Dear Diary,
I didn't expect to talk about the future today.
Not after the week we've had.
Not after the fear in his voice when he finally admitted something might be wrong.
Not after the way I said I love you and held my breath until he said it back.
But today… we let ourselves imagine.
Not because we weren't scared.
But because sometimes the only thing stronger than fear is hope — the soft kind, the quiet kind, the kind that slips between your fingers when you're not looking and builds a home in your heart anyway.
And today, we let hope speak.
2:03 PM
We met at his place.
He looked better than last week — still pale, still tired, but present in a way he hasn't been for days.
I brought lunch.
He brought that little half-smile that always makes my ribs loosen.
We didn't talk about doctors.
We didn't talk about symptoms.
We just sat at the table, eating dumplings and sipping soup like we were pretending to be ordinary people on an ordinary afternoon.
And honestly?
It was kind of perfect.
2:44 PM
At some point, I leaned back and said, "Can I ask you something ridiculous?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Always."
I looked at him, then down at my fingers tracing circles on the table.
"What would we name our kid?"
He choked slightly on his tea.
I laughed.
"I told you it was ridiculous."
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then grinned. "You're assuming I'd be any good at naming a child."
"You'd overthink it," I said. "You'd make a spreadsheet."
"With at least four columns," he added. "Meaning, origin, emotional resonance, and—"
"Potential playground teasing," I finished for him.
He nodded solemnly. "Crucial."
We both burst into laughter.
The kind that starts in your belly and rises like a wave you don't want to stop.
And for the first time in days…
It felt easy again.
3:09 PM
After lunch, we curled up on his tiny couch — legs tangled, a blanket draped over us, the sound of rain tapping on the windows like background music.
He rested his head against mine and whispered, "You really think about things like that?"
"Sometimes," I said. "Not all the time. But lately, yes."
"Even with all this uncertainty?"
"Especially with it."
He nodded.
Then said: "Okay. If we had a daughter, her name would be… Ha-Eun."
I blinked. "That's beautiful."
"My mother's name was Eun-Ji."
I felt something press against my chest.
"I didn't know that," I whispered.
He smiled faintly. "You do now."
4:12 PM
We talked for hours after that.
Not always about kids or names or anything so specific.
Sometimes it was simple things:
Where we'd live.
What kind of house we'd have.
If we'd adopt a cat or a dog.
If we'd travel. Where we'd go first.
He wants to see Greece.
I want to walk the streets of Kyoto at night.
He wants a home library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
I want a kitchen with too much sunlight and a windowsill for herbs.
We let ourselves build these things in our minds.
Not because we were escaping reality.
But because we were creating a reason to fight for it.
5:21 PM
There was a moment — quiet, soft — when we stopped talking.
We just looked at each other.
And I saw it.
The dream behind his eyes.
The one that says: Maybe I get to have this. Maybe I deserve to stay.
And I reached out, cupped his cheek, and said, "You're allowed to want more."
His eyes watered.
He didn't speak.
But he leaned into my hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
6:03 PM
He walked me to the bus stop even though he looked like he needed rest.
I told him he didn't have to.
He said, "I want to remember what it feels like to stand beside you under streetlights."
And I didn't argue.
Because there are some moments you don't interrupt.
Even if they're small.
Especially then.
6:17 PM
While we waited, I asked him: "Do you think we'll get there?"
"To Greece?"
"To… all of it. The future."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he looked at me — really looked — and said:
"I don't know what tomorrow holds. But today, I believe we could have a hundred tomorrows. Maybe more. And if we only get ten, I'll still dream for fifty."
I nodded.
Swallowed hard.
And said: "Me too."
6:24 PM
The bus came.
We hugged.
Longer than usual.
His hands in my hair.
My fingers gripping the back of his shirt like it was keeping me here.
And when I pulled back, he kissed my forehead and said:
"Write this one down. The world needs to remember how soft we were."
So, I am.
I'm writing it all down.
The way he smiled when we named imaginary children.
The way he laughed when I told him I'd burn his tea collection if he didn't rest properly.
The way his voice got quiet when he asked, "Would you still love me if I got worse?"
And how I said, without hesitation:
"I already do."
8:03 PM
Back home now.
Wrapped in a blanket, a cup of chamomile cooling beside me, and a journal filled with things I never thought I'd get to imagine again.
There's a part of me that's still afraid.
Still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Still bracing for the news I know is coming.
But there's another part — a louder one tonight — that's dreaming anyway.
Because loving him isn't about the timeline.
It's about the moments we carve out in spite of it.
And tonight, those moments looked like a kitchen with herbs on the sill.
A child named Ha-Eun with her father's soft smile.
Books stacked high.
Streetlights.
And laughter.
Always laughter.
So yes, Diary.
We talked about the future today.
And for the first time in a long time…
It didn't feel like a fantasy.
It felt like a possibility.
– Mi-Chan