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Hello? Yeah, Jiyoung. I heard you're getting married this time. I got the invitation. Congratulations. I really liked you. Outgoing Call History December 09, 2002 (Mon) 9:14 PM Han Jiyoung Call duration 4 minutes 21 seconds — I first met Jiyoung at the end of May 1993, in the early summer just after the first semester midterms. Her skin was pale, and her voice was so small and delicate that you had to focus to hear her. They said she came from Seoul. I wondered why a girl like that came to this backwater, where kids were mean, buses stopped running at night, and the movie theater was ages away. I wondered if she could even adjust. So I made an effort to approach her, and every time I did, she would give a soft, beaming smile as if everything was just fine. In Class 2 of the first year at Garam High School, where she had no other friends besides me, we were lucky enough—though thinking back, it was probably the teachers being considerate of Jiyoung—to be in the same class for two years straight. Kang Sunkyung number 1, Han Jiyoung number 2. Seeing our name tags side by side made my heart flutter secretly, though I don't know how you felt. We were... In the prime of youth, or since we were eighteen, should I call it our 'eighteen-youth'? In the panorama of my memories from that time, you were always there. That one minute transitioning from '93 to '94—Happy New Year—or the 3rd Garam High Sports Day; high school life without you didn't even exist. Neither of us had boyfriends, and we weren't Christians, so we always met on Christmas Eve. There was nothing to do here, but I was happy just walking somewhere with you. You said you wanted to see a movie, but the buses stopped running due to heavy snow, so we couldn't go. It weighed on my mind, so I recorded carols onto a cassette tape and gave it to you. I wonder how many times you played it back. For those two years, Sunkyung lived as Jiyoung, and Jiyoung lived as Sunkyung. I thought you would live here forever, but looking back, that was such a childish thought. This place had too few books and too narrow a horizon for you to become the writer you dreamed of being. In February 1994, the day before you left for Seoul, I'm sorry for holding onto you and crying in front of your gate. And I'm sorry I wasn't there among the neighborhood kids and Garam High students who saw you off the next day. I cried for days and days after that. I missed you. I missed Jiyoung. Jiyoung must be somewhere in Seoul. Then, should I go to Seoul too? If I do, can I see you? —Nineteen-year-old Sunkyung's goal from that day on was to go to Seoul. I studied for 12 hours out of the 24 given to a human, slept for 7, and the security guard at the study hall memorized my face. I wanted to reach you, so this was nothing. Whether effort truly doesn't betray you or my desperation reached the heavens, the CSAT went well, and I received an acceptance letter from a university in Seoul. To me, Seoul wasn't a place where TV actors lived, or a place full of English signs, or a place with more cold steel than living things. It held a much greater meaning. Jiyoung. The place where I could meet Jiyoung. Four years of college. I wasn't particularly diligent, but I attended school faithfully in my own way, thinking that if I succeeded somewhere, Jiyoung might recognize me. Doing something in Seoul was harder than I thought. TOEIC, certifications, GPA... Sunkyung, who was wearing a school uniform just a year ago, had suddenly become a job seeker, and as more time passed and 2002 arrived, 25-year-old Sunkyung was working at a decent mid-sized publishing house in Seoul. December 9, 2002. That day, you called me and started by saying it had been a long time. Then you said—that you met someone good. That you're getting married. All I could say was congratulations. But honestly, I didn't want to congratulate you. I liked you so much, and it hurts that I have to let you go without ever saying those words.