cy·no·sure

A person or thing that is the center of attention or admiration.

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“Say goodbye to your mother now, Gongchan.”

Those were the words spoken by my father, surly as the dark clouds that were looming over our respective heads, and they were too unkind to a seven year old like me. Otherwise than being clothed in dark clothes, in respect to whom it is surely due, this man’s demeanour was aggravating. I understood that we both lost the one we loved — the person being my mother, a wife to he — but I hated the way he portrayed himself that day. The manner in which he donned as if he didn’t care about the death, the inevitable fact that my mother’s coffin will be lowered six feet under. And he told me to just say goodbye? Could he not be more humane in expressing so? I felt like I was made to merely gaze unemotionally.

Impossible. I did so as he wanted me to, but on that sunless day, I recalled running in hopes of reaching a place far away from this burial ground. I was too young to understand matters like the afterlife, but I definitely knew that my mother’s eyes would never open again. The weight, the burden, it dragged my feet with each step, but I would not face my upsetting fate. I would not do so. Rain fell, like the fashion it would in those saddening movies, and I must say this even as a young child — if you were the one brimmed with dolefulness, this kind of scenario would not strike as cliché or overused. It was, in fact, a gift that would join the liquid that slid off the contours of my glum countenance.

I ran for a while, and then I stopped. Trust me; I didn’t do so because I was tired honestly. I only halted my footsteps in this lonesome downpour because I had found another. A child of six that was periodically drawing near to the playground’s swings.

“Hey, are you alright?” were the words uttered by yours truly. I remembered the girl turning around to meet me, perhaps afraid, for there was not another soul on that beaten path except for her and me. But I chose to approach her, with my soaked clothes, the darkness a reminder of my unparalleled loss, because I sensed a worry that bubbled within her — and it was a great want to discover that pulled me closer. I recalled the way this girl reacted vigorously, causing me to ask if she was lost; if she needed assistance. That inquiry seemed to spark a flame of indignation of some sort, I guess, since she responded ever so crossly. In spite of that, I gave her a piece of tissue to dry her eyes.

Goodness. Even as a child of seven, I must have been both smart and dumb at the same time. Who would offer another a piece of tissue in a drizzling weather? I must have been rather dim.

Suddenly, there seemed to be a ray of light that shone through her wet eyes, as she asked the most peculiar question I have ever heard from a stranger.

“Your hair…” she had asked earnestly. “It’s black, isn’t it?” I will never stop admitting my immeasurable shock prior to this statement, and it almost sounded like I had misheard her. Why would one question my obviously dark hair? Even so, it was polite to reply, and even a kid like me had done so. In agreement, she was so, so happy; ecstatic. I had to laugh. I was sorry to have done so, in case I ended up offending, but I had done so anyway. It was the weight that made her so terribly luckless, in my seven year old’s perspective, and the way it disappeared with my answer temporarily was breathtaking. It was just perplexing and dangerously intriguing.

I told her that she was funny. I asked for her name.

“Han Kyung Mi!” was what she exclaimed with surmount glee. “And you?” My eyes surely crinkled with equal delight that day when I responded to her query. I did not and will not regret my decision in giving my name to her. This girl, this girl I had just known that rainy day, was one I helped returned to her kindergarten, and the one who asked for my school. I had not known back then that I had made a big impression on her, making her desire to attend my school the year after. For as I made my arrival clear back at the burial ground, I had a passion ignited in myself. I realized that I intended to push my worries aside, and cast my care on another’s. For one who might have ended up being a stranger for the rest of my life.

Luckily, we did keep in touch. This girl, Han Kyung Mi, appeared unexpectedly in the canteen of my school, as I ate my melon bread with some guys. I stared so hard with hopefulness, the bread actually fell out of my mouth and doing so made the others notice the cause of the change. I recall her new tinted spectacles, the shyness and uncertainty betting heavily on the words she uttered.

