Chapter 12

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all.”

― Emily Dickinson

The air surrounding her smelled of coffee beans and freshly baked pastries. She inhaled deeply and smiled to herself as she tied her apron to her waist. Wonyoung’s morning routine no longer consisted of prayers and communal tasks. It was, nonetheless, still a sacred moment. She had gotten used to arriving before dawn, opening the door while the city still slept, switching on lights to warm up the still empty café. 

She filled the machines, wiped down tables with a rag, and arranged the pastries that had just been delivered. Most tasks didn’t require much from her, and that was partly why she liked the job so much. Her mind could drift away while her hands moved through the familiar tasks. 

It had been fourteen months since she had crossed the iron gates of the convent, stumbling onto a street that she couldn’t even recognize with her belongings scattered at her feet. She pressed her fingers to her throat in remembrance, still able to feel the ghost of Jimin’s name she had screamed so loudly. 

The first week had been the worst. Going back to her parents’ place after all that happened had almost felt like walking back into hell. Her mother had cried and her father had looked at her with nothing more than disgust. She had locked herself in her childhood bedroom and stared at the white ceiling surrounded by her old plushies. She had wondered how she was supposed to breathe and stay alive when she had left her heart in a basement cell she had never even entered. 

Her heart, Jimin. 

So far away from her, trapped inside that cold stoney cage. 

During the following weeks, she had tried to find out what had happened to her. She had called the convent until one of the nuns threatened her over the line. She had written letters that had been sent back unopened. She had even considered showing up at the gates to demand answers but her mother had begged her not to, had said “please, we’ve been through enough, just let it go.” 

But how could she let go of the only thing that had ever made her feel whole? How could she abandon Jimin knowing that she was probably dying of sorrow? How could she even taste freedom when her love was hidden in a basement?

The following thoughts kept circling back to her mind. Is she alright? Are they hurting her? Are they feeding her? Did they even give her a blanket? Does she think I abandoned her? Does she hate me for not fighting harder? 

Not knowing had been its own kind of torture. In a way, it was worse than when they had been torn apart. Now she was left with silence, with the possibility that something had happened and that she would never know. 

Of course, she had stopped praying. How could it have been of any use to her to pray to a God who had never shown her any kindness? A God that had only participated in her agony? 

Nevertheless, it felt strange to her to replace her old habits with new ones.

Work had given Wonyoung an opportunity to put grief away for a few hours, to forget about the convent’s stone walls and the way Jimin had looked at her that last morning. 

After a few weeks of suffering at her parents’ place, she had moved into a small studio. It was small enough for her to afford on her café salary and had a window that overlooked a park. She had only bought minimal furniture: a mattress, a lamp, and a chair. Her first real purchase had been a radio, she had turned it on one evening and music had filled the empty living room. 

She had stood in the apartment and cried, because she could now. She was allowed to listen to whatever she wanted, to feel whatever she wanted, and to exist without asking for permission to breathe. 

Her healing journey had been a rollercoaster of emotions. Some days she had woken up, made coffee, rode the bus, chatted with customers about the weather or their days, ate lunch in the park and read novels she had missed so much. But other days, she had frozen because a customer’s laugh sounded like Jimin’s, because she had passed a woman with dark hair in the street and her heart had stopped. And during those gloomy days, she remembered that her Jimin was gone, that she might never be able to see her again. 

Whenever it happened, she would go through her shift on autopilot; faking smiles, pretending that everything was fine, and then she would go home and sit in the dark for hours, sobbing until she had no tears left to cry. 

Her therapist taught her grief came in waves and that she had to let herself feel. So that’s what she did. She learned to acknowledge that yes, she missed Jimin with an intensity that sometimes made it hard for her to breathe but that it wouldn’t go away and that she would most likely survive. 

She had made a friend, Gaeul, who worked at the bakery next door. Gaeul had no interest in religion and would drag Wonyoung for drinks sometimes, insisting that staying alone in her apartment wasn’t healthy. 

“You need to live,” Gaeul would say. “I don’t know what happened to you before, and you don’t have to tell me don’t worry. But I can see that you’re hurting and I know that hiding from the world won’t make it hurt less.” 

Wonyoung had taken her advice and joined her on adventures. Gaeul introduced her to other people, other women even, though the mere thought of being close to anyone who wasn’t Jimin made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Slowly, she began to think that there was hope, somewhere. 

