Before

Park Minju was crying in your arms. The only thing you could think about was how small she felt in your arms.

Minju was small in stature, but that was the only thing about her that ever was. Not her presence, not her voice, and certainly not her passion and effort. But tonight, with her face buried into your chest and her fingers gripping your shirt like her life depended on it, she felt fragile.

“I don’t want to go like this,” she whispered, her voice uneven. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without you.”

Your hold on her tightened. “You’re acting like we’ll never see each other again.”

“It feels like it. I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again. It could be years.” she said.

You didn’t have an answer for that. Your heart ached, knowing that this was the last time you’d see each other for a long time. You wanted to tell her to stay, tell her you’d wait for her, but you knew you couldn’t.

The car was quiet except for her soft crying and the faint hum of the world outside. It was the same neighborhood you’d grown up together in, the same streets you’d walked side by side a thousand times. Everything was the same.

“You’re going to be amazing,” you told her, the words coming out steadier than you felt. “You’ve been working for this forever. You’re going to be an idol. This is your dream, Minju.”

Minju shook her head against you. “That’s not what I’m scared of.”

You knew.

Her grip loosened slightly, but she didn’t pull away. “What if things change?”

“Things will change.”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red, searching. “That’s not comforting.”

You smiled, just a little.

“I know. But it doesn’t mean we will.”

Those words hung between us for longer than they should have.

Minju looked up at you, studying your face.

“Promise me something, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t disappear on me.”

Your chest tightened.

“I won’t,” you assured her.

It wasn’t a lie.

She nodded, like she wanted to believe you, then leaned forward and hugged you again, tighter this time, like she was trying to make up for all the time that was about to be lost.

The airport the next morning felt too bright. Too loud. 

Her family stood close by, talking, checking bags, going over details. Minju stood among them, but not really with them. Every now and then, her eyes would flick to you like she was checking if you were still there.

You stayed a step back.

It was safer that way.

When she finally walked over, it felt like everything slowed down and sped up at the same time.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

That was it.

After everything last night, after all the tears, that was all you could manage.

Minju let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “This is awkward.”

“Yeah.” you said.

There was a pause.

“I’ll text you,” she said quickly. “And call. A lot. Probably too much.”

You nodded. “I won’t complain.”

You tried to smile, but you couldn’t hide your true feelings in your expression.

You could feel it. Like yesterday, you felt the urge to say something bigger, something dangerous. 

 “Stay.” 

“Don’t go.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

Instead, you stepped back, putting some distance between you.

“You should go,” you said.

Her expression flickered, just for a second.

Then she nodded.

“Okay.”

She hesitated, then stepped forward and hugged you. It was quick this time. Careful. Like if she held on too long, she wouldn’t be able to let go.

When she pulled away, she didn’t look at you right away.