I first met her at a crosswalk on a muggy summer night. Downtown, flashing neon signs arching high above, and in between the shadows there she was, illuminated in turns as the bright pink of her hair catches the strobing lights. 

The streets were deserted at 3am in the morning, and she teeters on three inch stilettos, waif-like in the darkness. I was no knight in shining armour, but even I knew it was not safe for a lone girl on the streets at this time, and I had a trusty steed beneath me. 

I slow to a halt by her, even as she waits for the signal to let her pass. This close, her short bobbed hair is carelessly tossed, and she is pale in the ghastly illumination of the sickly green neon above. Multiple piercings adorned the shell of the one ear I could see, and her features were delicate despite her bold styling. I whistled low in my throat; I knew a beauty when I saw one.

Perhaps to show that I had no ill intentions, I remove my helmet in a simple gesture of courtesy, long raven locks spilling out as I did. I had my hair loosely bunned up before putting on my helmet, but it had been a few hours of just cruising down the city’s streets feeling the wind against my skin, and it must have come loose in the meantime. All the better, I meant no harm to this stranger at the crosswalk, and even if I were dressed all in black on a rumbling silver beast streaked in ebony and blue, I was still a woman. Not a threat.

“It’s a little late to be out alone, don’t you think?”

I swear i wasn’t really trying to hit on her, but a simple, honest curiosity drove the question. She had turned to face me when I pulled up next to her, poised to make a run for it had I attempted to make a grab at her, but her shoulders visibly relaxed when my face was revealed to her. 

“I could say the same for you too.”

There was a bold sassiness to her tone, a kind of casual familiarity in it that both intrigued and perturbed me. She was looking at me not as one would regard a stranger, but I couldn’t remember ever seeing a girl like her. I think I would have remembered someone like her. 

But lots of people come and go in my life. I was everywhere, all at once, busy with a hundred and one things. Never slowing down, always working on something. I could have missed someone. I was a popular girl. Got into university on a scholarship, secretary on the student council, likely to be the next president once the seniors graduated. People knew me, even if I didn’t always know them. 

And certainly, no one expected an honour student to be dressed in biker leathers and cruising the streets of Seoul on a metal monster in the dead of night. I had so few freedoms sometimes, but I could always steal a little back, here and there. This was just one of many ways.

My brief moment of confusion must have shown on my face, because she laughs suddenly, a carefree, careless laugh that echoes through the electric buzz of downtown, bouncing across the asphalt as the fumes rise all around us. 

“You don’t remember me do you?”

I didn’t even have time to react, because she was suddenly by my elbow, seeming even smaller next to the sleek motorcycle I remained mounted on. Fingers brush my arm, electric even through the leather, as she smiles winsomely up at me.

“Won’t you take me for a ride now, Choi Yuna?”

Her name, she tells me, is Eunha.

Now I can say for certain that is most definitely not her real name, and even if it were, I didn’t recognize it. I had a decent head for names, and that just didn’t ring true. It was the name she gave though, and I had to accept it.

In a way, it suits her. When she laughs, eyes sparkling with mirth, I am reminded of the stars studding the night sky, obscured now by the electric haze of the downtown lights in the heart of Seoul, but I had been raised a country girl. I remember what the unfiltered horizon looks like.

We lose so much over the years. How much more will I lose?

And yes, of course I had taken her on that ride then. How could I not? She knew my name, and I was always so very curious. Too curious for my own good, perhaps. 

Her arms were small and skinny, but they wrapped around me trustingly as we sped down the ghost-like streets. I pick the least travelled routes, letting whim guide me. I wanted to be lost now, with neither aim nor destination, a minor rebellion against my strictly ordered life in the day.

She does not ask where we are going, and I do not ask why she was out at the crosswalk at that time. The roar of the engine silences all conversation, and for that I was a little grateful. I was never very good at sharing how I really felt, and this was me, the real me, not the perfect little straight A student who never failed at anything set before her. 

My daylight self always knew what to say and where to go, what to do. I only had to do what was expected of me. Following a path set up for you wasn’t all that hard. I had the ability, and all I had to do was do as I was told. No imagination required.

