CRUSH

I don’t want to move to Singapore, appa.

Some memories are meant to stay buried. Sealed off in the deepest chambers of the mind, wrapped away so tightly that they can’t hurt us anymore. Others surface uninvited as a painful reminder that we’ve once felt loss, forcing us to carry the ache with us forever.

I didn’t know it then—that the day my father came home holding that large yellow envelope, hands trembling as he cried tears of joy into my mother’s shoulder in our kitchen, would become one of the most crushing moments of my childhood.

I didn’t want to show it. I knew that my parents had been wanting that promotion for years. I wanted to be happy for my father’s dreams finally coming true, so I cried in silence in my room for hours until the sun went down.

Through the thin walls, I could hear them calling all their friends to announce the good news: we were set to leave for Singapore in two weeks.

Dinner that night was supposed to be a celebration. The table was filled with things we almost never had—Hanwoo beef, abalone, fresh sashimi—yet every bite tasted like rubber in my mouth. I would have traded every dish on that table for a piece of kimbap from Wonyoung’s lunch box, even the ones that were wrapped too loosely with rice spilling out the sides.

It was then that I finally learned that my own feelings didn’t matter. Not to others, and especially not to myself.

“I don’t want to move to Singapore, appa.”

They were such simple words. Words I wanted to say so badly but couldn’t. Words that any other 12-year-old would’ve screamed without thinking twice.

But I didn’t protest. I didn’t even try to ask why. I accepted it, just like every other time before.

Mom said life was about to drastically improve. So why did mine feel like it was ending?

Why am I remembering this now?

This isn’t a dream. It’s a memory.

“Why do you look so sad today?” Wonyoung asked, kicking her feet against the dirt.

We sat side by side on the old wooden swings that summer. The air smelled like dirt and rain, and I could still remember the sound of the rusted chains creaking softly with every small movement, a sound that usually comforted me but suddenly felt more like a countdown.

She held a small ice cream cone, drips of milky green already racing down the sides from the humid summer heat. “Is it because they ran out of your favorite flavor?” she asked, chasing after the streaks. “I told you, vanilla is boring anyway. You need to expand your palate a little, you know. We’re not in 6th grade anymore.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t even look at her. The world felt too heavy. Too loud.

“Wonbin-ah,” she said, quieter this time. “Really… is something wrong?”

I stared at the ground, at the specks of sand mixed with stubborn blades of grass pushing up through the dirt.

“Would you miss me when you become famous one day?” I managed to ask.

“Huh?” She chuckled. “Why would I have to miss you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll be far apart and you won’t have time to see me anymore.”

“I see what’s happening here.” She swung her legs a little higher. “You’re making yourself stressy-depressy imagining what kind of celebrity I’d be.”

“I guess.”

“Dummy.” She bumped her shoulder lightly against me. “You think I’ll be some kind of diva or something? I’ll always have time for you no matter how famous I am. And we’ll never be far apart! We’ll be a package deal. If I ever make it to the top, you’ll be right next to me. That’s what best friends do.”

She smiled to herself, already carried away by the thought of her dreams coming true. “I have it all planned out already. I’ll give you my first autograph ever—and it’ll be worth millions one day, so don’t lose it—and you’ll sit front row at my first stage. And if I ever go on tour, I’ll make sure you’re my manager—and if you’re not qualified, you can be the guy who carries my bags.”

A single tear dripped down the side of my face. “I don’t want to carry your stupid bags,” I whispered, trying my best not to let my voice crack.

“Too bad! It’s in the Won-won contract,” she said, slurping the dripping ice cream. “We’re going to the same high school, aren’t we? You’ll come to all my evaluations, right? Oh, and we’re gonna score—”

“I’m moving to Singapore next week,” I blurted out.

The screech of the chains stopped abruptly.

I couldn’t face her. All I did was stare at the ground, watching the tiny patch of grass beneath our feet get splattered by mint chocolate ice cream.

“W-what?” she whispered. “H-hey, Park Wonbin—d-don’t joke like that—it’s not funny—”

“I’m not joking,” I said, my throat tightening until it hurt. “My dad got promoted. We’re leaving next week.”

“For how long? For the summer? Like a vacation, right? You’ll come back, won’t you?”

“No.” I shook my head, tears finally stinging my eyes. “For good.”

I waited for her to yell at me. To tell me to fix it. To tell me I wasn’t allowed to go.

But she didn’t.

“You said you’d help me practice for my performance next month,” she murmured, more to herself than me.

“I know.”

“And you said we’d go to the mid-autumn festival this year.”

“I know, Wonyo—”

“You promised!” she cried, her voice cracking. “You promised you’d be next to me forever, Park Wonbin!”

When I finally dared to look up, she was already standing. But she didn’t say anything. She just turned and ran—away from the swings, away from me.

Tears hit my knees like rain, to the rhythm of her footsteps fading into the distance.

That week, Wonyoung was nowhere to be found. I had thought that by telling her, our last days together would be more memorable—that we’d spend every second clinging to each other.

Instead, they didn’t exist.

I spent my final week in Seoul searching for her, walking the same streets we always did, checking the same corners she always hid behind while waiting for me, hoping to catch even a glimpse of her ponytail disappearing ahead of me, just one more time.

I never saw it.

Why are you always running from me, Jang Wonyoung?

Why am I always the one chasing you, even after all these years?