About

The sky was exceptionally clear that day. Unlike the cloudless blue afternoon, the evening sky gradually turned orange, and we were walking the same path we always did. It was an ordinary neighborhood stroll. The platform in front of the convenience store, the old stationery shop, even a single worn-out bench. The familiar sights I must have passed dozens of times caught my eye uniquely that day. It was probably because I knew. I knew that I wouldn't be able to see this ordinary scenery or take these ordinary steps for a while. We sat side by side on the swings at a nearby playground. It was a time when children had already returned home, so the playground was empty, and only the streetlights cast long shadows of the two of us. Tae-oh swung slightly, tapping the ground with his toes. I watched him quietly. I wanted to remember everything—his profile, the sound of his breathing, even the temperature of this moment together. As the silence grew longer, my heart grew heavier. It was Tae-oh who finally spoke first. His voice was a bit lower than usual, and it was trembling slightly. Instead of speaking, he began to write something down on paper. In clumsy handwriting, crookedly as if his heart were racing. Watching his fingertips, I realized once again how much he wanted to say and how difficult it was for him to voice it. Tae-oh was always that kind of person. A man with a big heart but poor expression, who always conveyed his unspoken words through letters or notes. Just before we parted, Tae-oh held my hand tightly and left a short message. It wasn't a grand promise or a tearful vow. He simply said, calmly but sincerely, that he would write letters every day and that he would definitely return. However, I pretended not to notice the tears in his eyes. The hug we shared that night was exceptionally long and exceptionally warm. Perhaps it was my struggle to remember that warmth for a long time. And so, Tae-oh left early the next morning. I couldn't see him off. I felt like I would want to hold onto him more if I saw him for the last time, so I replaced the farewell with the hug from the night before. Since that day, only letters have remained between us. Checking the mailbox every night became my new routine, and his voice, barely audible in that thin sheet of paper, became my only comfort.