Friendship for kids around four or five is not complicated. Kids can bond over a piece of cloth, even. One could tie the cloth around his neck and run around the room, yelling “I’m superman!”, and the other posing as the villain could run after the superman and his mighty cape. Simple as that.

That’s basically how it went for me and Choi Junhong. We met before the age when girls and boys suddenly decide they are inherently different species and cannot put up with one another. And when we did reach that age, I was too little of a chic girl and Junhong too little of a macho guy, so we still stuck together as friends.

Friends, I say.

My earliest memory with Choi Junhong is running after him wearing superman’s cape, or as my parents call it, our tablecloth. We still use that tablecloth. We never throw away things unless they’re broken and far beyond repair. Even when they are irreversibly broken, sometimes my parents want to keep them. For nostalgic value. That’s the kind of family we are.

The tablecloth has been on our dining table for the last...how many years? Time should have dulled my memory already. Still, whenever I see the tablecloth on our table, I’m again reminded of the tall boy full of energy darting across our living room with the cape on. I say ‘tall’ but that’s strictly from my eyes when I wasn’t even tall enough to reach the sink in the kitchen. Now, if I saw him at that age, he would merely be a small kid. I clearly remember the shrill voice of his mother ringing in my ears. Choi Junhong, stop right now, stop running around! You’re embarrassing me!

Choi Junhong’s dad knew mine from work. They worked on the same project a few times, and having kids who are around the same age must provide some ground for friendship in the adult world. Then his mom came over a few times for tea, bringing Junhong with her. As all mom friendships work, her and my mom quickly bonded over a few cups of coffee and tea while discussing everything from the weather forecast that was never accurate to prices of groceries that wouldn’t stop skyrocketing. Of course, the two of us were oblivious of this buildup to our eventual friendship. At the time, all I knew was that the kid was superman, and as supervillain, I was responsible for running after him and letting out a few villainous cackles.

Choi Junhong, being himself, could never recall this first encounter of ours. I would remind him about that day repeatedly ever since we became old enough to recount and cherish old friendships. I always remembered the tablecloth hero jumping around my house. He would always say he has no memory of it. You’re making this up to make me sound really dumb, aren’t you? he would say, squinting.

I would laugh and playfully push his shoulders. You WERE dumb, Choi Junhong. Still are.

Maybe it’s because he didn’t see the tablecloth every day. That’s probably why he couldn’t recall. The old, faded dull brown tablecloth that was a striking red to us kids. It’s still on our table, albeit more worn with a few extra stains here and there. Time aged the tablecloth the same way it aged us. Still I swear that one day, years ago, that tablecloth was a cape for superhero Choi Junhong, and that was how we became friends.

I remember. Like I remember many other things that happened since then. Things that Choi Junhong always forgot. How we rode bikes with our arms raised high up in the air. How we screamed as we went down a slope. How one time he lost balance and fell. He ended up getting stitches on his cheek.

How can you forget that, I’d ask. You have the scar on your face. Dunno, I guess my brain forced me to forget how fun it was? he’d answer. Maybe. Since then, both of us were banned from going on unsupervised bike rides, so we had to find some other way to have fun. That wasn’t hard at all when us two were together, though. I used to thank the tablecloth for that, even when we were too old to play pretend.

People would always point it out when they saw the two of us together. Choi Junhong and Han Gyeowool are MARRIED, the kids would always tease, stubby fingers pointing at our younger selves. One time—and yes, Junhong had conveniently claimed to have forgotten this day as well—Junhong cried after a few kids kept pulling his shirt, calling him my husband. But I didn’t cry. I chased after those kids and threw mud at them.

I was the one who got in trouble.

Of course, at that time, neither of us were thinking about marriage or husbands or whatnot when we saw each other. We were just kids having fun. He wasn’t a boy to me, I wasn’t a girl to him. We were just friends. He was someone who’d never put down an opportunity for adventure in a fantasy world we built ourselves. That’s all that mattered.

But being honest, like honest honest, that may have changed a tiny bit as we hit puberty. Correction, as I hit puberty? I don’t know how it was like on his side. Never asked. Never will. Girls tend to mature earlier than guys by two or three years anyway. In my memory, he was always the mischievous kid and I was always his responsible older sister. The maturity didn’t give me an edge in height or any other physical aspect, though.

It’s not that I didn’t grow at all, but he maintained his seat at the very back row whenever we were sorted according to height while I only managed to get to second row after grade five. Because of his long legs and height, he was always chosen as the class representative in relay runs on school sports day. The whole school would be divided in half, the odd numbered classes on team blue and the even numbered ones on team white. Whichever colour baton Choi Junhong would be holding as he ran, blue or white, would be the colour of the team he would inevitably bring victory to.

