You gave me a heart cutout in fifth grade.

That was the first time I saw you.

I never knew who you were—you were this quirky new kid who had come from God-knows-where and I was just another girl. To be honest, I was one among a few hundred and I had never been confessed to.

It was strange, I remember. It was before math class started when you came to me. I think I was in the doing last-minute math homework. You dropped a heart on my desk.

The funny thing was, though, that you weren’t even bashful about it. You just dropped it there. Let it dance a little as it made its way onto thirty arithmetic equations I had not finished.

I was angry. I remember that. “Hey! I’m doing my homework!”

You grinned. That grin. I could never understand it.

“It’s for you.”

“What?”

Then you walked away.

.

I didn’t know your name that day, actually. I never told you that. I kind of figured it out afterwards when someone was talking about you. Until then you were this nameless goofy kid who had played a prank on me that one day in math class. Probably a dare from another boy. I actually thought that.

I wonder if you still liked me—after we became friends. For all I know you could have been dreaming about me for six years.

But that’s awkward. So I’m not going to think about that.

.

I guess the first time we actually met was in sixth grade. By then I was a little less weirded out by you. I also knew your name. We were doing a science project together. Something on making a prototype of a structure that could withstand an earthquake.

You were pretty funny. Not witty. Just funny. You had a way with your big eyes and ears, the way you always looked confused or said something irresistibly adorable. And goofy. Oh, god, you were goofy.

“Watch this,” you said the first day we had to work on our project. You balanced your pen above your lips, tilting your head back. It fell to the side and hit your arm. The cap was open. “Ow!”

I laughed, but half incredulously. What is this kid?

You smiled. “I’m gonna perfect it one day.”

I rolled my eyes. “So are we gonna work on this project or not?”

“Sure. Let’s save lives.”

.

I guess we clicked. My sarcasm. Your goof. I remember some of my friends teased me for liking you. You were kind of handsome, I have to admit. But it never really occurred to me, I guess. Not for a while.

We were such idiots. Do you remember that day we ditched school? I think it was ninth grade. We left for Seoul. I think it was a Tuesday. Selfies in front of the SM building. What idiots.

“Hey, look! It’s the SM building.”

You made that high opera sort of sound that always reminds me of heaven. “It’s the great building of SM. Let’s pray.” You kneeled down on the ground.

I rolled my eyes and kicked you. “Shut up. There’s people around.”

“Atheists. They’re all atheists.”

“Do you think you’re going a little overboard? You’re Christian.”

You jumped up, pulling out your goofy smile again. “Hey. Well. Yeah. Sorry, God.”

I punched you in the arm. “Picture, though?”

“Yes! We’re trainees. Come on, let’s take a selfie-like picture. #traineesforlyfe. Oh wait. Not for life. #traineesforayear.”

I choked. “Where do you even get these random jokes?”

“They’re not jokes. They’re poems from my heart. Don’t judge me.”

I laughed. We looked at the building. It got a little quiet.

“You know, I’m serious, though.” You were serious. I mean—your face was.

“Yeah? About what?”

“No—that I’m going to go here someday. I really am.”

To be honest, I doubted you then. I don’t know. Your singing never occurred to me as phenomenal, and I had never really heard you rap. I guess you had the looks. But I never thought you’d actually get in. Heck, I knew too many kids who wanted to get into SM. YG. JYP. Most of them gave up.

.

I can’t pinpoint the date exactly. But I know when it was. Eleventh grade. You asked a girl out. She was my friend.

I was really bitter.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” You were sitting at my doorstep. So was I.

“Nothing.”

I had been planning on asking you to watch the third movie of the series we were both obsessed with. Only to find out you had already watched it with your girlfriend. She wasn’t that close to me anyways. Whatever.

Oh, just the fact that we’ve both been dying for this movie to come out and you just had to run off and watch it with your girlfriend. Without me.

“No, seriously. What’s wrong?”

“Well I’m serious, too. Nothing.” I kind of felt bad, but I still wanted to be angry at you.

“Wait. Was it your birthday yesterday?” (Oh my god, you were so bad at remembering things.)

“No. It wasn’t.”

I don’t know. I guess it was a little unreasonable to be so angry at you then. But at the time I had all the right in the world.

You sat there, beside me. I think about ten minutes passed. You didn’t say anything. Neither did I. We had been friends for so long. I guess that’s why it hurt even more.

You leaned down to pick up a rock sitting on the doorstep. It was a marble white. Probably from the garden. You smoothed it with your hand.

“I hope everything’s okay,” you finally said after forever. Then you took my wrist, put the rock in my hand, and left.

I cried that night. Did you know that? I cried. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to hate you, all of a sudden. I had been falling in love with—god, the cheesiness—my best friend. And it hurt.

But how could I? How could I, after you gave me that rock?

I still have that rock, you know.

Sometimes I still think about you.

.

I perfected the practice of holding in my pain. It was a moment of awkwardness—perhaps a month—and soon afterwards I convinced myself I was fine with it. I went out with some guys. You went out with some girls. Just friends.

We still joked with each other. You practiced your singing in front of me. Sometimes you practiced the guitar. Once you tried to teach me. I didn’t have the patience—remember that? I almost threw your guitar.

