goodbye

He had seen it in her eyes long before they had. He had seen it in the way her shoulders hunched over more often than not, the way her smile would only be a fraction of what they had used to be. He had seen it in the way she had isolated herself in her room and the way she had talked. He had known something was wrong long before anyone else could see it.

It was in the way she associated with her friends, the way she did her homework. It was in her penmanship, a silent prayer, a silent scream in letters that never said anything. He had seen it and yet he had failed to do anything. He had been too busy with himself, with his friends and his bad grades. He had pushed it away, glossed it over.

They didn’t talk. They were too old to talk like that, too distanced. They were on their own and had been for a long time. Their parents hadn’t seen. They had been focused on him, scolding him, making sure he was doing what he had to and she had sighed lonely in the corner, longed for affection, for understanding, for visibility. He had gladly given her it all had she not retreated and left them every time he tried to redirect it.

They had been inseparable as children but childhood was far gone and they had been left with their teenage years and the force of growing up.


He hadn’t been surprised when they had found her. He hadn’t been surprised when they hurried her out of the house and towards the hospital. He hadn’t been surprised to find his father on the phone with his mother as he in hurried voices relayed what had happened. He hadn’t been surprised. He had been numb.

On the stretcher was she, she who he had failed to save. He hadn’t cried in the hospital. He had barely blinked when his mother hurried into the building on high heels and he hadn’t reacted when his father had yelled in frustration before he, too, cried. He had felt nothing.

He had stared at the door to the OR and waited for the news he already knew. He had been too late. He had seen but he had done nothing to save her, to help her. It was his fault for he had been a silently observer and silent observers are guilty.

He hadn’t cried when they told them the news. He hadn’t cried when he relayed the news to his grandmother, his parents too far gone in their loss and their grief to be able to convey any more words. He had been hugged, embraced, trusted with words of sorrow but he hadn’t reacted in any way.

He had observed the doctors like he had observed her. He had noticed their apologies in their words, he had noticed the way they wanted to leave them as fast as possible. He hadn’t blamed them for not wanting to stay with his broken family.


He had cried in his bed at night however. The empty space behind the wall suddenly too big, too empty. The knocks on the walls that would never be answered, the conversations they would have after the lights had been turned off.

He cried for the empty space in his heart, too hollow to ever feel full again. He cried for the one he had lost, the one he had killed by doing nothing but observing, the one he could have saved.


The coffin in front of them were of dark brown, a large bouquet of pink flowers on top of it. Down the aisle where flowers of all kinds, all honouring her who shouldn’t have been there. He heard the sniffles throughout the church, he heard the sobs beside him. He saw the tears whenever he looked to one side so he stared stiffly at the tree instead, looking for any sign that this was a dream.

The priest was talking kindly about her, so was his aunt. But they didn’t know. They knew nothing.

They didn’t know the girl in the coffin, the one who had saved him during math in 2nd grade when their teacher had found he hadn’t done his homework. They didn’t know the girl who had tapped his shoulder and ducked behind him just to laugh when he got annoyed at her. They didn’t know the girl who had always sent him a smile and a promise of better times.

They did not know and they would never know.

There were no secrets between them. There hadn’t been. He had told her everything. She hadn’t told him, but he knew. He knew when she got her first boyfriend, he knew when she lost her ity. He knew just like she knew. Yet he had done nothing, nothing at all.


He closed his eyes as the bells started chiming for the last time. It was their goodbye. A goodbye he couldn’t say because he couldn’t leave her, not with the guilty conscience, not with knowing. But he couldn’t forget.

The man beside him squeezed his shoulder and the woman dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. They got up first, walking behind the coffin as the 6 men carried her out towards the car that would take her away for the last time. He stared at the black vehicle before he blinked and it all washed over him as a tidal wave.


He runs. He runs as fast as he can, through the rough forest, lets the branches scratch his skin, forces the pain through his body as good as he can. He can’t live without her. He can’t continue on knowing what he knew and knowing that nobody will ever blame him when he should be blamed. He can’t think because the only thought in his mind is I killed her.

He doesn’t want to stop but he has to stop to catch his breath and only then does the sorrow force a spear through his heart. The hollow tears and the numb feelings are nothing like being stabbed alive.

Because there is one part of him, one part of the twins they were supposed to be, buried ten feet underground in a week and he’ll never see her, he’ll never be there. He’ll never embrace her and tell her that everything will be alright.

Because nothing will be alright again.

aUTHOR'S NOTE

Minho and the girl (Minjung) are twins in this drabble. Minjung takes an overdose and dies. Thanks for reading.