I thought of you today.

I’m in a dress that is sheer and flouncy and my feet hurt in those ridiculous heels. I feel incredibly silly as I tottered out into the curb, clutching onto a new purse like a lifeline, but my friends say I look pretty so I smile and wave and cross my fingers, hoping for the best. 

I spend the whole car ride rehearsing “I’m Kim Taeyeon, it’s nice to meet you” under my breath and checking my hair and makeup in the rearview mirror and wondering if his parents would think I was pretty enough. Funny enough. Smart enough. Good enough. 

Then the cab driver passes a house where the questions have already been answered. 

My cheeks are numb from smiling so much, but it’s fine. They seems to like me, so I don’t have to try as hard to look happy, because it’s such a relief, that they think I’m acceptable. 

But during dinner, his mother asks me if I would like some wine and I remember how you were the only person who knew I never really liked wine and preferred soju instead. 

The memory of your lips is stronger than even vodka, and I get drunk that night.

He insists on driving me home that night even though I want to walk. Do you remember when you used to take me home on the back of your bike and we screamed like fools, reckless youth racing into the night? We used to think we were invincible then. Eternal. Unbreakable.

It's almost ironic thinking of how easily our love shattered.

My breath fogs up the glass, and I draw a small heart onto the glass, watching the streetlights pass in a blur. He holds my hand, tethering my body there in the moment, but my mind wanders.

I imagine bumping into you on the street in ten years.

I would say hi, and you would smile back. 

I will ask about how your life is, foolishly hoping. For something. Anything.

You smile proudly and tell me about the great job you always dreamed of even when we were teens, you tell me about your beautiful wife, your new baby. 

And when you do, it will break my heart all over again. Not because I don’t want you to be happy, no. That’s all I want for you, truly.

It’s because, ten years ago, I imagined someone else asking you about how your life is, and I imagined you would tell them about me.

I start crying there in the passenger seat of a stranger’s car, and the makeup all washes away, smudges, leaving the pitiful girl that used to be—still is—yours. 

Starting over is really hard.