But in the dark of night, I shed that side like an unneeded outer garment, donning sleek leathers instead and getting on the motorcycle I had saved for ages to get on my allowance and prize money from competitions. Away from the light, I could steal a moment to just be, to let myself dream, the wind whistling in my ears. I could be someone other than Choi Yuna, honour student. I could be...me, whoever that was.

We wind up by the river somehow, a little before dawn, probably on the outskirts of the city. A quick check on the GPS confirmed this. Eunha’s cheeks were flushed from the ride, and when I helped her off the bike, her hands were cold even through the thin fabric of my riding gloves. I frown almost unconsciously as I wrap both hands around hers, trying to warm them. I was always warm, and even though I normally eschewed clothes that covered my arms, I was still sensibly dressed in a biker jacket and armored pants for safe riding. I might be performing a small rebellion, but not at the risk of my own safety. 

Eunha is a mirror to my aesthetic of black studded leathers that night, just a tad more feminine perhaps. A thin choker frames her delicate neck, and her makeup is smoky, heavily accented around the eyes to give her a more mature look. She is still so very small though. I could pick her up easily and envelop her in my arms, should I so choose. 

I don’t do that of course. That would be rude. I barely knew her. But here I was, warming her hands in mid-July, like a fool who didn’t know any better. Who gets cold in the middle of summer? But all I knew was that she felt cold, and I could help. So I did. 

She reverses the grip then, suddenly, and then I’m being tugged along with her, to lean against the railing of the bridge overlooking the river, a black rippling mirror snaking beneath us. My knees may have shaken a little; I never was very good with heights. 

If she notices, she does not say anything, but her grip on my hand was comforting regardless. 

I do not remember how we started talking, but we did, and as the sun peeks over the far horizon, setting the river afire in a halo of reflected light, we are less strangers yet not quite friends; she refuses to tell me how she knows me. 

I do not begrudge her that little mystery, even as she leans against my shoulder in companionable silence, our fingers interlocked on the cool metal of the railing. I had shed my gloves somewhere along the way, and my jacket was now around her shoulders. I hadn’t been imagining things after all, she really was cold, and it was the least I could do.

“It’s getting late...or should I say, early?” There is laughter in her voice, a sly cheer that was both coy and inviting at the same time. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare arms. Our conversations had gone everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I knew a few of the things she liked and disliked, but I still didn’t know exactly who she was. 

“I should take you home then.” I needed to be home too. I had a free morning today, which was what prompted the all-nighter I had just pulled, but I still had things to do in the afternoon. If I went home now, I could manage a quick nap before pulling on my other self as a disguise. I was no Cinderella to have a midnight curfew, but it was close enough. Small freedoms had their limits. In the end, I had to return to my cage.

A small shadow flickers in her eyes, but it passes so quickly I took it to be a trick of the wolf light of dawn then; I know better now, and wonder why I didn’t ask more. I should have.

But I didn’t, and when she lazily tells me an address to deliver her to, I comply quietly, inputting the coordinates into my GPS. I could follow instructions at least. I always could.

The district I ride into is old, deep in the heart of town, townhouses near prime real estate, property you couldn’t buy even if you had the money. Most families passed these places down across generations, guarding their properties and their inheritance jealously. Old money then.

I do not comment as I let her alight in front of the stately building, worn in a way that spoke both of age and a peculiar timelessness of history deep embedded, rather than that of wear and tear. Eunha is dwarfed by that building, and when she turns to wave goodbye, on the stoop framed by the maw of the daunting entrance, it seems almost to swallow her whole. 

I flip down the visor of my helmet after a cursory salute, gunning the engine to leave the area. People here had cars, often luxury and almost always chauffeured. Motorcycles like mine were less seen. I knew my place, and it was not here.

I thought it would be the last I would see of this strange girl, but as I parked my beloved ride in my trusted mechanic’s garage, I felt my phone buzz in the pocket of my jacket. 

Retrieving it, I couldn’t help the soft burst of laughter that spilled from my lips. Somewhere along the way, when I hadn’t been paying attention, the sneaky girl from earlier had saved her number on my phone and used it to text herself, and there were several missed calls and a few unread messages in the meantime. I hadn’t noticed on my ride back, preoccupied with my own thoughts, but I certainly noticed it now. How could I not?