“Gongchan… Shik?” mumbled the seven year old girl. Words could not describe my flurried thoughts. They were inevitably scattered. I had been indubitably happy, so much of that emotion that I could not verbalize the words I wanted to. I could only mouth. Han Kyung Mi. Those were the syllables that I tried to vocalize but didn’t — however, she noticed my recognition, and everything, surely everything, collapsed fiercely into perfection.

Like a passage read a time too many, I can never emphasize enough on how I didn’t think our relationship could work. Being a year apart and all, I thought it was a chasm that would never have its closure. Nevertheless, we must have been the lucky ones. We found a lot in common, and our age difference never really bothered either of us. One day, when I was ten and she was nine, I was met with a punch. A punch from this usually kindly and cheery spectacled girl. I was taken aback. I only asked how her day was, and guessed it to be a day of promoting their personal ambition. Had I been too intrusive? I was appalled at myself. I must have been insensitive to cause her to snap upon our immediate meet after school hours.

Then I finally understood. Her rants and cries about her monochromatic condition, the way others had sneered at her artistic dream because it appeared out of reach; absurd. It must have hurt her so badly in ways left unexplainable. I could not take it. The ten year old me didn’t want to watch her tear up so sadly in this helpless situation. I absolutely know that I removed her tinted spectacles from her tear-stained face for a great reason. Perhaps she would never learn of the intention behind that action, but I always will. I did so because I didn’t want her to see me crying too. As I wiped a tear of hers, I was aware of the ones edging off my pale face. I had become much closer to her than I thought I was. I was actually crying for her, and the emotions I felt in apparent empathy were unbearable. I could not. I recalled the way my best friend blinked with difficulty, trying to focus her gaze on my face as I whispered so softly. I could not raise them even if I tried.

“I’m going to be a doctor for you,” were the words I ended with.

And ever since that promise, I worked hard for it. I don’t mean to be vain, but I will not leave my efforts unnoticed. I knew that it would either make or break me, but I took the chance anyway. They are many, left uncountable, but I seek no personal gain from this. It is for a simple reason like this that I would accompany her whilst watching black-and-white movies, buy clothes she deemed to be wondrous on me and why, just everything. The countless hours of helping her paint in that attic; walking her to school and back whenever possible. Surely I only desired that my best friend, Han Kyung Mi, would regain her normal sense of sight once more, the colours that would dance in her eyes. It does exist in a time before I came to know her, and I was determined to find the cure; the treatment; the alteration to help her cause. I would not yield. I would not relent. I will search until my deathbed. Even as a teenager; even now, I am aware that I wasn’t going to break this certain oath — the pledge I had taken willingly. I remember the visits to her place, belonging to a number so huge it would border scandalous, and how her mother pulled me aside from the bright kitchen one day.

“Gongchan dear, you really cherish Kyung Mi as your friend, right?” asked Mrs Han a few years ago. I recall blinking at her, puzzled at that kind of query. It was nearly inquisitive, and I didn’t really like others prodding into my business, but I had and still have a soft spot for her, since she is the closest person that would ever resembled my dead mother. And so I answered.

“Yes,” I responded clearly, trying so hard to prevent my face from crinkling in delight for some unknown reason. “I really do.” Of course, I left out the part on how I wanted to worry about her more than myself. That would have been too much to spill. Mrs Han’s face was so gentle then.

“Good,” she barely whispered. “You might not understand now, but my girl Kyung Mi’s a little different. Be a good friend, alright?” Somewhat twelve years old, I noted the rhetoric nature of those words and my ears strained to listen to a conversation handled by my best friend with her father. The way he nodded to her memories of beautiful skies and fields, asking if he was the one who accompanied her. The way her mother, upon her arrival at this scene, laughed and said that her father need not answer a question like that. The geometrical features on the bespectacled girl’s face that differed significantly from her family members.

Embarrassingly, a breath had caught in my throat as I was indirectly revealed to the truth. I was standing, standing outside that kitchen, dumbfounded. I was not one to judge, but I was confused as to why such a vital detail was made into a family secret. Was there more than I was seeing? Surely it must be. I had nodded absent-mindedly to no one in particular.

