Dear Diary,
Some things change you forever.
Not in loud, explosive ways. Not like a movie climax or a dramatic twist. Sometimes, change is quiet. Like the way dusk settles without asking. Or how a sentence—just one—can crack open something you've kept sealed for years.
Today… something opened.
And I don't think I'll ever close it again.
4:03 PMWe met in the park.
Not planned. Not an occasion. Just… something that happened.
He texted me earlier:
"Long day. Fresh air?"
And I replied before I could talk myself out of it.
"Sure. Same bench?"
The same one near the tiny koi pond, where the trees lean like they're whispering. The one that doesn't get much sun, but somehow still feels warm.
4:26 PMHe was already there when I arrived. Hoodie and slacks. Coffee in one hand. A small book in the other. When he saw me, he smiled like he'd been waiting — not impatiently, but like time passed easier when he waited for someone on purpose.
I sat beside him, a bit stiff at first. Still recovering from my cold. Still unsure how to exist around him without thinking about everything he's becoming to me.
"You look better," he said.
I shrugged. "Better is relative. I showered and ate soup. That's a win in my world."
He grinned. "That's two wins."
4:41 PMWe talked about nothing for a while. Squirrels. Clouds. An old man jogging like he had a secret to catch. It was peaceful. Easy. Like breathing next to someone who didn't demand anything from you.
Then, without warning, he asked:
"Do you think grief ever gets lighter?"
The question dropped between us like a stone into still water.
I turned slowly. His gaze was fixed on the pond, watching koi drift like fragments of sunlight.
I didn't speak right away. I didn't know if I was allowed to.
But then he said:
"My father died when I was seventeen."
Just like that.
No build-up. No dramatic pause.
Just truth, laid bare.
I felt the breath catch in my throat.
"He was diagnosed late," he continued. "Pancreatic. He didn't tell us until it was stage three. I think he knew long before. But he didn't want us to live under a countdown."
I stayed quiet.
Because I knew that kind of story.
Too well.
"I hated him for it," Jung-Kyo said. "Not because he died. But because he didn't let us say goodbye properly."
I nodded.
Still silent.
Still listening.
5:01 PMHe looked down at his hands, turning his coffee cup slowly like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.
"Everyone kept telling me to be strong. To lead. To 'honor him.' I was seventeen. I wanted to scream."
I felt the air shift around us.
Like the world knew this was a sacred thing.
A memory unwrapping itself for the first time.
I hesitated, then whispered: "My mom had leukemia. Chronic. Diagnosed when I was thirteen. She lived… longer than they said she would. But never without pain."
He looked up, eyes meeting mine.
The quiet between us deepened. Not uncomfortable. Just… heavy.
And necessary.
"I stopped dancing after her second relapse," I said. "Felt pointless. Like joy was something I wasn't allowed to touch."
"Did she know?" he asked.
I nodded. "She was furious."
That made him smile faintly.
"She told me she wasn't dying so I could stop living."
I blinked away tears.
It's been years, Diary.
And still, just saying her name out loud feels like setting something on fire inside my chest.
5:17 PMWe sat in silence after that. The kind of silence you don't dare fill with noise. The kind that feels like prayer.
Then, softly, Jung-Kyo said:
"You ever notice how the world doesn't pause? Like… people still laugh. Cars still honk. Music still plays in shops. Even when your world is ending."
I let out a quiet breath. "Yeah. I remember walking out of the hospital and hearing someone argue about soy milk. It felt obscene. Like… how could anything still matter when she was gone?"
He nodded, eyes distant. "Grief makes the world feel fake."
"But it also makes it feel sharp," I added. "Like every little thing is suddenly glowing with how temporary it is."
"Exactly."
We didn't need to say more.
The secret had been shared.
Not just the facts of loss — but the language underneath it. The invisible understanding that forms between people who have watched someone they love fade while pretending to be whole.
5:39 PMHe reached into his pocket and handed me something.
Another drawing.
This one?
A pair of ballet shoes — worn, fraying — hung over a tree branch. Wind curling their ribbons. Beneath them, tiny forget-me-not flowers.
I looked at it. Then at him.
"It reminded me of you," he said quietly. "Delicate things don't stop being strong just because they're tired."
I didn't speak.
Couldn't.
I just clutched the sketch like it might fly away.
6:00 PMHe walked me home after that.
No more heavy talk.
We shifted back to small things. Favorite movies. Embarrassing childhood memories. I told him I used to believe I was allergic to glitter. He told me he once cried because his Lego castle fell apart.
We laughed. A lot.
And it felt good.
To laugh after grief.
To laugh because of life.
6:37 PMOutside my building, I turned to him.
"Thank you," I said. "For telling me. For trusting me."
He nodded.
Then, quietly:
"Thank you for understanding."
He didn't touch me.
But he didn't need to.
The weight of his presence — his truth — still pressed gently against my ribs.
And Diary?
I think I'm falling.
Not in the dizzy, reckless way.
But in the real way.
The way that builds slowly, from trust. From shared pain. From the knowledge that someone has seen your shadows… and stays anyway.
Tonight, I held a piece of someone else's grief.
And in doing that… I felt my own get a little lighter.
Maybe that's what healing really is.
Not forgetting.
But carrying it, together.
– Mi-Chan