Dear Diary,
It was just a small stain.
Barely the size of a thumbprint.
Dark red, smudged slightly near the hem of his shirt.
It could've been anything — ink, sauce, a cut, something harmless.
And yet… I can't stop thinking about it.
Because it wasn't there when we sat down.
Because he noticed me looking and covered it too quickly.
Because he lied.
Softly.
Smoothly.
But I know when he's lying now.
And today, something about him felt fragile.
Not just tired.
Not just withdrawn.
But like something beneath his skin was beginning to fall apart.
1:17 PM
We met at the museum café.
He looked pale again, but better than the last time.
He smiled when he saw me. Kissed my temple.
He said, "You look like sunshine."
I laughed. Teased him for being cheesy.
But even then, even when I was joking, something in my stomach twisted — because he meant it.
And sometimes it scares me, how fully he sees me. How clearly.
Because what happens when he stops?
What happens when the light in him gets too dim to notice mine?
2:04 PM
We sat on the patio.
Shared a sandwich. Talked about nothing in particular.
It was breezy. Soft. A perfectly forgettable kind of afternoon.
Except that it wasn't.
Because around the time we finished eating, I noticed him shift.
Wince.
He reached down, subtly adjusting the side of his shirt.
And I saw it.
Just a glimpse.
But enough.
A blotch of red — muted but sharp against the pale blue cotton.
At first, I thought: Ketchup?
But we didn't eat anything with ketchup.
I stared too long.
He noticed.
And then, without looking at me, he tugged the shirt lower and said, "It's nothing. Just a scratch."
"From what?" I asked.
"Just… I bumped into something."
I waited.
Hoped he'd elaborate.
He didn't.
3:03 PM
He changed the subject.
Started talking about a documentary he watched last night.
He spoke softly. Slowly. But his words didn't land right.
Like he was reading from a script while trying to stay balanced.
I nodded along, but my mind was stuck on that stain.
That flash of color that didn't belong.
That quiet dismissal.
Because Jung-Kyo doesn't dismiss things.
He faces them.
He talks.
But today… he hid.
3:42 PM
We walked through the garden behind the museum.
It's one of our places.
He told me once that the trees there look like they're mid-conversation.
I asked, "What are they saying?"
He said, "Stay. Listen."
But today, the trees felt quiet.
Too quiet.
He held my hand loosely.
His palm was cold.
I didn't say anything.
Didn't press.
Because sometimes, when you love someone, you wait.
You let the silence fill the cracks.
You trust they'll talk when they're ready.
But waiting doesn't make it easier.
It just makes the ache quieter.
4:27 PM
When we reached the corner where we usually part ways, I turned to him.
Tried to smile.
"You sure you're okay?"
He nodded.
"Promise?"
He hesitated.
And then said, "I'll be okay."
It wasn't a lie.
But it wasn't the truth either.
And I think we both knew it.
6:14 PM
I've been home for two hours.
Staring at my phone.
Staring at the texts we didn't send.
I didn't ask again.
He didn't explain.
And now the silence feels heavier.
Like we've both agreed to pretend we're not afraid.
But I am.
God, I am.
Because it wasn't the blood that scared me.
It was the way he looked when I saw it.
The flicker of fear in his eyes.
The second of panic.
And the way he covered it — like he was used to hiding it.
Like this wasn't the first time.
7:03 PM
I thought about calling him.
But I didn't.
Not because I don't care.
But because I don't want to make him feel like he has to lie again.
I want him to tell me on his own.
But every hour that passes without a message…
I feel something closing in.
Like we're both moving toward something neither of us can stop.
And maybe he's just trying to protect me.
Maybe he thinks not telling me keeps me safe.
But love isn't safety.
It's truth.
It's letting someone see your bleeding — even if you're still smiling.
Even if the wound is too deep to name.
8:12 PM
I wrote him a letter.
Didn't send it.
Probably won't.
But I needed to write it anyway.
"Dear Jung-Kyo,
I saw it today.
The blood.
I know you tried to hide it. I know you said it was nothing.
And maybe it was. Maybe it really is just a scratch.
But even if it is — even if I'm reading too much into everything — I need you to know something:
I can handle the truth.
I'd rather stand beside you in the dark than sit in the light alone.
You don't have to protect me from this.
You just have to let me stay.
– Mi-Chan"
10:04 PMHe hasn't messaged me tonight.
Not even a "goodnight."
And it's such a small thing — a text, a tap of a screen — but its absence feels like thunder.
I keep staring at the photo I took of him last week — mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed from the sun.
He looked alive.
And now…
Now he looks like someone trying to remember how to keep going.
11:19 PMI lit a candle.
Something small. Scented like sandalwood and memory.
I don't know why.
Maybe I'm hoping the flame will keep something alive in me.
Maybe it's just a way to fill the silence.
But either way, it's burning now.
Like a prayer.
Like a promise.
Like hope.
Because I don't know what's happening to him.
I don't know why he's bleeding or why he's hiding it or what the doctors will say when the results come in.
But I know this:
I won't walk away.
Not now.
Not ever.
Even if he tries to push me out.
Even if his fear builds walls higher than I can climb.
I'll be here.
Even if all I can do is wait with the door open.
Even if all I can do is keep the candle burning.
– Mi-Chan