I would be seeing more of her then, I suppose. Somehow, I found myself looking forward to it. There was so much more to learn about this girl, and I couldn’t wait to unravel the mysteries surrounding her. 

It would be like the collision of two stars, both plugged into their own inevitable courses. I just didn’t know it then. And even if I did, so what?

I would choose her all over again. Always, every time.

Our next meeting was at a late night horror movie showing, in a deserted little theater so out of the way I hadn’t even realized there would be one there. 

Eunha is the one who tells me of it, and I pick her up just a little before midnight, her sneaking out with a glint of mischief on her tiny face, hopping on behind me without hesitation. She was not supposed to be out, clearly, but then again, neither was I.

This was our shared secret, and we felt all the more closer for it. I knew what I was running from, and I accepted that she probably had her own reasons. What those were, I had no reason to ask. If she wanted to tell me, she would. 

There was a new piercing on her other ear this next time we met, and she chimed in the wind as it whistled by us, a pleasant tune that I harmonized with under my breath. Pressed up against my back, perhaps she could even hear it, or at least the vibrations deep within my chest. 

She is cold as always, and a little breathless as we dismounted. I hold her close automatically, and she steps into my arms easily, seeking the warmth of my body. I do not begrudge her this. She fits perfectly in the circle of my arms anyway.

If we were too intimate, there are few others to judge us. A scattered crowd, no more than a handful, watching some art house horror flick Eunha had recommended even as she burrows into me, not truly out of fear, even though she squeals at the scares. She is all the more adorable for it, and I find myself growing ever fonder of her. How could anyone be so cute?

The movie is over all too soon, and we find ourselves at an all night diner after, sharing ice cream and whispered gossip with the strange intimacy of strangers-turned-friends. 

I never understood before how people could talk for hours over seemingly nothing, but with Eunha, time seemed to melt away in her company. We laugh and chatter over the most inconsequential things, and she snuggles into me like a bunny seeking warmth as always. We had only spent time with each other for the second time now, but it feels like I had known her forever.

I send her back before dawn kisses the sky, and in the long shadows cast by the fully functional streetlights by her grand home, she tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek; a quick, fleeting brush of contact, before she pulls away, escaping with a giggle up the steps before I could even comprehend what just happened. 

Her laughter rings in my ear to this day; as does the burning sensation that warmed my cheeks that night, even as I shut it away by putting my helmet back on. As if it could cover the thumping of my own heart.

We meet irregularly and infrequently in the upcoming months, less as the season shifts to winter. Eunha is always cold, and I worry often for her, though she brushes it off always. An old problem, she says. I have you anyway, she would argue, using me as her own personal heater. 

I didn’t mind it that much, and I was always happy to see her. But I too was busy, as the demands on the day strain my time and energy away. Eunha understands, though she pesters me irregularly throughout the day. Have you eaten, one message would read, and then immediately it would jump to her craving for burgers. She had salad again that day, she complains, and made me promise to take her out for steak and fries next time.

I leave my phone on for her messages now. Always before, I would turn it off during meetings and important functions. But I didn’t want to miss anything, and I didn’t want to keep her waiting. In between moments, I would check for her messages, sneaking a reply where I could. 

It felt as if the secrets of the night were slipping through the cracks into my day self. I couldn’t say I minded too much. It was a chore juggling the demands of my day self with the desires of the night, but for Eunha, I was willing to make that sacrifice. 

There was an unseen pressure on me too, the subtle awareness that my mystery girl came from old money, while I was solidly middle class and couldn’t afford to not do well in school if I wanted to retain my scholarship and succeed in life. 

Even then, a part of me chafed at the bit. I didn’t want to do this, not really, but at the same time, if I wanted to be free, I needed the money to do so. Life wasn’t always so kind, and reality was harsh. I knew this, and for that reason, I worked hard. I couldn’t afford to be myself, not if I wasn’t free to do so.

Eunha understands, and that little comfort is enough. Sometimes, in our late night meetings, she makes me sing for her. I hadn’t sung properly since middle school, though I still kept in practice in my stolen moments, singing scales where no one could hear or catch me at it. It was just a hobby, not something to be taken seriously, but somehow, Eunha had known anyway.

I love your voice, she sighs dreamily into my ear. You probably don’t remember, but we sang together before.

