It is already nearing nighttime. The stars will soon come up and the city lights are about to flood the roads. Stars are difficult to see in the city, but it is the comfort of knowing they are there, no matter how invisible, that brings urban dwellers relaxation and solace.

There is a gas fireplace burning to my left as I sit in a chair behind the desk. The door to my study creaks open. Yeonsoo comes in. I swivel my chair around 180º to face her. She is holding two mugs in her hands. She sets one down, sits in a nearby chair, crosses her legs, and motions for me to take a drink. She sips on her own beverage. I peer down into the cup. Oolong with ginseng and ginkgo.

"So you're really going to start writing." she states.

"I am." I reply.

She eyes me. "Really starting, or, I-say-I'll-start-but-instead'll-look-out-the-window-all-night kind of start?" Yeonsoo lifts an eyebrow, glancing up from her cup as she talks.

"Really starting. I'll have the first draft drawn up by morning." When she does not reply, I add, "Promise."

"Mhm." She is skeptical. I cannot blame her; my memory has always been a bit of a problem. "Well, in that case, I'd best be taking my leave." Yeonsoo stands up. "Drink your tea. It's good for you."

I purse my lips into a small smile, put a hand up to wave goodbye, and whirl my chair back 180º. The door clicks close. 

I am not facing a wall, but a giant glass sheet. A window. This way, I am able to survey the breathing, burning, ambitious nightlife below me. 

Leaning my head back, I close my eyelids. I simply need a push to get them back. Between me and the memories is a thin membrane. It seperates us fragilely and I am a little more than content to be able to run my fingers across it yet still have this delicate membrane stay intact. I am able to skim across the memories and feel nothing.

But tonight is different. I have to poke and prod and punch that membrane. I have to break it open and allow myself to wallow in the past. They need to submerge my whole being like water to fish.

Those pokes, prods, and punches, I realize, are words. Say a few certain words in the right order and everything comes back.

University.

Myungsoo.

Festival.

Seoryeon.

Bakery.

Market.

Bookstore.

Donghyun. 

Army base.

Restaurant.

Yeonsoo.

Japan.

Twelve simple words that mean nothing to everyone else and I am now fearing for the worst. My heart beat fastens, skin perspirate, saliva salivate. Truth is, I am scared. I am not strong. After I sealed off the distant past, I made no attempt to revisit it; I do not know how strong it will hit me.

Nevertheless, I swing the chair back once more and reach for my laptop. I wiggle the mouse pad. I have to write it all down tonight, all on adrenaline, while the feeling is still here. If not, by morning, it will be gone. Grammar, sentence structuring, editing, they all need to wait until daybreak. Tonight, tonight I have to write it all down before it is too late.

What you are about to read are the memories I very much want to conceal, to forget, to pack into a cardboard box and store into the deepest, darkest corner of an attic or basement or dingy garage. But here I am, opening that box and picking out every item I so desperately want to obscure.