You wonder if his house is still there; the old Victorian style beast that didn’t seem to belong in a small Korean town. You follow the cracked and faded sidewalks until it branches off into the worn dirt path you used to follow. You take the path, pulse quickening as your shoes brush through the dust the same way they did so long ago. When the path finally ends, you lift your head to find exactly what you’ve been looking for. And sure enough, there it stands, “Cho Family” written in pale curling script on the mailbox and hedges growing unruly.

You scuff your shoes in the dirt, pondering whether you should go closer to the monster of a house or not. For one fleeting moment, you consider just walking straight through the doors like you used to, calling his name up the stairs as you bid hello to his mother. You would take a bite out of one of the cookies she always had ready for the two of you and sip on perfectly chilled milk, laughing over coloring books with scribbled pictures.

But the realization that you’re no longer a little six year old girl, and that he’s no longer your best friend hits you before the thoughts can fully register. Hard.

You turn your head away as something in the window suddenly catches your eye. You do a double take, peering closely at the window, unsure if your mind is just playing tricks on you. Could it be?