Another clue then, but she clams up after, shaking her head with her lips shut tight, a dark mischief in her eyes. Only if you remember it yourself, Yuna. No more freebies for you.

That was quite a while back then. I had been in the choir up until middle school, before shifting to focus on academics in high school. It hurt to give up something I loved, but there were only so many hours in the day for me to excel at everything else. I wasn’t born a genius, so I had to work for it. The easy capability others saw was propped up by blood, sweat and tears. 

Every step I had taken had been carved out with precision. Do well in school, graduate with honours, get a good job. A safe life, following a well trodden path. It wasn’t exciting, but it was predictable. It was what my parents wanted for me, what I should want for myself.

Why then, was I drawn to forbidden treasure like a moth to a flame? My late night jaunts had led me onto an inevitable collision to Eunha, and before I knew it, she had become the axis upon which my world turned. It would never work out between us, the rational part of me argued, so why bother?

But I wanted to see her. That was all. She looked at me like I never looked at myself, like I was more than the shadow that stalked in my skin under the daylight. In her eyes, I could find myself. And that, more than anything else, was precious beyond measure.

I would tell her, I promise myself. After graduation, after I had the means to stand by her side, head unbowed. Wait for me, I never did say, but I never had to. 

She was already waiting for me, all this time. Where did I know her from before?

Always a mystery, but only one of many. I would discover them all in time.

Time spun and unwound like a tapestry in motion, framing the snapshots of our lives. We saw each other so little, but it still felt like we were rarely apart. Eunha’s messages come in spurts, bursts of rapidfire messages before long stretches of silence. I replied whenever I could, but as I went into senior year and took on more duties, even the moments of freedom I could steal dwindled away. 

It felt bad to abandon Eunha to her own devices, trapped in her ivory tower -- her own words. Did that make me her knight in a biker jacket, I joked back at her once. She grins at me then, and asks if I would slay a dragon for her, though she retracts her words before I could reply.

I still remember her finger on my lips, silencing me before I could make any empty promises. There is a strange sadness in her eyes then, which made me wonder, what dragons haunted this princess? It made me want to protect her, and I do in fact pull her in for a hug, letting her rest comfortably against my shoulder. She does so love leaning against me like this, so I indulge her whenever I can. It was the least I could do.

Sometimes she falls asleep mid sentence, head drooping against my shoulder, and I cuddle her close, content with her closeness, her presence. Something about her calms me, sparks a song in the withered depths of my soul, and in those moments I scribble disjointed notes as she dozes against me, silent muse to a long abandoned love. 

It was most difficult in the final stretch towards my thesis. I had no time to take away at all, and my poor bike rusted away in the garage for months on end as I slaved away, determined to make the most out of the paper. If I had to do something, I was determined at least to do it well.

Eunha is understanding throughout, which only makes me feel guilty. I tell her everything; my frustrations, my struggles, the latest pitfall in my research. She is far more aware of what’s going on in my day than I am on some days, and more than once I had food deliveries arriving unannounced on my doorstep, her way of reminding me to eat. 

When I finally send in my paper, collapsing into bed for a well deserved 12 hours of uninterrupted sleep, I wake up again to a tiny, pallid figure standing at my door with a bucket of chicken in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, a big smile on her face.

She had never come to me before this, but given that she had bullied my address out of me for the deliveries, of course she had known exactly where I lived. I stood stunned then at the doorway, my hair a goddamn bird’s nest from my rumpled sleep, dressed in nothing more than a crop top and shorts, face unwashed and certainly in no state for visitors. 

She laughs at my state, pushing past me to enter the tiny one room apartment. The place was in an organized state of chaos, meaning that no one else knew where to find anything, but I knew exactly where everything was. It really wasn’t that bad...as if. Why was she here again?

I must have said it out loud, because the devilish bunny turns to regard me with a pout.

“Because, Choi Yuna, I haven't seen you in almost three months and you’re finally free of the devil paper chaining you down,” she wiggles the bottle of wine. “Thought you could use the celebration.”

I make a slightly strangled noise in my throat, then dash off into the tiny attached bathroom as the rest of my brain cells finally make a belated arrival onto the scene, leaving the sound of tinkling laughter at my back.

As I splash water onto my face in an attempt to both freshen and wake myself up, I try to process the fact that my crush was currently in my home, and I had just made an absolute fool of myself in front of her just now. 