“Gongchan!” said Kyung Mi, appearing suddenly with a cheeky smile. “Have you any idea what I’m going to paint today?” Even so, in spite of my inner shock, I smiled as well. I know I did.

“I have no idea, so surprise me?” I had answered back with a teasing tone, making her defiant and proud altogether. A strange and really unique mixture. Pushing the secret aside, I continued looking out for her anyway.

There was a day in which she chose not to paint then, which surprised me. Han Kyung Mi, she — well, you — took me out to the fields where the clouds were rolling persistently by the horizon. It was beautiful. You and I lay on the soft grass, looking at them like we had not a care in the world. Then I honestly didn’t know when, but I eventually turned to look at you. It must have been of admiration for a girl so valiant, of overwhelming care that made my gaze fixate on your happiness. Without a warning, you turned to look at me. I must have nearly died of being caught in my own weird action. Who would just stare at their best friend? It was awkward in general, now wasn’t it? No matter how you really felt, you only blinked at me and called my name. I remember smiling. Then you spoke words that melted my heart for a time comparable to an eternity.

“You paint my dark skies grey.” The intensity in that sole sentence was burned into my memory. The expression you wore, the volume you used. You factored and created perfection. You must have.

“And that, must be the most wondrous thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” were the words I gifted back to you. They were so poor. I know I smiled so wide it hurt. It must have been like a shooting star, such a precious analogy. You showed me that day how much I meant to you. And surely, so surely, that you know how much you meant to me. You must have. Especially after that incident on Christmas morning.

It was impromptu, really, that trip of mine to your place. It was never intended in such a manner, at any rate. On Christmas Eve, the one in which I was fifteen and you being fourteen, strolling down the snowy streets gaily, when you once asked why I stopped. I told you that I spotted my father, but quickly mentioned that he was busy, so we hurried back after shopping, ending up late for our respective dinners. I hadn’t lied to you, but I didn’t tell you the whole truth about my father. He was out eating dinner in a fancy restaurant with an unknown lady while his son, me, was eating alone at home. I was being mean, I know, for comparing your family with my incomplete one. I knew that you would be having a wondrous family dinner while I dined with myself.

Upon my father’s return, he had been surprised with an unpleased fifteen year old boy waiting for him. It was an unscrupulous hour by then, so it was no wonder that he was surprised. Hardly able to say a mere greeting, I launched my attack. I was unfair, but I was unable to hold it in any longer. Not anymore while I sat waiting in that lonely house for the one who might not be family any longer.

“You are betraying mom!” is what I remember accusing him. He looked grave then, asking how his only son managed to come up with a fib like that. I mentioned having seen him in that restaurant with the lady.

“She was only a client,” my father had claimed flatly. But the expression he wore only angered me. Deep down, I was upset that he had not chosen to eat with me. A heated argument ensued afterwards, ending only when I slammed my bedroom door in extreme rebellion.

The words he used only seemed like lies to me back then; some sort of crafty deception to wrap my heart around his finger so that he could manipulate it. Perhaps one would be horrified at how I had perceived my circumstance, but I had reasons. When my father became my only parent, he proved to be dispassionate and uncaring, away on most days of the week. I felt like my presence didn’t matter. And that was exactly why I sat up in my bed abruptly, deciding to run away. Will not my disappearance be the perfect gift for Christmas? Packing light, I remember sneaking out during the early hours of Christmas, leaving my place undisturbed. I had not the decency to even leave a note pertaining to apologies or wrath. With my trusty backpack, I was sifting the endless streets blindly until my feet brought me to the front of your house. I recall blinking, genuinely surprised at how my body decided this place to be my temporal getaway before any further and solid plans took place.

