I used to kiss her rough lips. I used to kiss her gently. As if I am scared to hurt her more. I used to take in the savory taste of her rough lips, which used to move so perfectly in sync with mine. Not always though, only when she was too depressed. Too depressed to resist.

16th November, 2005. I clearly remember the date. How can I not? It's her birth date. If I forget it too, MiYoung will be depressed, again.

She had turned 14 back in 2005. A fresh teenager. 14 is when we start fighting with life, if not for everyone, for most of us. 14 is when we start prioritizing our sentimental state. 14 is when emotion means more to us than it's reason. 14 is our sphere of aging, 14 is when we start getting older than 'a kid'. 14 is then. If not for all of us, for most of us. However for MiYoung, 14 is when she had started getting tired of life, 14 is when she needed support to keep standing. 14 is when she was already an adult. 14 is when I had to barge in protect her.

But what could I do? Go call the police and tell them to provide security for her? Or go to my mum and tell her to bake cookies for my friend so that she would stop crying? The first idea was elderly and the second one kiddish. I wasn't an elder, nor was I a kid, so I couldn't do either. And as usual, I went to her, and I asked her, like an elder who can't handle kiddish matters, "What should I do? What should I do for you to calm down? What should I do to for you to feel better? "

"G-give me war-mth." She had said in between hiccups.

It was cold. Really cold. We sat by the sideline of the road, staring into space. She was hugging her knees, trying to keep herself warm, as she cried her heart out, silently.

I was shocked. Because I wasn't used to seeing her like this. She had a crazy, hyper and annoying personality on 24/7. And I was always the type to be easily fooled by good acting. Yes, Kang MiYoung was an amazing actress.

She said she wanted warmth, but she wanted consolation. I knew her. As amazing an actress she was, she was bad with words. She didn't know how to ask for that, for consolation. She had used the word 'warmth' instead.

I didn't know what had gotten into me. I forced myself to lean in, I forced myself to press my lips against her. I wished to keep it that way. But she wanted something warmer, she had made the move, and my lips followed her instructions.

After about a minute, she had pulled away. I was panting for breathe. She was not. MiYoung had always been the better swimmer. But what made my eyes sparkle were her misty eyes. She was busy staring at me, so busy that she didn't notice she had stopped crying.

From then onwards, it had often been that way. When she would get tired of life, of her parents, of her relatives, of her siblings, of her friends, tired of the world, she would come to me for a breather. Perhaps she didn't even have anything to grow tired of. I didn't know. But tiredness was visible in her eyes, in her way of crying.

But I only kissed her gently, to shush her. I only kissed her to tell her 'I am here', to show off my presence. And she would get the hint. Then only would she stop crying. But she always cried. Only cried. She never told me what had happened. She never hit me to relieve her anger, she never bawled to blame her fate. She only kissed me back to let go of her stress, in the same gentle manner, as if to calm her ownself down.

I wasn't good at talking, but I knew that reassuring talks could help people out of depression. I had to replace that with something.

So I used to sing to her on the way to and from school. I used to smile at her which she loved so much. I used to bring her chocolates and candies and she couldn't stop thanking me. I wasn't an elder who had money, and I wasn't a kid who got candies as gifts. So MiYoung rarely got to taste her favourite food. Occasionally I would write a song for her to surprise her. She would be happy when she understood that the lyrics were always meant for her. Her only. MiYoung was my only friend. My best friend. Kang MiYoung was Kim Myungsoo's best friend.

The first time she ever blared out a cry was the day when she turned 19. 16th November, 2009. 19 is when we start being properly matured. 19 is when we learn to sacrifice for the sake of good. 19 is when we think before speaking. 19 is when we can lie more fluently. If not for all of us, for most of us. However for MiYoung, 19 is when she grew tired of being mature. 19 is when patience inside her had already deceased. 19 is when she could no longer think straight.

Back in that Winter was when I was raged. I was raged when I noticed the fresh bruise on her arm. She was depressed, exhausted. So much that she failed to grab her coat or a warm clothing before she made a run for our meeting place. I was angry. I didn't want to see her that way. I was fuming in anger. The flames inside me were growing hotter. I needed to share some heat with her. So that was the second time we ever shared that passionate a kiss. And this time, I was the one who initiated it. She obeyed my orders on her lips which had become harsher than usual, and it was calming the both of us down, both of our young and racing hearts down. As she pulled away, both of us panted hard. Maybe she isn't as good at swimming now, I haven't seen her doing the sport In a while. But since she was gasping for air, she probably isn't that good anymore.

I took off my jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She stared at her shoulder, then back at me, and then she mumbled, "You catch colds easily, MyungSoo. You'll be cold."

"You don't even know how cold you have made me over the years," I told her, knowing she wouldn't understand whatever I am intending to mean. And she didn't, she was staring blankly at me. I didn't want to explain either. She didn't push me, she was tired.

I never got the chance to look at other girls. I had MiYoung. But she had company in her 20's. After suffering for almost all her life, she had established herself as a talented fashion designer in her 20's. She had stepped out of our little town and come to explore the bigger world. She was genuinely smiling all day now. She didn't need my 'warmth' anymore. She put on warm smiles all day and she had turned into a respected and loved figure.

I stayed the cold me. Yes, now I managed to send more chocolates to MiYoung because now, I was finally an elder. Back when I was a teenager, I dreamt about whatever I was going to do for MiYoung when I grew up. I dreamt about doing everything and anything. Even the calling-police-to-get-security thing. But I forgot that by that time, she would grow up too. I had forgotten that by that time, she would provide 'warmth' to herself. She wouldn't need me. And now she doesn't. She takes care of herself really well.

The kisses. They were there- left behind in our childhood, in our little town. They meant nothing now. They were there to help a depressed soul. MiYoung would come visit me once in a while, because we were both busy with our worlds. Sometimes she would thank me because I comforted her whenever she cried without even asking why. But she never brought up the kisses. She never praised me saying how unique my idea of consoling her was. Unknowingly, I waited. I wanted her to talk about them. But she didn't. Soon though, I came to know why. When I received her wedding invitation. She never brought them up because she felt embarrassed, because she felt uneasy. My little MiYoung-ie was getting married. I should have been happy. But I couldn't make myself as glad as I wanted to be, as cheerful as i wanted to sound while congratulating her.

Slowly, as my schoolgirl turned into a renowned fashion designer and then to a man's wife, I learnt that I loved her. Since then. The kisses that stopped her from crying and gave her 'warmth' were what prevented me from looking at other girls, those were what made me want to protect her, to make her smile. But unfortunately, now she had grown up into a real adult. Now that she knew the world, now that she had seen the bigger version of reality, she was probably resenting the kisses. The kisses were probably nothing more than childish mistakes.