Dear Diary,
There's a kind of silence that comes when you start to lose something slowly.
Not the crashing kind.
Not the screaming kind.
Just the silence of something once familiar… slipping.
And today, that's what it felt like with him.
Jung-Kyo's eyes are dimming.
And I don't know how to stop it.
1:04 PM
He texted this morning.
Jung-Kyo: "Are you free for a walk later?"
I didn't think I'd hear from him today.
Not after missing my birthday.
Not after the hollow apology.
But I said yes.
Of course I did.
Because even now — even hurting — I want every second he'll give me.
I would rather walk beside the fading version of him than be anywhere else in the world.
2:12 PM
We met near the river.
Same path we used to walk in spring.
Only this time… he didn't smile when he saw me.
His shoulders were hunched.
His skin, pale.
And his eyes — those warm, quiet eyes that always saw me like I was something worth staying for — were dull.
Not empty.
But tired.
So, so tired.
Like even looking at me cost him energy he didn't have.
And that broke me.
3:03 PM
We walked for a bit.
Slowly.
His steps were uneven.
He kept one hand in his pocket like he needed to ground himself.
I asked, gently, "Did you eat today?"
He shook his head. "Didn't feel like it."
"Do you want to stop for something?"
He hesitated.
Then said, "No appetite."
I wanted to argue.
To scold him. To force something into his hands — a sandwich, soup, anything.
But I didn't.
Because I could tell it wouldn't matter.
He didn't need food.
He needed strength.
And I think that's what's leaving him now.
3:41 PM
We sat on a bench beneath the willow trees.
He leaned back, eyes closed, face tilted toward the sun like he was trying to soak in the light while he still could.
I stared at him.
Traced every line of his jaw. The new hollowness in his cheeks. The faint tremble in his fingers.
I tried not to cry.
I failed.
"I'm scared," I whispered.
He didn't open his eyes.
But he reached for my hand.
Held it like it was the only thing keeping him here.
"I know," he said. "Me too."
4:03 PM
I asked him again, quietly:
"Did you get the results?"
A long pause.
Then:
"Not yet."
I'm not sure I believe him.
Maybe he's lying to protect me.
Or maybe he's telling the truth, and we're still in that brutal limbo between fear and confirmation.
But either way, I can see it now.
The toll.
It's not just physical.
It's in the way he speaks.
The way he forgets to smile.
The way his eyes — once filled with mischief and music — now look like they're staring into something he's too afraid to name.
5:14 PM
He asked if I wanted to come back to his place.
I said yes.
We walked the rest of the way in silence.
His grip on my hand got looser.
At one point, I thought he might let go.
But he didn't.
He held on.
Even when it looked like it hurt.
6:05 PM
His apartment smelled like mint and laundry detergent.
Still the same.
Still his.
But everything inside it felt heavier.
Like the air had thickened.
Like the walls were holding their breath.
He sat down on the couch slowly.
I took off my shoes, walked over, and sat beside him.
Close.
Not speaking.
Just breathing with him.
And for a moment, I let myself pretend we were okay.
Just tired.
Just needing rest.
Not dying.
Not fading.
Just living quietly.
7:02 PM
He fell asleep.
Head resting on my shoulder.
His breathing was uneven.
Shallow.
At one point, I thought he'd stopped.
I turned to look.
And he exhaled.
Barely.
My chest hurt from how tightly I was holding it in.
8:13 PM
When he woke up, he blinked slowly.
Looked at me.
And I could see the apology in his eyes before he said anything.
"I didn't mean to sleep," he murmured.
"It's okay."
He nodded.
Then added: "Sometimes I think if I sleep long enough, I'll wake up and everything will be better."
I kissed his temple.
"You're still here," I whispered.
"That's what scares me," he said.
9:04 PM
Before I left, I stood at the door, staring at him.
He was curled up on the couch.
Wrapped in a blanket.
Looking smaller than ever.
And I thought: This isn't fair.
He's twenty-three.
He should be planning the next chapter of his life.
Not wondering if there's enough time for one.
He should be laughing.
Dancing.
Making terrible puns and reading novels in sunlit cafés.
Not counting breaths and waiting for answers that don't come.
Not trying to hide how much he's breaking.
And definitely not watching the light leave his own eyes.
9:47 PM
He walked me to the door.
Held it open.
Didn't kiss me goodbye.
Just looked at me like he wanted to.
Like he didn't have the strength.
"I'll text you," he said.
I nodded.
"You promise?"
A pause.
Then: "Yes."
But it didn't sound like a promise.
It sounded like a hope.
10:12 PM
Home now.
Blanket wrapped around me.
Tea cold.
The ache in my chest louder than anything.
Because I'm losing him.
Not quickly.
Not with sirens and screaming.
But slowly.
In pieces.
One skipped meal at a time.
One hour of sleep too long.
One smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
And I don't know how to stop it.
But I wrote this in my journal tonight:
If the light is leaving him, then I will be the last flicker that stays.
Because I'm not going anywhere.
Even if he does.
– Mi-Chan