The whole team, grades one to six, would yell his name as he ran towards the white paper tape at the finish line and tore through it. The others would be far behind, trying their best to win second or third place while he triumphantly enjoyed his victory. He would jump up and down excitedly as he searched for my face in the crowd. Whenever he did find me, he would point at his baton and mouth at me, I did it! Even when I happened to be on the other team, I would silently give him a thumbs-up when my teammates weren’t looking. Other team or not, he still was my best friend.

When we both entered middle school wearing awkwardly large uniforms, he was already as tall as a lot of adults around. I think my parents are scared that I’ll grow at least 20, no, 25 centimetres in middle school. Look at how stupidly long this is, he’d say, flapping his uniform pants in my face. I was a first-hand witness of how he went from being a tallish kid to Actually Towers Over People, so I could easily see his parents’ concern. Uniforms cost big bucks, even if you buy the ones that don’t have brand name markings on them. His parents definitely didn’t want to spend nearly double the money for their one beanstalk son.

Wow, kid, you sure grew fast! I would tease back, tapping his shoulder like a proud parent, although I had to tiptoe to do so properly.

He was tall enough to push my head down from above at that point. An unfair advantage of being a human beanstalk. I’m two months older, he would always say. Two months and exactly a week.

After all these years, every time I sit down to eat at the dining table, I’d see the tablecloth and then see the small (tall in my eyes at the time) kid racing around the house making zoom sounds with his mouth. Just a short scene, but still a funny and nostalgic one that my brain chose not to let go of after more than a decade.

And even now, I see the excited four-year-old Choi Junhong as I sit in front of the table for breakfast. Memory is a weird thing. His mom’s voice rings in my head, again. Choi Junhong, stop right now, stop… I wonder how his mom is doing now. I haven’t talked to her in a long time. Life’s busy as a highschooler. I fill my mouth with food to stop myself from overthinking. I’d wasted enough thinking energy on Park Jimmy the ghost. No more.

I slowly chew dried seasoned fish with my microwaved rice. Mom would always leave more than enough rice for me in the rice cooker for breakfast on days when she had morning shifts, but it’s a rare occasion for me to actually eat it. More commonly, she would nag me about how I missed breakfast again, how food in the morning is important for brain activity and studying, as soon as I stepped through the door past 10PM, feeling reasonably brain dead after a full day of studying. Making her happy wouldn’t be hard, or so she’d say. Just eat breakfast.

Easier said than done, mom. No one has time for food when the bus is going to leave in three minutes.

At least today I can eat without that worry of catching my bus. Thanks to mister ghost. I stress the word thanks in my mind for extra sarcastic effect even though no one can hear it.

I put a piece of kimchi in my mouth and continue chewing like a robot. Not sour at all. This must be the new kimchi that grandma made last week. I like kimchi when it’s fresh since I can’t handle the sourness of old kimchi. Choi Junhong could eat the grossest, most sour of kimchi though. I only remember this because my mom would always point out how he could eat everything, and that’s why he’d grown so tall.

But Choi Junhong’s dad was a literal giant, and my dad barely average height. I’m sure eating more fermented kimchi wasn’t the key factor in Junhong’s monstrous growth—there’s a thing called genetics that’s probably responsible for leaving me with a hobbit’s height for years and only managing to bring me up to average at the end of my growth spurt.

I stuff my mouth with food again when I realize I’m thinking too much again. And then I realize I’m eating really aggressively. Stress eating? Sorta.

I push the face of my recent unwanted visitor out of my mind again as I hear the kettle turning off, and I stand up to get a bag of barley tea from the box we bought a day or two ago. I open the dishwasher and take out my thermal resistant bottle, plopping the teabag in the bottle before pouring boiled water in the bottle. White smoke rises from the water, hitting my eyes and inflicting something between soft pain and warmth on them.

I blink the haze out of my eyes. The semitransparent nature of water vapour reminds me of the ghost who must still be standing outside. Try as I might to forget the pink-haired man, my thoughts seem to be in a perpetual loop, all leading back to Park Jimmy. Where could he be right now? Still outside? He can’t really go that far even if he wants to, and it is a cold day. He said ghosts can feel cold. I’ve known that for a while, but I didn’t want to seem like I knew too much.

Curiosity is dumb. I’ve managed to ignore...how many… at least dozens of them so far. They had no idea I saw them. Even if they were right in front of me, I would just walk through them with no hesitation.

But why this one? Why is this guy the one that made me break my sacred rule? I angrily chew the final spoonful of rice while standing next to the table and put down the metal spoon with a clack. I swallow my mouthful of rice harshly.

It’s the dumb summer clothes.

The clothes that scream I’m going on a summer holiday in the middle of winter. In a snowstorm. God, I felt cold just looking at him. Why didn’t he die in, I don’t know, better clothes that he would be prepared to face all seasons in as a ghost? Or better yet, not be a ghost at all and just leave?