Nonetheless, I did not ignore this endeavour and climbed over the gate, landing softly and anonymously. I had quietly lifted the doormat that was in front of the door, picking up the spare key your family kept for emergencies. Technically I assumed mine to be. With a gentle click, I gained access and surely, tears nearly sprung when I descried the Christmas tree that stood in its respected corner each year. The lights twinkled warmly, shedding light on the presents and I felt the pang of being an unwanted son, devoid of any seasonal outings or time spent together. I bit my tongue for I didn’t want my presence to be made known if I had cried or done something equally stupid. In doing so, I remember concluding that I had given myself away anyway since someone was descending the staircase that early Christmas morning. How had I allowed myself to be so dreadfully careless? Thoughtlessly, I tried to hide behind the large Christmas tree.

It happened to be you, Kyung Mi, and my eyes couldn’t believe it. I tried even harder than ever to remain hidden, but it was impossible. In my rush, my backpack had obviously caught itself on one of the tree’s branches. You definitely saw it and eventually myself behind those tinted spectacles of yours. We blinked quietly back then, allowing the silence to take place as the lights flickered rhythmically. Since you already knew of my presence, I freed my backpack and left it beside me. Then I waited. Waited to see what you would say. And I would elude of your questions.

“Gongchan Shik…” you had mentioned curiously and innocently back then. “What are you doing here so early?” You completed your inquiry with an imperceptible tilt of the head. I must confess that my words were slightly questionable.

“… I’m your Christmas present this year, Kyung Mi,” I joked, hoping you would not see the tears that threatened to fall. “Come and get me?”

You smiled. It was that simple. You said nothing else until you drew near to me. I recall how I was, being a runaway fifteen year old with the bag at my feet, shaking because of my mixed emotions.

“Is that so?” you had echoed thoughtfully, standing about fifteen centimeters away from me. I was still smiling then, trying to mask my dark intentions. I had no want to corrode you.

“Then tell me, why is my gift without a ribbon?” the fourteen year old you questioned poignantly. “It is not right.” No matter what analogy you were trying, I was willing to hear them all even if I didn’t understand. Just anything so that I could be distracted of the tears that were welling up, the ones that tried to force their way past my eyes.

“You are loved, you know?” you suddenly whispered, and your fingers was quick enough to wipe my first tear. How impudent of me to have not noticed how you were going to trap me into admitting my plans. But I was so, so glad, to have known that someone understood.

And so with a cup of hot chocolate you intended to make for yourself earlier, you gave it to me and I know I proceeded to cry about my distant father, about my dead mother, about pretty much everything that I kept away from you pertaining my family ties. I spoke of things that meant a lot to me. I felt wimpy and idiotic, but you only protested by claiming that this was surely what best friends were for. So with a final pat on my shoulder, you waved off your older best friend about seven in the morning, bidding him — well, I — good luck for later. I returned, assuming that my father would be furious, but when he opened the door wearily, a relieved smile was worn on his face. Why, he even made it a point to hug me. I remember falling down on that snow-trodden path, absolutely surprised. My father explained with extreme awkwardness that he didn’t exactly know how to deal with me like a good parent would, and he was so sorry that he made me feel rejected. He didn’t know how much a Christmas Eve dinner would have meant to me throughout the past few years, or even for New Year’s Eve, really. So he sincerely asked for my forgiveness, and asked about Christmas dinner. I said yes.

Later, I know I thanked you for being there for me. I remember how you kept saying that it was a definite thing a best friend would do.

“Best friends stand up for each other, you know?” were the words you said. I nodded, thinking of its truth. And our relationship interweaved so tightly that I cared to such intensity, that when your face fell that Saturday when I took you out, I had to ask if you were alright. Had I said something wrong? I watched you meaningfully as I bent down to your height level so that I could comprehend your response better. Your eyes lit up then, ever so radiantly, saying that you were fine. I believe you then, no longer anxious. It would have been horrifying if the day ended badly, in my opinion. So you said you were fine, and that was great then.

I should have known that you were able to stow sadness behind your bright eyes.