She journaled often, writing letters to Jimin, telling her about her days, her recovery. She often apologized, told her how much she loved and missed her. And she also wrote entries to herself, writing down her thoughts and feelings. 

“Gaeul took me to a concert tonight. I actually enjoyed it. The music was so loud I couldn’t think and for two hours I didn’t have to remember or worry. I was just..there. Is it terrible if it felt good? Does it mean I’m forgetting her if I have moments where I’m not thinking of her?” 

“My therapist said that I can build a life and still love Jimin. She says that I’m allowed to breathe and forget for a while. I really want to believe her, but I’m scared. I’m scared to forget about her face the most. I’m scared to forget how it felt to kiss her, to hold her, and to touch her.” 

Even after months, the voices in her head kept repeating, you left her, you walked away, you’re free while she’s still suffering, you don’t deserve to feel any good. And she forced herself to repeat, I did not leave her, I had no choice, what happened wasn’t my fault. 

Whenever it happened, she’d let her mind drift back to when she had been the happiest, laying in bed with Jimin’s hand draped over her stomach, her slow breath hitting the side of her neck. 

I miss you, I miss you so much. 

I miss the way you used to look back at me during lunch, your cheeks tinting red when our eyes met, your lips twitching as you held back a shy smile. I miss when you used to rest your head above my shoulder when we were alone in the chapel. I miss when you intertwined our fingers when we went to pick up flowers after you made sure no one was around. 

I miss loving you, I miss telling you, I miss kissing you. 

Universe, to anyone above our heads, please let me love her again, let her come back to me. That’s the only thing I’ll ever ask for. 

The morning rush hit Wonyoung like a truck. She had had trouble falling asleep the night before, and finding herself at seven in the morning surrounded by waiting customers wasn’t the best way possible to start off this packed day. Still, she smiled through it, happy to see her regular customers. 

“Good morning, Mr. Park,” she said to one of them. “The usual?” 

“You know me too well,” he said with a smile. 

She made his Americano and handed it over. He left a generous tip that warmed her heart and she tucked it into the jar by the register. 

By mid-morning the rush had thankfully died down. She restocked supplies, cleaned the espresso machine and prepped everything for the upcoming lunch crowd. Her boss came by with fresh pastries and stayed to chat for a while, asking about her week, telling her about her grandchildren. 

It was nice, it felt normal. It wasn’t the kind of life she had imagined for herself but she had learned to savor it after what had happened. 

She was wiping down tables when Gaeul appeared from nowhere and nearly caused her to faint. 

“Lunch?” Gaeul asked. 

“I can’t today,” Wonyoung said with a crooked smile. “I’m covering the whole shift, my colleague called in sick.” 

“Anw pity, tomorrow then?” 

“Yup sounds perfect, I’ll see you then.” Wonyoung nodded and returned to her task, waving her goodbye. 

Wonyoung let her mind drift as she navigated through the afternoon shift. She thought about the book she was reading, a novel about two women falling in love in New York, navigating a world that didn’t want them to be together. She thought about what she was going to have for dinner, wondering if pasta or the recipe Gaeul had recommended was better. She thought about her next therapy session, wondering what she wanted to tell her therapist. 

The afternoon faded into early evening and the sky turned golden through the large windows. She started her closing routine, wiping down the machines, counting the register, sweeping the floor. She turned the sign on the door to “closed” and sighed to herself. Two more days before the weekend. 

She turned away and went back to her tasks, turning off the espresso machine and counting her tips. Enough for groceries this week, maybe even a book. 

The bell above the door chimed. 

“Sorry, we’re closed–” Wonyoung started to say, looking up with an apologetic smile. The words died in her throat. 

The woman standing in the doorway was thinner than Wonyoung remembered, her cheekbones sharp, dark circles visible under her eyes. She wore civilian clothes, a simple dress with a cardigan on top. 

But her eyes, her eyes were the same. Black and deep, full of everything Wonyoung had missed so much. 

She sucked in a sharp breath. She couldn’t hear the radio playing anymore, couldn’t hear the traffic outside, couldn’t hear anything except her own blood flooding to her ears. 

This isn’t real, I’m hallucinating. I’ve finally lost my mind and this is what it looks like. 

But then, the woman smiled and her heart stopped. This smile she had missed so much, this exact same smile she had fallen in love two years ago. Jimin was there, standing a few meters away, her eyes full of hope, fear, and desperate longing. 

“Hi Wonyoung,” Jimin said softly, her voice slightly rough, as if she hadn’t used it in a long time. “It’s been a while.”