"Tonight, I'll send the glow of a firefly to you.”

The apartment sits in stillness.

Soaks into the worn fabric of the couch where her imprint lingers, into the ridges of the floorboards that once echoed with her bare feet, into the air that hasn’t moved much since she left.

It’s always like this at night. When you’re alone. When the lights are low and nothing is expected of you. Grief breathes louder in these hours. It doesn’t sob or scream. It exhales. And it waits.

You sit by the window, where she used to lean on rainy days with a cup of tea between her fingers. Her teacup still sits on the sill. Washed. Dried. Untouched. You don’t dare to touch it.

There’s a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, one she used to tug from your lap to cover herself before falling asleep on the couch. The fabric still holds a shape, somehow—like she’s paused mid-movement and will return any minute now to finish it.

But she won’t, and you know that.

Yet, your eyes drift to the horizon, waiting. Hopeful.

You remember once, late into a summer night, her voice tiny as she looked out the same window.

She said she’d send you the glow of a firefly. To let you know she was thinking of you. That she loved you.

You thought she was being poetic, or just really psychotic. You didn’t think it would be the last time she said it. Now the fireflies come without her, and you’re the one sending them. In some way, you hope one will find her. Wherever she is.

You close your eyes. The memories pull you under like waves.

You remember your first kiss. How close you were, how she smelled faintly like citrus shampoo and midnight. How your heart kicked against your chest like it was trying to warn you that everything would change.

And it did. It truly did.

Now, whenever the silence gets too deep, you close your eyes and try to go back. Back to the farthest place your memory allows. Where she still smiles without worry. Where she still hums songs into your hoodie as she dozes off.

But even there, she slips. Like letters on the sand. No matter how hard you try to hold her in your thoughts, time washes her away. That cruel motherfucking notion that is time. The sharper edges of her voice, the specific way she wrinkled her nose when annoyed, the odd, half-cough laugh she made when she tried to stifle a real one.

All of them, they all begin to blur.

Your lips begin to leave the imprints of your teeth whenever a tear drop.

You hate how memory is soft. You hate how you yourself are soft. She was never soft — if anything, she was fire and wind and eyes that made you feel seen even when you didn’t want to be.

Now she’s just…fog. That begin to clear out.

You miss her again. And again. And more. Each night.

The journal lies open beside you. The page is blank, though the ink bleeds slightly through from the other side. You don’t write much anymore. You just look.

Sometimes you trace her name at the corner of the page.

Sometimes you don’t need to.

The words you want to say crowd your chest, restless and aching, but they never make it to the page. They can’t. Because what are you supposed to write? That you’re sorry? That you love her? That every second without her feels like you’re walking underwater?

No. You’ve written all that already. Multiple pages, even. It wasn’t enough then, and it certainly won’t be now.

You look out the window again. The sky is thick and dark. The air is unmoving. But one small light glows and dances near the trees. A firefly. Huh, how fitting.

Is it her? Or is it just your brain yearning for Jieun? Whatever it is, you hope it finds her…or at least brushes against the memory of her.

Because if she can’t hear your heart now, then maybe she can see this.

A small, flickering light. Sent from someone who still thinks of her before sleep. Every night.

And you don’t say it aloud. You don’t need to. But inside—beneath all the things you can’t show her anymore, it’s that you love her.

Still.

It started with a bus ticket.

You hadn’t planned it. Not really. But the morning came, dull and grey, and you refuse to sit by that same window and watch another firefly pass by with no promise of where it might land.

So you packed lightly. Her scarf, folded and pressed close to your chest. One change of clothes. Your journal, though you still hadn’t written in it. And the old film camera she used to mock because it took “too much effort for one photo.”

You boarded the bus heading south.

The city fell behind like a memory you didn’t want to keep. Ahead: roads she loved. Streets she’d stuck her head out the window for, pretending the wind could carry her away. Trees she used to point at, wondering aloud how old they were. You remembered each place—not through landmarks, but through her voice echoing between buildings.

The first stop was the train station in the small town.

It looked the same. Maybe a little more faded, maybe the paint was peeling in more places than you remembered. But the platform… it still stretched out beneath the hazy sky like the day you got stranded there together.

That time, the rain came suddenly. A summer downpour so violent it drenched you both before you could even look for shelter. You panicked — typical, flustered, pacing and checking train times that had all been delayed. But she hadn’t. She’d laughed, calmly pulled you under a crooked awning near the far end of the station, and bought two cans of hot coffee from a humming vending machine with her last coins.

You sat there again under that same crooked awning, this time without the warmth of her laugh, or her hands wrapping yours around the can to warm them.

Your fingers hovered in your lap. The space beside you was empty, but you turned your body slightly anyway, like muscle memory still believed she’d plop down beside you, wet hair clinging to her cheeks, and tease you for overreacting.

You stayed there for a long time, staring out at the tracks that didn’t seem to end.

No rain. No vending machine coffee. Just a memory warm enough to sting.

Next came the hill by the sunflower fields.

It wasn’t blooming season. You knew that. You’d checked before leaving. Still, you want to see it again. To see the slope where she used to pull you along, always a few steps ahead, always with that barely contained excitement in her stride, like the flowers were waiting just for her.

She’d wear a straw hat too big for her head and hum songs you never recognized. You’d try to match her pace but fall behind, weighed down by heat and by her relentless enthusiasm. She’d look over her shoulder, grin, and shout at you to hurry, always ending her words with laughter.

The hill was bare now. Just rows of green stems not yet ready to bloom. The breeze tugged gently at your sleeves. The air still held that earthy scent you both loved—the scent she once said reminded her of home, even though she never explained why.

You climbed slowly, letting the wind guide you, your shoes brushing against brittle grass. At the top, you stood in the middle of nothing and everything.

No sunflowers.

No laughter.