and I'll never go home again (place the call)

“I love you Minjeong. I really do. But I can’t, I’m sorry.” 

—

Whenever someone asked Minjeong how she was doing - how she was coping with the loss - she never knew quite what to say, how exactly to answer. 

After all, how do you explain to someone that the loss you’re trying to mourn is of people that haven’t actually died? 

Her parents were still very much alive. Still living in the same little house she’d grown up in, still working at the jobs they’d been at since before she was born, still existing in a world she was no longer welcome in. 

At what point had things gone so terribly wrong that she'd ended up here, completely alone? She still couldn’t quite understand how she’d gotten here, gotten to this point.  

Well, she could, she knew why this had happened. But who ever expected that falling in love would be the reason her whole life got completely flipped on its head? 

— 

She still woke up every day and checked her phone, hoping that today might be the day. The day someone would message, someone would reach out, someone would show that they still cared. 

They never did. Not her parents, not her friends, not Yizhuo. 

God, Yizhuo. 

She missed her. 

She often found herself opening their old conversations, rereading the final words she’d ever said to her even though she knew she could quote it by heart. 

They’d done the right thing, she knew they had, even if it still didn’t feel like it. At least, that's what she kept telling herself. It was the sensible option, the mature one. The kind of decision made by the brain, never to be understood by the heart. 

Because love wasn’t the problem. No, it never had been. The problem was everything else, everyone else. 

—

Minjeong had spent months convincing herself that she was patient. That she could wait. That her love for Yizhuo was stronger than the feelings of resentment she felt about who they were, what they meant to each other, and how other people would feel about it.

She told herself the same thing over and over, almost like a mantra. Like she was trying to convince herself to believe it . 

Love was patient, love was understanding, love was kind. 

Until it wasn’t. 

She felt like she’d reached a point where she no longer recognised herself. Always having to think before she spoke, adjusting her answers to fit with the expectations everyone around her had of her. 

In public they’d walk side by side, but never close enough to touch, to even hint at the possibility of what they were. But when they were alone? Yizhuo always reached for her first, like she was dying just to hold her, touch her, love her. It almost made everything worth it.

Almost.

Yizhuo always introduced her as her best friend. Afterwards, when they were alone again, she'd apologise. Minjeong always told her it was okay, because she knew those apologies came from love rather than shame. 

Eventually, though, she realised that hearing ‘‘I'm sorry’’ over and over again didn't stop it from hurting. More importantly, she realised she wasn’t just helping Yizhuo hide the part of herself she wasn’t ready to show to the world, she was also hiding a part of herself. 

—

Coming out to her parents wasn’t some grand moment of bravery like they write about in books or depict in film. 

No, her coming out was different. There were no hugs, no screaming, no shouting or crying. There was just silence, the disappointed kind. The kind of silence that breaks your heart in ways you can never really imagine until you’ve lived through it yourself. 

By the end of the evening, her parents had spoken four words to her. Four singular words that changed the trajectory of her life forever. 

“You need to leave.” 

By the next morning, Minjeong found herself sitting at the bus stop, bag full of clothes, with nowhere to go. Her fingers toyed with the keys to a place she could no longer call home. But she couldn’t even bring herself to cry, she just felt empty. There was nothing left inside her to give.

—

“I wish I could be as brave as you.” 

Minjeong almost laughed at her words. She didn’t feel brave right now, she just felt incredibly stupid. She’d lost her family, her home, her entire life as she knew it. And for what? Well, she still hadn’t figured that out just yet.

"If I tell them, I'll lose everything." 

"I know Yizhuo, I know." 

—

The break-up happened a few days later. 

Yizhuo cried, Minjeong understood. 

Months of a relationship that only lived behind closed doors, months of pretending just to be friends around everyone they’d ever known, months of hoping that love would be strong enough to endure the most testing of times.

Minjeong had finally built the courage to live as her authentic self. Yizhuo wasn’t quite ready to make that step yet. 

Neither of them was wrong, but none of it felt right, it never would. 

— 

Sometimes Minjeong found herself thinking about Yizhuo, wondering if she’d ever found the courage to come out. 

She hoped she had, and even if she hadn’t she hoped that her decisions led her to a life of happiness anyway. 

She still missed her, probably always would. Her first true love. The girl who’d given her the courage to step into the light, even if she’d remained in the shadows.

So sure, sometimes people looked at Minjeong and maybe all they could see was everything she’d lost, all the sacrifices she’d made only to end up alone. 

But something they’d never truly understand was everything that she’d gained. Because despite all the suffering, all the pain, there’s one thing no one could take from her ever again. 

Freedom.