[L e t t e r s | to | Y o o n a]

F O U R

Dear Yoona,

Today, I opened my window. The one right across from yours. I don't know why it was shut in the first place, but now it's open and as I'm writing this, there is almost no breeze floating in through the window. Strange, because it's spring and there should be.

For a while, I just stared at the note. The one you left me yesterday. I keep wondering if you meant it, that you missed me. I keep fighting with myself about whether or not I should just ask you if you really did mean it, but the conclusion is almost always no, no matter which side of me wins.

 I wonder when things ever started getting complicated between us.

Now and then my mind wanders to another time, when the notes exchanged between us meant and symbolised nothing but friendship.

Do you remember when we were 13 and threw notes into each other's windows and read them under our blankets by torchlight at night?

It took us a while to master the throw itself, I remember. Eventually we settled on attaching those paper clips we never used to the notes as weights, so they would fling far enough and not get carried away by the wind.

That was your idea, the paper clips. You always had the best solutions to the strangest things.

I miss that.

I don't remember every note, but I remember how stupid some of them were; notes asking for the best jokes, or excuses to say when you didn't do your homework. Then there were those notes asking me to call you, when all you needed to do was pick up the phone and call me yourself.

There was one note in particular that I remember, one that I wrote. It never got to you, though, and fell down to the pavement below, and your downstairs neighbour picked it up and read it. Mrs Yoon, I think her name was− the one whose husband died. You remember that, right?

Sometimes I wonder what you would have done and how things would be now if you had read it. If I hadn't, in my nervousness−sweaty hands, trembling lower lip−, forgotten to attach the paper clip.

I remember exactly what I wrote. It wasn't much, but at the same time, it was everything.

I love you, was all it said.

You always used to pester me about what the note said, but I decided that you couldn't know. So I told you that it was a rude joke, and you clucked your tongue at me, threatening to tell my mother. And I clucked my tongue back, saying that if you did, your mother would know what you do so late at night and why you always woke up with dark circles under your eyes in the morning, even though she sent you to bed early.

So you never found out, and I never told you.

I don't have that piece of paper anymore. Mrs Yoon kept it. I hope she found some secret joy in it, because it was meant for you, and if she didn't find some happiness in it, then I wasted time writing it.

Back then, I'd already written essays and monologues, but they weren't nearly as hard as writing that note. The one you never received.

The note with those three words on it.

I

love

you.

I thought I could get away with never thinking about that note again, but then yesterday, you told me that you missed me. Through a note. And suddenly I'm wondering why I ever tried to ignore the fact that I love you.

Should I write it in this letter?

I love you.

I could write it a thousand times. I love you.

I still do.

And it hurts, Yoona. Because I never got to tell you, and now I can't. Not anymore.

Because right now, your window is closed. It hasn't been closed at this time in 5 years.

Even if it was open, I don't think we're friends again yet, and how strange would it be for stranger to tell you that he loves you?

Is that... all we are now? Strangers?

I hope not.

I miss you, Yoona.

And I love you.

Eternally yours,

Luhan.

***

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