It felt normal again. I knew there was a wound inside. How funny. A wound. Inside I wanted to be the girl you played guitar to. I wanted to be the girl who heard your songs. Not the one you practiced in front of. Not the one who helped you write lyrics.

It was two years of pain. We had been best friends. We still were. But to me, it was a different sort.

.

I was planning on telling you about my feelings. I was. I had staged it out. I was going to tell you. Then, one of two things were going to happen. You were either going to reply me too and kiss me, or you were going to be really awkward and nod and then apologize. Oh, now that I think about it. What a romanticist I was.

But you had news, too. That day. The day I had planned it—you had some news to tell me. And I was so scared of telling you that I let you go first.

How I regret it.

Oh, how I regret it.

“Oh. My. God. [Your name]! [Your name]! I have to tell you. I have. To.”

My heart skipped a beat. Then I sighed. “What?”

“I didn’t tell anyone yet. Oh. My. God. Oh. My. G—“

“Chanyeol, that’s not really telling me anything.”

You giggled a little. You were adorable when you giggled. I just wanted to hug you forever. I swallowed the thought quickly, though.

“Guess what!” You didn’t even pause for me to guess. “I got in!”

My heart skipped a beat. It skipped two beats. It skipped three beats. I let the words register in my brain. Suddenly my heart weighed a thousand pounds. I imagined myself sinking into the floor.

“Con—congratulations,” I choked.

You had been stressing about getting into SM. Were you going to get in? Were you not? They seemed pretty interested, you said. But you were always so confident, I could never tell.

“Yeah! Thanks! It’s going to be so exciting—”

You were going to be a trainee. You were going to become an idol.

Suddenly it became impossible for me to tell you about my feelings. Maybe I had never really intended to tell you. Maybe I had subconsciously planned to bail out beforehand. I was never really prepared, to be honest.

.

We graduated. I went to just another university. You went for music. You became an official trainee. You had a group. You were probably going to debut.

We chatted a little, but after graduation, we rarely met. You were too busy. So was I. Our chats dwindled. From pages to lines. Paragraphs to emoticons. It was gradual, but it was noticeable.

I still loved you. I still loved your goofy smile, your random jokes, your spontaneity, your tenderness, your kindness. I loved your voice and your ears and your eyes. I loved the way you walked and the way you talked and the way you just were. And I missed you. I never told you that.

Our chats had become so pathetically skimpy that I couldn’t take it anymore. I cut it off. Usually it had been me who asked you about how your day went—you were always so busy, getting ready for debut and all, at the time.

I stopped chatting you, and just like that, you were gone. A year passed. Two. The pain remained, and you lingered in my memory.

.

How long ago was it? It’s been four? Five?

I became a flight attendant. Funny, huh? Remember when I used to tell you I was going to become a writer? So much for that. It was miserable. But I had to make the money.

Life was dull. I was rotating around in a routine of life that I no longer found the meaning in. I had a boyfriend. But love for me never was quite full. I guess you were still in my heart somewhere. I don’t know what kept you there. I always felt some sort of longing. I guess I missed you. I could never bring myself to accept the farewell that one day four or five years ago.

It was a Tuesday when I was walking with a co-worker to the airplane gates to get ready for the next flight.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my arm.

“Hey!” A man said. “[Your name]!”

I almost shook my arm away in annoyance (so many men thought it was okay to harass us) before I saw who it was. It was you.

You were wearing a snapback with a loose blue and white jacket. Your face had a hint of make-up that made you look absolutely flawless. Your teeth shone with a white and your smile stretched for miles. You were a little sheepish. A little shy. But you smiled. And waved (even though you were a foot away from me—of course, you hadn’t changed). There were other idols beside you, walking past. They didn’t look, just kept walking. Tall, flawless idols. But then there was you. And you were one of them.

No, you weren’t. You were Chanyeol.

All of a sudden, those years of pain and love flew right into my face.

You seemed so happy. It had been years. We had been friends.

A bodyguard around you ushered you forward. Something about a schedule. And being late.

You nodded to them. You smiled at me again, beaming that adorable smile of yours.

It had been so long. So long. I smiled at you in disbelief. I managed a hoarse “Hi”.

You looked so good. You really did. You had what you wanted. Suddenly I remembered that day we skipped a day in ninth grade to go to the SM building. How goofy you were—how you’d prayed in front of the building. That was you. And you were here, now. An idol. With fans. And you had remembered me. Me.

The bodyguards pushed you forward, towards the rest of the idols, who were farther ahead now. You began walking again, waving bye and looking back at me the entire time. Your face had welcome and warmth and happiness and sorrow as you waved one last time. I waved back. Involuntarily my arm reached out for you. How cheesy.

.

I went home that night, and I felt a strange sense of relief. I had seen you after so long. You were good. You had achieved your dreams. You were successful. And most of all, you still remembered me.

I felt happy for you. I missed you so much that it hurt, but for some reason, it was numb now. You had seen me. It was about time I let go.

.

I never saw you again after that. But I know you remembered me. You knew my name. And that was enough.

Your scent lingered in my heart but I tucked your face and your name into a small box. And I moved on.