Dear Diary,
There's a particular kind of light that exists only in hospitals.
It's not warm.
It's not soft.
It's clean — too clean.
Fluorescent and buzzing and heavy with the smell of antiseptic and fear.
Even the paper feels different there — thicker, more serious. Like it knows it carries bad news inside it.
And today, I held that kind of paper in my hands.
His paper.
With his name on it.
Even though he told me it wasn't his.
And I nodded.
And smiled.
And said nothing.
Because I didn't want the truth to arrive just yet.
Even though I already knew.
2:18 PM
It started when I went to his place to drop off lunch.
He'd been quiet all morning.
No messages.
No updates.
And I couldn't stand the silence anymore.
So I made soup — the kind he used to make for me when I was sick — and showed up with a thermos, crackers, and a soft roll from his favorite bakery.
He looked surprised when he opened the door.
Not annoyed. Not upset.
Just… surprised.
Like he didn't think anyone would bother anymore.
Like maybe even he's starting to believe he's already halfway gone.
2:42 PM
He invited me in.
The apartment smelled stale.
The windows were closed.
The light was dim.
He looked like he hadn't eaten.
Or showered.
His hair was a little messy, and he was wearing the same hoodie from two days ago — sleeves pushed up, hands trembling ever so slightly.
I didn't comment.
I just handed him the food and said, "You don't have to finish it. Just try."
He smiled.
Tired.
Grateful.
He always says thank you like it's a lifeline.
3:13 PM
He fell asleep on the couch before he even finished the soup.
Head resting on a cushion, breath shallow, hand still curled loosely around the spoon.
I sat beside him, watched his chest rise and fall.
And something in me twisted.
Because there's a kind of helplessness in watching someone sleep when you know they're not just tired — they're sick.
I got up quietly.
Went to the kitchen to rinse the thermos.
That's when I saw it.
3:28 PM
His bag was on the counter.
Zipped halfway open.
Not snooping. Not digging. I swear I wasn't.
But when I brushed past it, a stack of papers slid out.
White.
Stamped.
Folded twice.
And on the top sheet, in bold black letters:
PATIENT TEST RESULTS – PRELIMINARY
His name.
His date of birth.
His ID number.
I froze.
My hands started shaking.
I didn't open them.
I didn't need to.
Because on the second page — peeking out just enough — I saw the words:
Oncology Referral.
And that was enough.
That was everything.
4:02 PM
I sat down at the kitchen table, holding those pages like they were a bomb I didn't know how to disarm.
And I cried.
Not loud.
Not wild.
Just quietly — a steady stream of tears running down my cheeks, falling onto the wood.
Because this wasn't fear anymore.
This was truth.
Because you don't get oncology referrals for broken bones.
You don't hide results like that if they're nothing.
You don't look the way he's looked — pale, thinner, dim-eyed — unless something in you is shutting down.
He's sick.
He's really sick.
And he hasn't told me.
4:27 PM
He stirred in the other room.
I wiped my face.
Put the papers back.
Zipped the bag.
Sat down on the couch like I hadn't just touched the edge of my worst nightmare.
He opened his eyes.
Blinking, dazed.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hey."
He looked around. "How long was I out?"
"About an hour."
"Sorry."
"Don't be."
He noticed the soup was gone.
"I finished it?"
I smiled. "Not really. But you tried."
He leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
Then he saw the bag.
He froze.
Just for a second.
Then reached for it slowly, pulling it closer.
"I had to grab something for a friend earlier," he said casually.
"Yeah?"
"Some medical stuff. She's nervous about going to appointments alone."
"Mm."
Silence.
Tight.
Thin.
Like the air between us had become glass again.
He didn't meet my eyes.
He didn't have to.
Because the lie sat there in his mouth like a stone.
And he knew I knew.
But we both pretended.
Because pretending is easier than crumbling.
5:03 PM
I left soon after.
He walked me to the door.
Didn't say much.
Didn't kiss me goodbye.
But his hand lingered on mine.
Soft.
Apologetic.
And when I turned to go, he whispered, "Thanks for today."
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Because I was already breaking.
6:12 PM
Back home now.
Sitting in my room with the windows open and the candle burning again.
The lavender one.
The one he gave me before we ever knew this was what we'd become.
I can't stop thinking about that stack of papers.
About how carefully folded they were.
About how long he's probably had them.
About how many days he's looked me in the eyes and said, "I'm okay."
And how I nodded, even when I didn't believe him.
Because love makes liars of all of us.
We say "I'm fine" to protect the other person.
We say "It's not mine" because we can't bear the moment it becomes real.
But I know now.
And no lie can soften what's coming.
7:44 PM
I wrote him another letter.
Like I did last week.
I won't send this one either.
But it helps.
It's the only way I know how to keep breathing.
"Dear Jung-Kyo,
You don't have to tell me.
I saw it today.
I saw your name on the page, and I saw the word that changed everything.
I won't pretend it didn't hurt.
But more than that… it scared me.
Not because of what it means.
But because you thought I couldn't handle it.
I would carry this with you. Every piece of it. Every ache. Every fear.
I'd hold your hand in every waiting room.
I'd kiss your forehead after every round of medicine.
I'd sleep in the chair beside your bed and read poetry aloud until your eyes closed.
All you have to do is let me.
Let me love you through this.
Even if it's short.
Even if it's scary.
Even if you're afraid you'll disappear.
You won't.
Not to me.
– Mi-Chan"
9:01 PM
I keep thinking about his eyes.
How they used to light up when I walked into a room.
How they've changed.
Not gone.
But dimmed.
Like stars on a cloudy night.
Still there.
But harder to find.
Still burning.
But barely.
And I wonder how long we have left before the light goes out completely.
I don't want to know.
But I think I already do.
And even if he won't say it out loud…
Even if he hides behind smiles and stories about "a friend"…
I'll stay.
I'll wait.
I'll be the one who carries the light when his starts to fade.
– Mi-Chan