Play it cool, Yuna, I chide myself. Of course I couldn’t look perfect right after waking up. It could have been worse. I couldn’t think of any examples, but I wanted to be optimistic. 

Twenty minutes later I shuffle reluctantly back out. All my cosmetics were out in the main room, so all I could really do was wash up and make myself as presentable as possible, aka untangle my hair and look less like death warmed over. 

Eunha had made herself at home in the meantime, commandeering the table to lay out the small feast she had procured. Apparently more than just chicken, and she had even brought a glass for the wine. 

“Only one glass?” I ask curiously, settling down next to her. “Sorry about the mess by the way.”

“I can’t drink,” she pauses, “but you deserve one after all that crap you went through.”

She was right. I take the glass gratefully, and my initial awkwardness fades over a steady flow of alcohol and food as we fall into the familiar rhythms of conversation.

I had missed this. Missed her. The alcohol loosens my tongue just a little more than usual, and we were ensconced in our usual distance from each other, which to say, was practically nil. From there, it wouldn’t take very much for me to lean in to kiss her. Whether or not I would do that though, was still a matter of time. Or perhaps more alcohol would do the trick. Who knew?

The pink in her hair had faded out over the months, and the last I had seen her she was a dirty blonde with her roots growing in black. Three months since, and her short hair had grown out a little, and she had dyed it back to black.

Facing her like this, gazing into her eyes, I feel a strange sense of deja vu, like I had seen her somewhere before. Her cheeks were puffed out a little from the food, and then suddenly, something clicks in my head.

“Jung Eunbi, the transfer student.”

Her eyes crinkle into a smile as she swallows her food, and I once again notice the hollowness of her cheeks. She was so thin now, and when her hair had been different shades of neon, it had changed her appearance sufficiently that I hadn’t recognized her right away.

See, the Jung Eunbi I knew had long black hair, slightly chubby cheeks, and was always shy and quiet. A transfer student, who hadn’t even made it through a whole school year before having to quit again due to health reasons. 

Our only point of contact had been at choir anyway, where I helped her with breathing exercises and the scales. We hadn’t even been in the same class, and even if we had, she had missed half the days due to illness. Still, she came in with top grades for midterms despite the lackluster attendance, and had been the center of gossip for a while.

I hadn’t paid all that much attention to her then though, more interested in choir and trying to keep up with my weaker subjects. Like I said, we only met through choir. I might not have remembered her as deeply, but clearly, I had made an impression on her somehow.

“What took you so long?” She was pouting now, the edges of her newly black hair. “Did the hair really make that much of a difference?”

It did, but more than that, it was her entire attitude shift that had thrown me off the scent to begin with. She was nothing like the Jung Eunbi I remembered, meek and quiet and always hanging onto my every word, now that I recall. The Eunha I got to know now was outgoing, confident and bold in turns. It was as if she had gone through a wholesale change after middle school. Six or more years could do that to a person.

“Are you...better now?” I stumble over my words, trying to process how Eunha could be the same quiet Eunbi I used to know. Even if I hadn’t been paying attention to the gossip, it was no secret that Eunha had had to leave school for health reasons, and she was often weak and breathless even during choir practice. I had had to spend extra time with her to figure out a way for her to refine her technique in lieu of that.

Something complicated flashes through her eyes for a second, so swiftly that I missed it entirely the first time. She covers it with a chuckle, leaning in to bop me on the nose with an oily finger.

“Would I be running around like this if I weren’t?”

She had a point. I relax my shoulders, staring openly at her as I try to reconcile her past and present selves together. How had I missed it? It wasn’t like her features had changed that much, but the shorter bob made her look more lively in comparison. I liked her better like this, for sure.

My gaze falls down to her lips, and something in me moves, spurred on by a combination of impulse and probably the alcohol in my system. Jung Eunbi -- Eunha, had remembered me for almost ten years, recognizing me almost instantly when we had re-met each other at the crossroads. I, fool that I was, hadn’t even realized for months on end. 

