Farewell my First

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing some turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”

Just a slow, exhausted exhale through your nose as the plane shudders again and your headache pulses in protest.

Of course.

Fifteen hours in economy. Middle seat. Paid with possibly all your savings and more. Knees wedged between a metal tray table and the unforgiving spin of the seat in front of you. The guy on your left has annexed half your armrest, while the woman on your right snores like she is in her own place an hour into the flight (and also slowly leaning into your shoulder ever since.)

You consider just lying on the walkway instead, because you'd have legroom there.

The seat cushion is so thin that you swear you can feel the frame underneath, and by then your lower back has given up on fighting back for comfort. Two rows up ahead, the annoying overhead light keeps on flickering at the peripheral of your tired eyes, which apparently is a signal for the plane to jolt again.

Sigh.

Why did you pick Korea again? There were easier places to disappear to, like Thailand or Vietnam with all the foods to eat, cultures to see, and places with history that is not your own.

Well, you clearly didn't think that far when booking the ticket.

Anyway, another dip seems like enough cue for the fasten seatbelt sign to chime (no one is standing anyway.), and you are already strapped in all directions. Good thing your hand can still reach down to your pocket for the phone. Of course, no signal — just you and the sweet ass fifteen hours of recycled air.

So the camera roll it is.

You thumb scrolls lazily — dinner you had last night, a building façade that you saved to show to your boss later, a random rock layout in a garden, the pigeon chilling on your window sill.

And then there’s Jimin.

You stop at a particular old photo of her back in 2010 — short hair, bare face, sitting cross-legged on your apartment floor, holding your mirrorless camera that you kept telling her to not touch it (it cost you 8 months' worth of allowance saving.) The conversation still lingers in your head, with how whiny that tomboy was.

"I don't get it," she squints through the viewfinder. "Why does it look worse when I touch it?"

"Because you're touching it."

"I have to touch it." "Not like that what the fuck."

You scroll past them now, somehow never delete them.

The plane jolts again, harder this time. The sleeping woman's head knocks against you, but your quick reflex tilt your shoulder and lift her head up so that she falls back upright without waking.

Apparently, that was amusing enough for you to let out a small chuckle — the same dry sound you made in the park where Jimin screamed like a banshee when learning to ride a bike.

Oh right, here's the video: the park near your high school that day was busier than you expected. Students draped across the grass with textbooks they definitely weren’t reading, couples sharing headphones, a few overachievers holding impromptu study circles, and someone near the food stall insisting their guitar cover of “California Gurls” would change lives.

And then there was you adjusting the rental bike seat, and a certain nervous Jimin stood beside you quivering — helmet strapped tight, hands holding the camera with such pseudo-confidence, and her brows furrowed. She may be pretending to be an athlete, but in reality, she just needed to pedal twenty metres.

“Alright,” you said, patting the seat. “Rule one: don’t panic. Rule two: stay balance. Rule three—”

“Don’t panic again?” she interrupted, lips twitching.

You gave her a flat look. “No. Rule three is don’t make me look stupid in public.”

“…Not ‘be stupid’ but ‘not make you stupid’?”

"Yes, also why are you holding the camera?"

"For you to record my success."

"Bitch, you haven't even moved." "Confidence is key."

“No,” you corrected. “Balance is key. Rule 2. Confidence is what you’ll lose in about ten seconds.”

"Sure right. I got this, easy!"

She did not.

“YAAHHHHHHHHHH—!”

Second attempt: the camera is propped on a bench nearby that (miraculously) got you two in sight. You jogged beside her and hand gripped the back of the seat. She pedalled this time with such wobble and instability. Her breathing is no better — out of context, people will think she's on the last leg of the triathlon. For three seconds, her stance was fine…until she steered directly into a bush.

The video ends here, and you don't remember much of what happened afterwards. It’s been seven years ever since you left (Jeesus, fucking christ. It’s 2017 now.), but you don't delve further to it and lock your phone.

Sigh. Bundang. Korea. Hopefully not meeting Jimin right now, and hopefully the visit will be simple.

You close your eyes again as the plane rattles once more.

The headache still continues, and it doesn't go away when you spot Jimin from afar before she spots you. (Aw shuck.)

One thing you remember about Yoo Jimin is that she likes to show off. Because look at that girl leaning against a pillar near Arrivals with her cap low, mask pulled down under her chin, and scrolling through her phone. Oh, and there’s a black SUV parked illegally not too far from the curb. Hazard lights blinking too. Mhm. She is definitely showing off that new car, for sure.

Ok so, your first thought is: how the fuck she knows you're coming today? You told virtually no one.

And then your second thought comes immediately: ah, Mom and Dad.

Yeah, your family and hers have always been like that since moving to the neighbourhood — occasional overlapping dinners, the mothers going groceries together, the fathers bonding over oil leaks and DIY sink repairs, and gossip bounds to pass around. This time? No different — they told her, and she volunteers to pick you up. Well, at least it's better than grabbing Uber with a random driver. No point complaining then, you just adjust the strap of your backpack, hand grabbing the suitcase, and walking towards her.

She looks up.

And her face lights up like those episodes of Shin-chan she never outgrew. She pushes off the pillar and waves both arms above her head, greeting you as if you just found a solution for homelessness (A big problem to solve as a future architect).

And you resist the urge to turn sideways, preparing to sleep on the street instead. Ah shit that sounds bad, but to refute, you don't hate her — she's been your best friend since the age you both discovered that concrete hurts when you fall. (on the head, because Jimin,)

But that — ugh, fucking hell — is exactly why she's the last person you really want to see right now.

Of all the same-age friends you know, Jimin's the only one who stayed up with you on video calls, listening to you when you two were studying for the CSAT. The one who also has a high chance of accepting the scholarship, yet she said "You'll obviously get it." The one who proudly told anyone who would listen that you were pursuing a top-tier PhD overseas. At a university she once admitted she wished she could attend.

And now…Sigh. Maybe not yet. You're too tired for that conversation.

You drag your suitcase towards her, and up close, and she looks…different. Well, longer hair, for one, but more than that, time actually did its job.

The town used to call her the wild child who unapologetically dragged you into the mud, who climbed trees in oversized shorts and punched your arm for no reason whenever you two sat on a bench in front of the ice cream shop. Yeah, all those memories mean jack shit when looking at her right now — fitted jeans, cropped shirt, and baggy jacket, straight posture like a model, long hair falling down neatly. (You look around to make sure there aren't any idol paparazzi around.)