Inside that winter

I try to find you, who I can’t see
I try to hear you, who I can’t hear

Kyungsoo shivers as he walks downtown, memories flooding him every corner he turns and every step he takes. He zips his jacket, covers half of his face with his scarf and hugs himself as he continues on his journey, remembering.

He remembers it’s also Christmas time, thin snowflakes falling from the sky but blanketing Seoul magnificently, like it’s making the city its miniature version of ice castle in heaven. The streets and the houses are beautifully white and then, she’s there, standing alone in front of a Chinese restaurant, rubbing both of her gloved hands together to create warmth.

He forgets why he suddenly turns to that Chinese restaurant but he did and he soon assumes its destiny. But then, Kyungsoo is asking, ‘If meeting you is destiny, then is loosing you destiny as well?’

Kyungsoo runs and not that it’s his thing; he’s not athletic like that but he doesn’t have a choice. If he won’t run, he’ll be late and he knows how she doesn’t like late. Panting and wiping sweat off his face with his gloves even though it’s the middle of winter and he is the only person you’ll see in South Korea sweating, he arrives in front of the Chinese restaurant where she usually waits.

“Hi,” he smiles – maybe a little too happily when he sees her outside her favorite restaurant.

She smiles at him and holds his hand. “Let’s get inside,” she says softly, “It’s cold and I’m craving for a hot pot!”

“You’re always craving for a hot pot,” he answers with a low chuckle, letting himself get dragged inside the restaurant filled with people.

“Can I take your order, sir?” a waitress around Kyungsoo’s age asks as soon as they had settled themselves in one of the empty tables inside, at the back and near the counter.

“What do you want?” Kyungsoo asks her first.

“Hot pot!”

He laughs. “Two hot pots, please.”

The waitress gave him a weird expression as she jots down on her tiny notebook Kyungsoo’s order. She walks back behind the counter and says to another waitress, “Isn’t he talking to the air?”

Kyungsoo holds her hand tightly as they walk together to the subway, where he always walks her. There are many people walking to and fro, rushing to get to their destinations or to their families waiting for them home. Then, as they stride to get through the thickness of the passengers, a man accidentally bumps into her which made her fall to the ground.

“Hey, are you alright?” he kneels to the ground, helping her to stand up again.

“I’m fine,” she says, assuring him with a tiny smile.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, holding her hand more tightly now.

He doesn’t notice the strange expression the people around him have, looking at his hands holding the air and at him, then and again talking to the air.

Kyungsoo isn’t sure that time if he doesn’t really notice it or if he doesn’t want to notice it. He’s fine now, with the medicine his psychiatrist has gave him to cure his illness – or sadness, as what Kyungsoo prefers to call it – he doesn’t see her anymore. She’s gone now and Kyungsoo is moving on.

He stops in front of that old Chinese restaurant.

He smiles at that person waiting outside, warming her gloved hands by rubbing them together.

Kyungsoo is moving on.

Or is he?

He orders two hotpots for takeout, holding her numb hands and leading her to his apartment. In his bathroom, on the cabinet for toothpaste and emergency medicines, there’s that bottle of prescribed medicines, not a single tablet missing since it was bought two months ago.

Kyungsoo is moving on… with her.

Twelve days before Christmas.