The kiss I place on the corner of her lips was shy, awkward, and clumsy. It had been entirely on impulse, and belatedly I realize I should probably have said something before pulling a move like that. I was still wondering if I should apologize as I pulled back, but then Eunha takes a deep breath, and pulls me back in to lock our lips together. Not a simple peck on the cheek like she usually does, or the coward’s kiss I had just pulled earlier, but direct lip on lip contact.

I felt her breath mingle with mine, and though my mind is slow to react, my body is not; I pull her onto my lap easily, her half scrambling in to make it easier, our mouths greedy for each other. You’re beautiful, I murmur in between kisses, and she giggles, though she runs out of breath way too easily and too soon.

I spare her then, but I do not lose my hold on her, and she leans in familiarly against my shoulder, her breath running rough spurts against my neck. There is comfort like this, in our closeness, a carbon copy of all the other nights we had spent together. As if they had all been in practice for this moment.

“I wanted to see you again,” it is Eunha who speaks first, curled up in my arms. “You were so different, so full of life,” here, a touch of envy, “I wanted to be just like that.”

“You’re lively enough for me now,” I smile into her hair, nuzzling her fondly as I circle my arms protectively around her. “I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you if you revved it up more.”

She seizes the front of my top suddenly then, a peculiar urgency in her tone as she shifts on my lap to face me.

“Don’t lose sight of who you are, Yuna. You’re worth more than the tiny box you put yourself in.”

My heart skips suddenly, as I lock gazes with her earnest eyes. There is a seriousness there, and...fear, somehow? Worry, certainly, and a strange, distant pain.

“I loved you before I even knew what love was.” Of course, the confession would come from her first. I would have stuttered a reply, but she silences me again with a finger, and I quiet down for her to finish.

“When you took that helmet off, I knew it was you right away. You still have the same fire, Yuna. But you’re letting them crush it away. It makes me sad. You deserve so much more.” She shakes her head.

“You are at your most beautiful doing what you love. Don’t let them take it away from you. Seize life, like I am.” Here, an ironic smile. “I won’t let life hold me down. You taught me that, Yuna, when you encouraged me to sing even though I was too weak back then. Don’t forget your own lessons.”

I had forgotten that. Somewhere along the way, faced with the realities of life, I had chosen the coward’s path, the safe path, the expected path. The easier way, because it made sense in the light of all the cruel truths society had in store for me and my ilk. How many of us could chase our dreams, and succeed? Far too few.

It was enough to be mediocre, I had half convinced myself somewhere along the way. Enough to do the expected, though even then, I did it well. I had my pride still. 

Eunha’s words were like a hammer over my head, bringing me to shame. Her fingers were gentle on my face, and then I realized I was crying. I wanted so much to believe, but I didn’t dare to. Her whispered words of encouragement was the balm I so desperately needed, to salve my wounded dreams, ripped away from the depths of my soul.

I’m here, she whispers, just like you were with me, the image of you, keeping me going all these years. I sob myself to sleep, exhaustion both emotional and physical a double whammy on my system. She stays with me, holding my hand, never letting go, as I drift into an uncertain rest.

As long as she was with me, I could believe. I could hold on a little longer. She helped me to believe in myself, that I could be me, and not be buried by life itself.

I owe her everything and more. She said I saved her, but in the end, who was it who saved whom?

I wake up alone in the morning, missing her cool warmth, the comfortable weight of her on my shoulder, as she always sleeps pillowed on my outstretched arm, leaving it numb when I awaken, but it was a sweet burden to bear. 

We spent many nights like this, whispering hopes and dreams to each other, pushing each other forward. She was my strength as much as I was hers. Every day was a race against the present, trying to seize life from the jaws of inevitable decay. 

We lived life to the fullest. Against her parents’ wishes, she moved in with me, but she compromised with them -- she would come back to visit at least three times a week. Despite the initial exasperation, her parents had given in. A little too easily, now that I think about it.

I know why now, of course. But early on, I had not thought of it, simply rejoicing in our simple days together. Our lives were ahead of us, and we had each other. That, if nothing else, was blessing enough. 

With her support, I finished school -- of course, I had come too far to not at least complete that rite of passage. With her encouragement, I dived straight into yet another field of study, something I had always wanted to do -- music. 

