Seulgi, you’ve gotten so thin. I can see the way your cheekbones cut into the air and the way your fingers tremble as you brush the hair away from my face. The kids at our school used to marvel at how toned and healthy you looked: you had quite a number of admirers. My heart hurts seeing you so frail, but somehow you still glow, make my eyes water with how beautiful you look in this dreary, dim place.

I don’t understand sometimes, when you look at me with those eyes like I bring the golden rays of sunlight to the crops of the land first thing in the morning or wash pretty, pastel-coloured seashells up on the shore during the most quiet part of the night. I don’t understand how you’ll be frowning at all the boys who offer you flowers but smile so brightly, the heavens in your lips, when you see me answer the door with tangled hair and puffy eyes from eating ramen too late at night. I don’t understand why you tell me everyday that I’m so beautiful, the most beautiful person in the world, when in my eyes, there’s only you amongst all the people in the city, all the flowers in the gardens, and everything else fades away into blurry shades of grey.

You once told me that I’m like the lightning before the thunder, a presence that flashes the dark world to signal a great power to come, the attention stealer that shines in between those droplets of rain that all resemble each other. I had laughed and joked about how I could strike down mortal men