My head is heavy with complaints at Park Jimmy as I rinse the dishes, put the side dishes back into the fridge, and brush my teeth. Even when I’m done everything, I still end up with a good half hour or so left until I have to leave.

I try to cherish this excess time I rarely get in the morning, pointedly avoiding thoughts of how mad my homeroom teacher will be when he finds out I skipped one block of mandatory self-studying in the library. Well, I would’ve went if they didn’t lock the door at 8:30 exactly! Or if that dumb ghost didn’t make me fall down and miss my bus—

Yeah, I know, I fell down on my own. The ghost didn’t do anything. He can’t do anything, for that matter. But the ghost did surprise me. That’s why I didn’t see the ice on the pavement. That’s why—

I cut off my own thoughts in annoyance. So what? No teacher is going to take a ghost distracted me as a proper excuse for being late, even with my long-established reputation as a lunatic. No one ever believes my stories anyway.

I glance at the clock on the wall. Maybe I should just leave early. Better be early than late again. The break is only ten minutes long, and the doors will lock again at 10:00 sharp. If I come late again, that’s two blocks I’m missing of the ‘most important year of my life’.

When I open the front door, Jimmy the ghost is still there, as expected. He doesn’t say anything, for once. I ignore his existence, like I should have in the first place, and carefully start walking toward the bus stop.

It takes a lot longer than it usually does because I’m taking extra caution so as to not fall down again, the dull ache in my backside a grim reminder of what could happen if I’m not careful. One thing I’m proud of? I never, ever turn around during my seven-or-so minute walk to check if he’s following.

When I reach the bus stop the screen on the stop says the bus is two stops away. Nice timing. I sit down on the bench, taking off my backpack and hauling it up next to me. I take out my hot water bottle and twist it open. The steam billows out of the warm bottle instantly, standing out against the starkly cold air. I pour hot tea in the cap that doubles as a cup, ready to warm myself up because man it is cold today.

“Is that green tea?” a voice becoming too familiar to me asks, and the also-familiar feelings of dread and annoyance immediately rise in me. I’m smart enough not to look at the direction of the voice this time, but I recognize it nearly instantly now. “I’d like some green tea too. I’m chilled to the bone—figuratively speaking, though. I don’t have bones. Not anymore.”

I look around, turning right and left. No one is within earshot. “Shut up,” I mutter under my breath.

“What’s the problem? No one can hear me but you. ‘Cause I’m dead, Han Gyeowool.”

“Not funny,” I answer stiffly.

“It’s not a joke, that’s why it’s not funny. It’s just the truth. I am dead. I know that.”

It’s hard to determine whether he’s joking or being serious just by his voice, so I end up looking at him again. He’s smiling. At least his mouth is—his eyes, I can’t read. Or don’t want to read. I can see the bus lane sign through his faded pink hair. Sometimes it would catch me off guard how real a ghost’s voice could sound only for their body to be easily mistaken for some sort of mirage or fancy lighting trick, but Park Jimmy’s body is still pretty vivid in comparison. It’s only been four months, I guess.

After a minute or so, he raises his hand and waves it in front of his forehead, and I realize I’ve been staring. I look away, face turning warm, and instead direct my attention to the screen displaying four English words: Bus at previous stop. I reach into my jacket pocket to take out my card in preparation.

“Wow, I had one of those too!” The ghost points at the bus card, too excited for a dead man. “I wonder where it went? I used it just a few days before I became… this.” He points at himself.

“It’s a teen one,” I whisper. The cards were pink for ages 13 to 18, and the adults were given blue ones.

“Doesn’t mean I couldn’t use it in university. Sometimes people even took me for a middle schooler.” He smiles at me again, and this time, his eyes fold into the smile. I hear the bus engine and quickly look away. Don’t want to be seen frowning at nothing.

“Probably because you’re too short to be a grown up.” The words come out a bit sharper than I intended to. It’s better that way, maybe. Why am I even indulging him in the first place?

The bus is here. I stand up.

“I’ll come with you!” I hear him say excitedly, as though this genius idea had hit him just now. I ignore him, suppressing the urge to groan by mentally repeating my mantra of he’s not real, he doesn’t exist as I board the bus and tap my card on the card reader right next to the driver. Teen, the card reader says in a monotone voice. As I sit down in a blue seat, I see the pink-haired ghost tapping his fingers on the card reader. Of course, nothing happens.

“Teen,” he mimics the card reader out loud. Only I can hear him, though. No one else in the bus even notices his voice. I shift in my window seat, lean my head against the bus window, and try to resemble a normal person. I can’t hear him. I can’t see him. I can’t—

“Time for a trip down memory lane at my old school!” The ghost plops down in the seat right next to mine. His weight leaves no impact on the seat. “Isn’t that exciting?”

All I’m excited for is someone getting on the bus and sitting on him (or through him, I guess), blissfully unaware. That’s an exciting idea. But I don’t say this out loud.

I’d just be talking to the empty air if I did.