Of course, I was not entirely impractical. I worked a day job in a legal firm, but took classes in the evening. Someone had to pay the bills, even though Eunha’s parents sent her a substantial allowance every month. I refused to be a freeloader though, and Eunha lets me be, a fond eye roll her only response as she sends me off to work with a peck on my cheek and welcomes me home with a full spread of dinner when I return, exhausted.

I was happier than I had been in years. Eunha stays home for the most part -- how she passes her days, I rarely thought to ask, but she would always be sharing the latest update about her favorite movies and dramas, and fool that I was, assuming that was all there was to it.

She is lethargic, but then she is always tired, and I sometimes about it, when she nods off in the middle of a cuddle. Her smile is sweet and sad somehow at this, and why did I never think to ask? 

Perhaps I was just too content to have her in my life, too willing to let her pull blinders over my eyes, even as I leaned on her, needing her, to give me courage to chase my dreams. She was comfort and muse both. I was madly in love, and the sweet assurance of her was enough to soothe away my doubts. 

I write incomplete tunes, picking up the guitar again after years of neglect, often annoying the neighbours with my practice. The walls are too thin, but as I get better, the complaints get fewer. The ahjussi downstairs would always thump the ceiling regardless though. Maybe I shouldn’t have been practicing in the early hours. But what would you have me do when inspiration strikes?

All my songs are songs of her. I sing to her, for her, and she knows it, a content smile playing on her lips as she lies with her head on my lap, my voice lulling her to sleep. The first time I surprise her with a whole song on our third anniversary together, her joy had been a thing of beauty. It fuels me even now. It will fuel me always.

But our time together had always been on a countdown, unseen and deadly, and when I return home one day, finding her collapsed by the table, I panicked then, dropping everything to rush her to the hospital. 

Her parents had arrived shortly afterwards, a grim worry colouring their expressions. They do not blame me as I thought they would, for taking their daughter away from them and not caring for her adequately. On the contrary, her mother had been kind, grateful, and even a little apologetic at the same time.

I’ve never seen her more happy except when she was with you. It’s not your fault, you know. She just never wanted to tell you about it. My poor, selfish girl. She just wanted you, her precious thing, all to herself, in the time she had left.

The time she had left. I was numb. Foreign words like genetic disorder, no cure fizzled its way through my uncomprehending brain. I was too wrung out for tears. When the emergency lights blink out, I shuffle like a zombie to the ICU to behold the frail form of the love of my life. They had just managed to pull her back from multiple organ failure, this time. Her entire body was a ticking time bomb. She wouldn’t make it very far past 30, that was the doctor’s estimate. 

We had good years together, she and I. Our very first argument happens for the first time after she wakes from her collapse. Why didn’t you tell me? I was hurt, betrayed even. Would knowing have changed how I felt about her? I don’t know. I couldn’t answer, when she slaps me with that. She was afraid, I could tell, that I would leave if I had known she was racing towards death.

But all my anger, my hurt, did not sum up against the totality of my fear. I feared losing her, and in the aftermath of our spat, I crawled back to her, begging forgiveness, begging her to be careful. Regardless of how we had started, I loved her now, and there was no taking it back from there. If we could cheat death for a few more months, a few more years, that would have to be enough. It just had to be.

We wept together, her in anger at the inevitability of her fate, me in fear of losing her forever. She was a fighter, my Eunha, and when she was finally discharged, we had our second argument over me treating her like she was a porcelain doll about to break. She wanted to live like a normal person, enjoying the things she liked. She didn’t want to be reminded of the sword over her head all the time. It was hard enough being aware of her impending mortality, and she didn’t need me adding to it.

I want to live, Yuna! So much! Do you think I want to be born like this? I want nothing more than to grow old with you, but I can’t...I can’t! I hate this, hate myself so much, you have no idea…

We both break down into tears after that, exhausted by the creeping death gnawing within her. I promise her then that we would do all the things she wanted to do, cram in as much life as we could in whatever time she had left. I would never leave her side until then.

I put my pride aside then, accepting the charity of Eunha’s parents as we set off on a globetrotting adventure. I quit my job, but I still had some savings. Would have sold the house too, but Eunha stopped me from doing that. You still need to live, after I…

I shush her then, and we never discuss it again. Some fights aren’t worth repeating. We went to see many beautiful sights, trying different experiences, different foods. There are some things Eunha cannot eat, thanks to her condition, but I gamely try them all on her behalf, as she records my reactions. Her laughter makes everything worth it, and I even let her convince me into trying a bungee jump. Only for her. If I hadn’t loved her that much…

My notebook remains busy even on our adventures. From one place to another, I record our experiences, expressing them in music. My songs are still of her, but they are focused in the moment, capturing a snapshot in time, a memory here of us together. 

