author: jwhong005 / written: 20130108 / pairing: yoosu / rating: pg / cr: 1 & this / dedicated to unnie, i hope you like it
follow me; instagram - royalegray / tumblr - junnswoon

Date a person who writes.

My mother always told me to date a girl who writes. That special girl would give me adventures I had never dreamt of before in my life. And so I did. I dated a girl named Tiffany while I was in high school. It was my senior year and I was trying to figure out where I wanted to go for college. I had no idea but then she opened a door I didn't see—or couldn't, rather—on my own.

And so, within a matter of days I went from living in California to moving into a small apartment as a tenant to an old woman who lived alone in South Korea. The culture was much different from that in the West but my parents had taken me on periodic trips to the country so that I could get a taste of what it's like to be where they properly called home. That's probably the only reason they let me go. I broke a girl's heart but soon realized that It wasn't her that I had meant to give my heart to first.

I met him at a café that was small, giving off a homey atmosphere. I had learned that going there for lunch each day led me to him. He was tall with dark brown chocolate eyes that drew you to him, his hair soft as cotton and looked styled each day. He had told me that he was interning as a barista in training, which was his only reason for working in a café where the only other young employee was around his thirties. I brought up the courage to ask him how old he was that day during that particular conversation. 

This man was only a few months my senior. I had honestly expected him to be older since, with my luck, it wouldn't have been too shocking if he had told me that he was too old for me. But we were about the same age, and so the relationship grew from there.

This man who I came to eventually referring to as hyung and from time-to-time Yoochun-hyung, became the thing that kept me grounded in South Korea. I became home sick easily and paid little visits to the family that were within the area. They offered to take me in but I declined. If I had accepted, I would have had to move and that would mean moving away from Yoochun-hyung as well.

At first, our meetings were simple. Only when things got more intense did I find myself over at his apartment a few times a week, marveling at how there were pads and pencils all over the place. I had asked why he didn't use pens but then he said he liked to make his writing perfect. Yoochun-hyung had apparently lived in America for some time as well just as I had so when I saw a book written distinctively in English, I asked him if he'd read a few of the stories from there to me.

Although the answer was no, he promised once he finished his biggest story, he'd read it to me one day. I accepted the promise and continued to shift through a book he had comprised of photographs all sketched beautifully. This time when I asked him a question, he answered positively. His friend Jaejoong was an artist and often drew small sketches of the things he saw that his mind interpreted in its own way. When he gave up his dream of becoming an artist to live with a man Yunho, he passed the sketchbook on to someone he figured could put it to good use.

Eventually, a year later, Yoochun-hyung gave up his job. Over the course of the first year I had been in South Korea alone, it had been a good one. There was always hyung to turn to and he seemed to respond to my advances with the same care I hoped for. There was something between us blooming. Soon when my mother cared to give me a call (something she seldom did because of the long distance and time difference), I told her about Yoochun-hyung as I did in my letters to which she answered: "Date a boy who writes."

That boy, or young man rather, became Yoochun-hyung. We sealed our love when it was Valentine's Day the second year I was in South Korea. I decided that the time I used to wait was long enough. If he had stuck by me all this time, that must mean something. I took a chance and the outcome was a positive one. I couldn't be any happier about it. I agreed to be his valentine that day after reading a heartwarming poem that he claimed to have worked all week on. Since I had seen him write before, which was quite messy since being left handed seemed to get a lot of ink on his hand, I didn't doubt it. It was sweet.

Once the third year came, I no longer woke up in the same bed I had when I first arrived as a simple tenant. I woke up with my head cradled against a warm chest, an arm around my waist to pull me close throughout the night of solid sleep instead. Yoochun-hyung was just what I needed for sleepless nights and was always strong enough to fend off my horrible dreams. He would always be prepared with a story whenever I needed one, lulling me to sleep in the process. He took away my insomnia, giving me love back in the process.

Four years later, Yoochun-hyung finally came up with an idea for his first novel. Just as I had asked before, he told me that this time I would have to wait to hear this story. It was supposedly very important. So important that I found him often arranging dates with his friend Changmin so that they could discuss the work in progress. I was allowed to tag along and from there I learned that Changmin was Yoochun-hyung's cousin, wiping away any worry about our relationship. I trusted him too much to doubt him anyway but better be safe than sorry.

During that fourth year I graduated from college with a nice degree that went perfectly framed in the case Yoochun-hyung bought me. He even took down his beloved article about the American show Ancient Aliens because he said it was that special. Meanwhile, my parents took a trip to visit me. They wanted to congratulate me on the degree and all I had accomplished while I was away. They didn't seem concerned with meeting Yoochun-hyung at all. I was surprised but that just meant they were hiding something from me.

It was when I arrived home that I found out. The story I had been dying to see was finally finished, sitting on our kitchen table with a velvet box on top of it, Yoochun-hyung awaiting my reaction down on one knee. It seemed he got the American custom of proposing wrong (to which he later blamed the fact that he hadn't been in America in a long time as an excuse when I ) but I didn't care.

He had written more than just a simple tale in a language he learned from his overseas studies. It was more than just a few pages written in chicken scratch. It was the story of us.

And so, I finally realized the importance of dating a man who writes.