You could’ve saved her, the girl you loved so much, his brain convinced him, if you’d just done something, maybe begged a little harder, been more careful, and even maybe didn’t even woo her. Such thoughts haunted him all the way to his deathbed and throughout his many lifetime, even up to this one.

I cannot undo what I have done; I can’t un-sing a song that’s sung. And the saddest thing about my regret – I can’t forgive me and you can’t forget.

After Jiyong tells his story, his mother hugs him tightly, kisses his face, murmurs comforting words in hopes of soothing the boy’s wounded heart.

It is said that time is the medicine to healing all wounds. Jiyong wonders if that saying included soulmates too.

At nineteen, he was recruited into an entertainment company under the encouragement of his mother. His mentor was a man with a sweet smile and delicate features. One of the first pieces of advice he gave to Jiyong was, “Write what you feel.” Then, he adds with smile, “That includes everything, whether fictional or not!”

When Jiyong gets home that day, he trances his fingers over his worn out notebook, thinking. Write how you feel, he remembers, and, daringly picks up a pen to write. His pen didn’t stop for a second, not until he had finished.

The people you love become ghosts inside of you and like this you keep them alive.

He writes about his life as a prince, his first glance at Yumi, and their first conversation. Not much thought goes into it, he just, well, writes. When he’s done, he’s written numerous song lyrics, and the feeling of shame and embarrassment overcomes over him. Certainly he didn’t do her justice, he never could pen down how she was like, at least, not with words. He shoves the pages in a drawer and chooses to forget whatever he had just written.

The next day Jiyong had gotten to the studio earlier in hopes of being able to pen something down but the moment his mentor enteres the room, immediately let out a groan, which catches Jiyong’s attention. Afraid that he had done something wrong, he looks up at his mentor as he picks up Jiyong’s many crushed ball of paper, decorated in ink and reprimanded him, “Don’t let me catch you treating your lyrics like that again, got it? Everything you pen down is certainly important, you have to keep it, you’ll never know when you’ll ever need them again!”

His words, as always, haunted Jiyong as he made his way home. He grudgingly put his lyrics in a binder, expecting it to never see the light of day again.

Jiyong is now twenty seven, and is practically tearing through his binders, searching for inspiration. Writing is difficult when you don’t even know what to write, and it is especially infuriating when that’s what pays your bills, clothes you and feeds you.

He sighs and sets yet another binder aside, reaching for his coffee and practically pours it down his throat, almost regretting it when it sets the roof of his mouth on fire as he hops around the room, hoping to soothe his burning throat. His latest solo album had been a hit, unexpectedly, his fans eating it up and so did the music programmes. Now everyone was waiting expectantly for his next album to come out. The album was still gaining him profit, but once its glamor wore off, he’d have to produce another album to keep himself alive.

Jiyong sighs. Although the album was a hit, it did not meet his target. Now, don’t get him wrong, he’s certainly grateful to everyone for loving his album enough for it to shoot straight up the charts but it wasn’t enough to buy his parents a nice vacation house and to replace their worn out car.

Setting the drink aside, he grabs another binder, wincing when he sees that it’s from what he calls the Dark Times. One can easily tell that he’s desperate when he even spares a glance at that binder, a binder that he had expected to never touch again. He had been wanting to throw it out, but the weight of his mentor’s words clutched his heart and eventually, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out.

He brushes away the thin layer of dust on the cover, inhales deeply, and flips it open.

Well, the writing isn’t as bad as he remembers, and he’s got some plotline written down. He hums thoughtfully, flipping through the pages until he reaches a certain point.

It’s the one about Yumi, he realizes, and it isn’t as bad as he remembered it to be.

Slowly, he picks up his notebook and pen and begins to write.

Have you ever laid in bed at night? And thought about everything? Wanting to scream and cry but, don’t want to wake anyone. Instead you just sit there and the pain just breaks inside of you.

It took him two years and then some to write it all down, to produce the melody, to record the songs, mostly because he actually has to go back and read everything. Every time he relives those memories, he almost stops himself every time it got to the part around her death, he still couldn’t bear to face it and Seungri had to literally read aloud the paragraphs while Youngbae held Jiyong tight so that he wouldn’t try to avoid it.

But he’s giddy and nervous when he sends a copy off to his mother, awkwardly standing in the middle of the hall as she listens patiently.

