April 18 “He Remembers Things”

Dear Diary,

He did it again.

Remembered something about me I didn't even know I told him.

And somehow, that terrifies me more than if he'd kissed me.

It started this morning — plain, forgettable Thursday. I was dragging myself through campus on three hours of sleep and one reheated cup of instant coffee. Hair in a low bun, hoodie stolen from Chae-Sun, my mood somewhere between "meh" and "please don't speak to me."

I barely remembered it was April 18th. It's the anniversary of my mom's first hospital stay. I didn't plan to mark it. I didn't even want to remember it. But it hung on my skin like old perfume — quiet but clinging.

So I buried myself in schoolwork. Pretended the day meant nothing.

Until it didn't.

11:42 AM I had just finished printing out my presentation notes and was rushing toward the library steps when I heard someone call my name — not loudly, just enough to stop me mid-step.

"Mi-Chan."

Jung-Kyo.

Of course.

Because fate, apparently, has a schedule I'm not allowed to see.

He was leaning against one of the stone pillars, a paper bag in one hand, iced coffee in the other. He looked so normal it hurt — like he didn't belong in the middle of my grief-drenched day, and yet here he was, folding himself into it without asking for permission.

I froze. "What are you doing here?"

He lifted the paper bag. "Thought you might skip lunch again."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you stalking my meals now?"

He smirked. "Maybe."

11:47 AM We sat at one of the wooden benches behind the library. It's a quieter spot — half-shaded, with overgrown hedges and a broken vending machine humming like a sad robot.

He handed me the bag. I opened it and found… strawberry milk.

And not just any kind. The exact brand I used to buy from the campus store near the dance studio — the one I haven't talked about in years. Not since I quit dancing. Not since Mom got sick.

For a second, I just stared at it.

Then I asked, "How did you know?"

He looked at me — really looked. Like the question had more layers than I meant to give it.

"You mentioned it once. Long time ago. You said you used to drink it after practice when you couldn't afford dinner."

I blinked. "I said that?"

"Yeah." He tilted his head, watching me gently. "It was raining that day too. You didn't have an umbrella."

My chest caved in a little.

Because he was right. I barely remembered that day — but now, pieces of it were coming back. Cold rain, sore feet, my stomach rumbling through ballet slippers. I'd been embarrassed. He'd offered me his umbrella. I'd laughed and refused, pretending hunger didn't feel like punishment.

And I'd told him. Casually. Probably as a joke.

But he remembered.

When even I didn't.

12:10 PMI opened the bottle and took a sip. It tasted just like I remembered — artificial and sugary and vaguely nostalgic.

Suddenly, tears stung my eyes.

Not because of the milk. Not even because of Mom.

But because I didn't know how to handle someone being so… thoughtful without expecting anything in return.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He shrugged like it was nothing.

But it wasn't nothing.

It was everything.

12:24 PM We didn't talk for a while after that. Just sat there in companionable silence.

I watched the wind stir petals across the ground like the earth was trying to remember how to be gentle. And I wondered what it would feel like to be held in that kind of softness — that kind of understanding.

Then he said, quietly, "You don't have to pretend to be okay with me."

I stiffened. "I'm not pretending."

He looked at me, unblinking.

"You're exhausted," he said. "You shrink your voice when you're lying. And you didn't touch your food last time we ate together."

My mouth opened. Then closed.

Because he wasn't wrong.

I chew fast. I shrink. I fake brightness like it's my job. I nod even when I want to scream.

And he noticed.

And said it without accusation — just… recognition.

Like he'd lived it, too.

12:41 PM "I'm trying," I said. "I'm just not sure who I am without all the pretending."

He nodded once. "That's still you."

I tilted my head. "What is?"

"The version of you who's tired. The one who doesn't smile all the time. The one who's still figuring things out."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

Then: "You're not real."

He laughed at that — low and amused. "I get that a lot."

12:59 PM Eventually, I stood.

"I have class soon."

He nodded, standing too.

We didn't move immediately.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper — same texture and size as the napkin doodle he gave me before.

Another sketch.

This one?

A small carton of strawberry milk with tiny angel wings drawn on the sides and a speech bubble that said: "Don't forget you're still here."

I stared at it.

"I don't deserve this," I said before I could stop myself.

He tilted his head. "Why not?"

"Because I'm a mess."

He slipped the paper into my hand, fingers brushing mine briefly.

"Then I guess I like messes."

1:12 PM Back in class now.

But I can't stop touching that sketch in my pocket. I keep unfolding it, then folding it again. Like I'm afraid it'll vanish if I look away too long.

I don't know what this is between us.

But it's growing.

Not in leaps. Not in declarations.

But in the reminders. The small, quiet ways he shows me that I matter — not for what I do or say, but simply because I exist.

That's more dangerous than love.

Because love, I understand.

But this?

This is being seen.

And I'm not sure I know how to survive it.

– Mi-Chan