It was a race against time, against life, against death. My desperation leaks through in my music if nowhere else, and Eunha’s smile was sad as she leans against me, peppering my jawline with soft kisses to reassure me that she was still there. She knows. We both know.

We were afraid that each day would be her last. We lived every single day like it would be her last. Some nights I startle awake, afraid that she would be gone when I opened my eyes. I was constantly anxious, but so very terribly grateful that she was still with me. 

I had only been mildly religious before this, but faith became a central part of my life during our journey. I prayed for her, for myself, for us. For the strength to see this through, gratitude for yet another day of life. She was my life. I couldn’t imagine life without her in it.

Eventually, we return home. We had been in contact with her parents the whole time, of course. They are happy to see us. It was good to be back, even after seeing the world. There was always something uniquely special about being home, after all. 

We take long rides on my motorcycle some nights, reliving how we met, how young we had both been. She rests her head against my shoulder, and I feel like I could bear her weight forever. 

We celebrate her 30th birthday with a kind of subdued joy. Time was ticking, and even though we had come this far, there was still an expiration date to our time together. We rarely left each other’s sides then, always careful to remain in sight, within earshot at least. Every moment together was precious, a memory to be savoured. I could look at her forever. I wanted to be with her forever.

The ending, of course, as always, came suddenly and without warning. She simply drops one day, like a puppet with its strings cut, and I fly to her side before she even hits the floor, already hitting the speed dial as I catch her in my arms, praying that we could still pull her back from the jaws of death one more time, cheat the reaper of one more soul for just a little longer.

My love, my life. There was only so much dancing on the brink before the fall happened. When the doctor comes out with a grim expression from the operation room, I crumble from within as my world collapses all around me.

We had gotten married in a country that recognized same- unions, and her parents had even flown over for the small ceremony we held. My parents weren’t informed. They had disowned me when they found out about my relationship with Eunha, and though the rejection hurt at the time, I was still content with my newfound family. Eunha’s family, knowing her time was limited, had indulged her every whim. I was just one more daughter to add to their family. 

And with the loss of their daughter, my wife, the light of our lives, we mourned together. When I buried Eunha, I felt like I had buried my heart with her. Life would never be the same again.

But still, I lived. I remembered. Eunha was terrified of having lived without leaving her mark on the world in some way. Live, for me, she would whisper some nights, thinking I had fallen asleep. Live, so you can remember that I was.

I would never forget her. My songs for her, celebrating our lives together, were quietly compiled by my new family, released with my mute acceptance. I was too numb for months after her passing to be of much use in anything. 

Shockingly enough, the songs even did well. In the aftermath of my grief, I picked up the pieces left behind, every article in our home a memory of what was. I did not leave it, content to live as if she was still with me. It was probably unhealthy, but I couldn’t let go. She had been my everything, and her loss was crippling. How was I supposed to live like this?

As always, I turned to music, to rage, to rail against the unfairness of it all. That she would be ripped from me, in the prime of our lives. My anger spilled out in discordant chords, messy and broken. Just as I was.

I drink too much, writing and tearing music sheets as I collapse in a mess of tears and bile every night. I was a mess, and I knew it. She would have been disappointed. Wanted better than this from me.

Perhaps it is that realization, eventually, that leads me to allow myself to grieve. I missed her terribly in every instance, every little moment, and I poured that into my music. Some of it is too raw, and will never see light of day. But my pain needed an outlet. I needed to breathe.

Eventually, I return to my old notes. The experience of us finding each other again, years after our initial encounter, a fated meeting at the crossroads. The witching hour, a crossroads deal, the devil holding my soul and sanity in the bargain. 

But I like to think I gained more than I lost. I found the love of my life, had ten years of time with her. A full life lived. She wanted nothing more than to be remembered, and who else better to remember her than me? 

I put pen to paper, and the notes flowed. One more song, for her. Always for her.

My Downtown Baby...