On the second track she says, “This is about you and Yumi.”

 “Yes,” He says a little too quickly. “Call me when you finish it and tell me if I should release it.” He dashes off and buys himself a latte for comfort. He’s never gone into detail about Yumi with his mother, just given her a brief summary. This album, though, delves into the beginning of his relationship with her. If he publishes it, it really will turn out to be all or nothing, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to take that risk.

Love isn’t rapid heartbeats and weak knees. Its safety, you feel secure, your heart feels at home and that’s what I feel with you.

Days later, Jiyong is scrolling through Instagram when his mother calls, “What do you think, Omma?” He asks, trying his best not to sound nervous. He keeps his eyes trained on a fanart drawn by one of his fans.

“Release it.” She says immediately.

Jiyong blinks in surprise, “That’s it?”

“People will love it, dearie, I know they will. You know they love these sort of things. You don’t have to tell anyone it’s about your past life, either.”

“I suppose so.” Jiyong muses. “I think I’ll wait until the excitement about my previous album dies down.”

He doesn’t end up waiting.

Jiyong is twenty-eight and exhausted.

He lounges behind a table reading Gaeul as his crew starts cleaning up the set. He’d help, really, but he’s just had to deal with hundreds of fans squealing and handing over presents and asking for autographs and selcas and he just wants to relax. Plus, there are some fans standing by, holding their albums to their chests and looking at him uncertainly. Sooner or later they’ll ask for their albums to be signed too, should they muster up the courage before he leaves, that is.

He’s read Gaeul countless of times, but he always ends up picking it up again just purely for the sake of nostalgia. He just naturally gravitates to it, it seems, especially so while he was writing his new album. Perhaps it was a source of comfort for his hurt soul.

We carry these things inside us that no one else can see. They hold us down like anchors, they drown us out at sea.

Writing the album was painful, negative thoughts haunted his mind every day, it was almost like reliving all those moments with Yumi. It left Jiyong emotionally drained, and as the fans asked about the meaning of the songs and who the girl was, he just smiled weakly and said, “It all comes from my imagination, so you can interpret it in any way.” He’d worked nonstop on the recently released and definitely needed a holiday; producing a new track was the last thing on his mind.

“We’ll be leaving soon.” His manager assures him when he gives him a tired look. “Just endure a while more. The car will be here in a few minutes.”

Jiyong sighs and indulges himself in Gaeul.

A shadow loomed over Jiyong and he looks up from his book to greet them. She held a copy of his album and smiles gently, lashes fluttering as she nervously straightens the hem of her dress.

“Gaeul, huh?” She says, glancing at the book on the table offhandedly. “It’s such a depressing book, no?”

Jiyong bites his lip, the phrase so familiar that something in his stomach twists unpleasantly, yet he doesn’t mention a word, he didn’t want to get his hopes up, after all anyone could easily make such an offhanded comment.

There’s some people in this world who you can just love and love and love no matter what.

“Though I guess,” The lady continues, “the producer of these sad songs is expected to read such tragedies.”

“But you bought the album.” Jiyong reminds her.

“I felt the sadness mixed with happiness in the songs, though. I don’t think you’re all that depressing.” Her smile softens. “I have a question, though.”

“Hm?”

“Do the main leads find each other in their next life?” The lady stares openly, earnestly, her eyes wide as if staring at Jiyong’s face will grant her the answer.

Jiyong smiles. “The million dollar question. That is for the listener to decide."

“I think they do.” The lady says firmly. “After all, soulmates always find each other. No matter how many lifetimes have passed.”

“Hm. Do you want me to sign this?” Jiyong replies, and at the nodding of her head, he grabs a marker and flips open the photobook that she passed him.

There, on the very first page, scrawled in familiar shaky handwriting reads:

I’m so sorry I took so long.

I hate waiting. But if waiting means being able to be with you, I’ll wait for as long as forever to be with you.

Jiyong lets out a noise somewhere in between a laugh and a sob.

Don’t make me wait a century. I can’t spend a century alone. I’ll die from a broken heart.

“Um,” He clears his throat, voice nasal and broken and even then, he asks professionally, “Whom should I address this to?”

He looks up, meeting eyes sparkling with joy & mischief.

“Let's make it…Yumi.” Jiyong’s soulmate says.

And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d still choose you.