Dear Diary,
The bed was cold this morning.
And I knew before I opened my eyes.
He was gone.
Not gone to the kitchen.
Not gone for a walk.
Not gone to get more tea.
Gone.
And the world hasn't made sense since.
7:04 AM
I woke because the sunlight touched my cheek.
And immediately I knew something was wrong.
No breathing beside me.
No warmth at my back.
No hand curled around mine like a quiet promise.
Just stillness.
Just space.
Just the kind of silence that screams.
7:07 AM
I sat up.
Blanket tangled at my feet.
Heart thudding too loud.
"Jung-Kyo?" I whispered.
But I already knew.
The moment my hand touched his pillow — cool, untouched — I knew.
He hadn't just shifted in his sleep.
He hadn't gone to the restroom.
He had left.
7:12 AM
I stood.
Every step toward the hallway felt like wading through glass.
"Jung-Kyo?" I tried again.
The nurse station was too quiet.
The machines were off.
The light in his room was low.
I didn't want to enter.
I wanted to rewind.
Back to the dance.
Back to his laugh.
Back to the weight of his body pressed to mine, still breathing, still here.
But I opened the door anyway.
7:14 AM
He was gone.
The bed was made.
The chair where I always sat was empty.
The blankets folded.
The teacup washed and placed neatly on the tray.
And in that moment, the finality hit me like ice to the lungs.
I couldn't breathe.
I sank to the floor, knees cracking against the tile.
And I cried.
Not softly.
Not politely.
I sobbed like the world had ended.
Because mine had.
8:03 AM
The nurse came.
She sat with me.
Said, "He went quietly. In his sleep."
Like that was supposed to comfort me.
Like the absence of pain makes the absence of love any easier.
She told me he passed around 4:30 AM.
That he didn't stir.
That his last breath was soft.
I wanted to scream.
Because he told me he'd stay.
Because I was supposed to be there.
Because I missed it.
Because I was sleeping while the most important part of my life slipped away.
8:34 AM
They gave me a box.
His things.
A worn hoodie.
A stack of notes.
A single photograph.
And one small, sealed envelope.
For Mi-Chan.Open later. Not now. You'll know when.
I held it like a heartbeat.
And I didn't open it.
Because I didn't know how to say goodbye.
9:21 AM
I walked.
No destination.
Just the weight of the letter in my pocket and the ghost of his hand in mine.
I passed the bench by the river.
Where he first told me I looked like someone he wanted to stay beside.
I passed the bakery.
Where we used to laugh over cinnamon rolls and arguments about which tea was best.
And everywhere I turned, he was there.
But nowhere I turned was he real.
10:17 AM
Back home now.
Alone.
The candle I kept lighting is just a stump of wax.
Burnt out.
Like him.
Like me.
I haven't moved from the floor in over an hour.
I keep replaying our last words.
Our last dance.
Our last sip of tea.
How was I supposed to know they were lasts?
How does anyone ever know?
11:11 AM
I opened the letter.
Because I couldn't not know anymore.
"Mi-Chan,
If you're reading this, I've already failed at my promise.
I said I'd stay. But my body couldn't keep up with my love.
I wanted to leave you something — not money, not things — but memory.
So I wrote you this instead of waking you. Because you looked so peaceful, and I
didn't want our final moment to be pain. I wanted it to be sleep. Soft. Quiet. Warm.
Like how you made my life feel.
You saved me. You gave me more than time — you gave me days worth
remembering. You gave me hope when I had none. You gave me love when
thought I'd lost my right to it.
I hope you keep writing. I hope you go to Paris. I hope you fall in love again — not
because I want to be replaced, but because I want you to live.
I'll be in every page you write.
Every cup of tea you drink.
Every breeze that makes you look up for no reason.
Please don't let your life end with mine.
Let it begin again.
Forever, no matter how short,
Love,
Jung-Kyo."
I folded the letter against my chest.
And I cried again.
The kind of cry that feels like love leaving the body.
1:02 PM
I wrote one last letter.
Not for him.
But for me.
"Dear Me,
You loved.
You lost.
And you're still here.
That means something.
You don't have to rush.
You don't have to move on.
But you do have to move forward.
Because he asked you to.
And because love like that doesn't end.
It just changes shape.
You carry it now.
You carry him.
So, carry him gently.
In pages.
In tea.
In laughter.
In the softest parts of you.
Always."
2:33 PM
I walked again.
To the river.
Sat on the bench.
Closed my eyes.
And for the first time since he left, I could breathe.
Not fully.
But enough.
Enough to imagine him beside me.
Enough to imagine him watching the sky.
Enough to imagine his voice whispering:
"Look. Isn't it beautiful?"
Yes, it is.
Even now.
Even without him.
Because he showed me how to see it.