Hold It With Both Hands

October 4

She ordered the barley tea again, sipping from the cup with both hands wrapped around it as if it was going to escape. The cafe was as loud as usual, but she had a way of making noise irrelevant. All you noticed was her.

On the way out, she said, okay, okay — next we should — then grabbed you by the wrist, pulled you towards the river and sat you down for an impromptu picnic. She started pointing at the clouds and made up stories on the spot, found one that looked like a rabbit, then one that she swore resembled you. It definitely didn't, but all you did was stare at her, watching her look at the sky, taking it in like the world was still offering her something and she intended to accept every bit of it, so you just agreed.

 October 7

Bukchon today, and she walked ahead of you, same as always, turning back every few steps — look at this, look at that one! — a fat cat purring, a big red door, a bicycle mural on the wall with a rideable seat, a vendor selling keyrings she decided you both needed immediately. She looped yours onto your bag.

I want to come back here in the winter, she said, looking up at the roof lines. Everything's going to look so different in the snow.

You said yes, then took a photograph in your mind — her coat, her breath in the cold air, the keyring swinging from her fingers as she danced across the street, turning back to look at you.

Before long, she started moving again. Okay, okay — next we should —

So you follow. You always follow.

I hope you can read this later, photograph still fresh in your memory. Please don't forget it for me.

October 10

The cafe in Mapo. She's become obsessed with trying out every flat white the city had to offer. So far she's twelve cafes in and every single one has been given full marks.

She was quieter today — not much, just to a degree. Usually she'd be talking about how good the last show she watched or the last book she read was, but today she just looked out on the street, her hands wrapped around her warm mug, and you watched something move across her face. You didn't really have a word for it. The expression of someone doing arithmetic.

She caught you staring. What? she asked, then melted into a smile.

Nothing, you said, and grinned back. You stared at her, and she looked back at you. Then you both cracked, her infectious laughter pulling you in as you chuckled.

Her cup went cold, so you ordered two more. She moved to sit next to you, leaning on your shoulder. You took her hands and wrapped yours around them, then took another photograph.

I really hope you're not forgetting these any time soon, because they're not taken on phones. A phone couldn't do it justice — her breath against your skin before it grew more regulated as she dozed off, her head resting on the crook of your neck, your hands taking in the daintiness of hers.

Before she knocked out completely, you heard her murmur the faintest of thank yous and I love yous. And that was all you needed to keep everything from cracking.

October 19

You would've met up again sooner, but she had to reschedule. Of course, you understood why, and wanted to visit. But her mother refused, so you waited, painfully, for a week.

This time it's the flower garden, the one next to the zoo — which you suggested at first, before she broke down crying. You asked what happened.

They took Rocket away, I don't want to go.

Rocket, her favourite monkey at the enclosure. You couldn't bear her crying, so you settled for the next best option.

The day didn't last as long as you wanted, but you pushed that selfish thought away for her. She's getting tired more easily now, and you've slowly learned how to walk slower without appearing to. To choose the closer seat. To carry everything. If she noticed, she didn't say anything.

October 20

Tonight she said, I don't want you to be sad.

You told her you wouldn't be, lied straight out of your teeth. She looked at you the way she looks at things she's deciding whether to believe, then she nodded, and tucked herself to your side.

I am writing this down for you even though we didn't go anywhere today because I know you will have forgotten, by the time you read this, how to do anything other than be sad. So I'm writing it here: she asked you not to be. Try for her.

October 24

The Han River again, her choice. This time you came better prepared for the picnic. You spread the snacks out on the mat and lay down next to her, where she was staring at the sky again, though she wasn't narrating this time. She stayed quiet, the way she has been for the past week or so, blinking slowly, fatigued.

You stare at the sky with her, and she says, in the softest voice possible, I'm glad it was you.

You take it in. Not trusting your voice, you didn't speak for a while. Then, me too.

More so than any time she ever uttered the eight letters, that moment was worth infinitely more.

December 19

I don't know how else to write tonight so I'll just write what happened.

I spread the snacks on the mat, the same ones as last time, her favourites. Sitting next to the triangle kimbaps and Market O brownies as they lay there untouched between me and the water, all I could think about was how we should’ve been back in Bukchon now.

The sky did nothing in particular. I looked for the rabbit cloud, and the cloud that looked like me, but I think they drifted away a long time ago. I took photographs anyway, the dark water, the empty space beside me, both keyrings. I took them on my phone this time. Maybe that's why they feel different.

After a while I reached for her hand.

I didn't feel anything there, but I opened my mouth anyway. Okay, okay — next we should — before I lost it completely.

I stayed for a little longer before I couldn't bear it anymore. I packed up the snacks and both keyrings and took the long way home.

I visited her parents a week ago. Her dad consoled me with a hug, but when his arms wrapped around me all I could think of was her, and how she felt the same. Her mom invited me onto the balcony for a smoke. I think neither of us knew what to say, so we sat in silence. Eventually she said, God can be so cruel, huh?

It took all of my self-control not to scream out at the skies before I told myself she wouldn't have wanted that.

But she would've wanted me to remember. That's why I wrote all of this down in the first place. You, when I read this in the future, need to remember her. How she smiled with her entire face. How excited she'd get over her favourite movie, or spotting a stray dog on the long way home.

And so I'll say the thing I've been wanting to say across all of these pages:

It was good. Every single moment with her was so unbearably, completely good.

And she was glad it was you.

Remember that. Hold it with both hands, because it might escape.

Please don't let it.