hospital, going in after I saw that they had left, which was usually deep into the night. I left only in the morning, when the sun had barely risen and the grass was still damp with dew. Luckily I had the nurses’ sympathy. 

You slept for a long time. I was an atheist but during the days of your hospitalisation, desperation drove me to pray a lot. When you were in ICU, I prayed for you to stay alive and be healthy again. When you were out of critical condition, I asked for more: I prayed for you to remember me, or if you didn’t, that you would fall in love with me again. That was the time I realised that my love for you is beyond reason. Before I met you, I have dated a girl or two. But you are different; I want to be with you forever.

Whether you remember me or not was a question I never got an answer to. You were spirited away before I could see your eyes open. I should have seen it coming, that your parents would take this opportunity to right the course of your life and separate us for good. They’d want you to start with a new life, one that didn’t entail straying into relationship with another man.

A big part of me - the rational part - knew that I am wiped clean from your memory. If I’m not, you would have found some ways to reach me, through Facebook or through the phone number which you had dearly memorised. You can scarily stubborn and determined when you want. 

But updates on your Facebook had come to a standstill, the last being a location check-in at a cafe. Your profile picture is still the one which I have snapped of you when we were on the Namsan Tower. And to date, all the times my phone rang, it was never your voice at the other end.

:::::::::: 

My feet brought me to Gwanghwamun Plaza again. 

The blue expanse of the skies is interrupted by a scrap of cloud. The crowns of trees blush with the flames of deep autumn. A slight breeze rustles the trees, and a few leaves drift down, portending the massive shedding that would happen in a few days or so. 

The landscape still looks the same. I’ve expected it to be coloured with gloom now that I’m looking with the eyes of someone whose days are numbered. Everything looked normal. 

I ought to be afraid, but I’m not. I really isn’t. If anything, I feel calmness instead of an urgency that someone normal would feel when he realises that there is now a visible deadline to the list of things he has yet done. If dying means putting an end to all the longing for you, then so be it.

In this world, I am the only person who remembers and cherishes everything we shared. Everything - all our memories - will die with me. For the first time in a year, I’m glad that I’m erased from your world. Because you have forgotten me, you will not be crushed when I draw my last breath. I hate to see you cry.

You’ll be happy, won’t you? You will find someone who loves you, and you will find your happily-ever-after. I’m certain of that. I only hope that he, maybe a she, loves you as much as I do. You deserve nothing less. 

As I stand at the center of the plaza, my face raised to the sky, thinking and not thinking at the same time, a force barrelled into my shoulder. Deja vu washes over me as I stumble a step back. I’m about to apologise when I find myself looking at…

You.

Once again, Fate has proven to be a sneaky bastard who derives joy by toying defenceless humans in her palms. You can hope for a thing throughout your life, and Fate would only grant you that only after you have stopped hoping.

I have imagined the day of our reunion many times. Sans the fact that you have forgotten me, you’d be laughing your signature chuckle, your eyes would be twinkling with joy, and you’d be wearing a smile that could rival the sun. 

Standing before me, you’re not how I’ve imagined. You look drawn and pale, your full cheeks gone. There is a sadness in your eyes which wasn’t there before. 

For a long moment, you look at me, and I look at you. I keep my hands balled and my arms rigid by my side so that they won’t sweep you into my embrace. Your eyes flicker with something that looks like recognition, but there is uncertainty, too.

You ask, “Do I know you?”, and my breath hitches. Your voice is hoarse, like it is roughened by hours of crying and not speaking. 

There is another expectant pause, as if you are waiting for me to say ‘Yes, we know each other”. As if I do so, we would be able to pick up from where we’ve left off and continue to love like we’ve never been apart. Believe me when I say that every particle of me wants to do that. But the diagnosis slip folded in the back of my jeans reminds me that in many ways, I am still me, you’re still you, but we’re no longer us.

I force the words out, whispering to keep the trembling in my voice minimum. “No. I’ve never seen you before.”

Your face crumple. You look like you are about to cry. You do. You wipe the corner of your eye hastily.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “My heart feels like it has loved and lost somebody, but I cannot remember who that is. I got into an accident and I don’t remember many things.”

You look at me for an answer, probably an expression of sympathy. I don’t reply. My throat is dry.

You become embarrassed, and you pull your lips into a quivering, brave smile that makes my heart twist. “I must go,” you say. “Have a good day.”

You slip past me, and I watch you go. 

This is how I lose you the second time.

::::::::::

“I don’t understand you,” Changmin announces, spreading his arms in exasperation. The scratch of my pencil against the notepad paused, and I look up from the scribbled numbers and formula. “Didn’t you pray that you’d meet him again?” 

I nod, waiting patiently for Changmin to continue, but that only seems to fuel his irritation. He slaps his hands on the overbed table, startling the nurse who has come in to tweak the dosage of the chemotherapeutic mix. “Then why did you let him go when your prayers were answered?”

I murmur an apology to the nurse, then waited until she has left the room before I answer him. I’m unable to stop the little sigh that precedes my response. “You’re right about my wanting to see him again. But that was before I know I’m sick.”

“Wait,” he narrows his eyes, “this better not be what I think it is.”

“I can’t barge into his life just to leave it again.” I set my pencil aside, starting to feel the initial waves of nausea. He opens his mouth in rebuttal, falling soundless when I raise a hand to stop him. “I can serve my own purpose and be a mere acquaintance to him, somebody whom he wouldn’t miss more than a day when I’m gone. But that’s not going happen, Chwang. I saw it in his eyes. He’s going to fall in love with me all over again, just like the first time. He’ll be broken when I die.”

“Don’t say that word,” Changmin snarled. “You’re going to recover.”

I look at the outline of the thick needle buried under my skin, at the transparent tube, at the bulging green veins of my arm made more visible by the weight I’ve lost. I give him a rueful smile. “You know my chances.”

“There’s always a chance.” He raises his chin defiantly, his eyes flashing with the determination nurtured into him since our days on the college basketball team. “The Cho Kyuhyun I know is always desperate enough to put up a fight.”

I want to tell him that the disease is eating away at my fight every day. Even now, black spots stain my vision, and I keep wondering if I am going to pass out the next second. This is a battle with all the odds stacked against me. But I do not say all that because doing so will drive my only friend away.

In the end, I say, “If I come out of this disease the same person - alive and kicking - I’ll allow him to fall in love with me again.” 

While my answer is intended to placate Changmin, a shudder of exhilaration tunnels through me as the words left my mouth. The thoughts which I have deliberately walled off since the flutter in my head, dancing a choreography of hope and future. My pain became a lot more bearable. Maybe I can win this after all. 

“That’s very possible,” Changmin’s words drip with sarcasm, “provided that you’re able to see him again. You have a really optimistic probability by the way, a one over fifty million probability.”

I shake my head, eager to refute Changmin’s pessimism. “If he and I can meet each other twice out of the blue, who is to say that the third time wouldn’t happen? When I recover, I will find him.”

“When you recover,” Changmin repeats. For the first time since he has stepped into the room, he does not look annoyed. He grinned boyishly. “Congratulations. The first step toward recovery is acknowledging that you will recover.”

Suddenly tired, I lean back into the recliner, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Changmin. 

I will find you. 

Perhaps that is all that is needed to keep me going.

END

::::::::::