May 10 “He Knows Me Better Than I Do”
Dear Diary,
Today was the kind of day where the sun felt fake.
Bright skies, sure. Birds chirping. A soft breeze. But none of it reached me. I walked through campus like I was underwater — smile in place, shoulders up, nodding at people I barely knew, laughing at things I didn't hear.
It's a skill I've mastered: looking whole when I'm unraveling.
And usually, it works.
People believe it.
No one notices the small shifts — the way my fingers tap against my thigh too fast, the way my laugh sticks in my throat, the way I avoid saying "I'm fine" because I'm afraid the word itself will snap me in half.
But he noticed.
Of course he did.
Jung-Kyo always notices.
2:12 PM
We were supposed to grab lunch.
Nothing special. Just something quick before I drowned in study sessions and he vanished into another schedule packed with meetings and responsibilities he never complains about.
He found me near the student union, sitting on the low wall by the fountain, trying to eat a granola bar that tasted like sawdust and defeat.
He stood there for a moment before sitting beside me.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said too quickly.
Too easily.
He just looked at me.
Not questioning.
Not pressing.
Just looking.
Like he was watching the surface of a lake and seeing the storm happening underneath it.
I bit into the bar again and forced a smile.
"Exams are hell, right?" I offered.
He didn't respond.
Just kept watching me.
"Can we not do the 'deep talk' thing today?" I said.
He nodded. "Okay."
Silence.
Thick and uncomfortable and too loud.
I sighed. "I just want to have a normal lunch. No introspection. No emotional check-ins."
"Got it," he said, still not looking away.
But even in his agreement, I could feel it — the quiet tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed against his thigh like he was holding something back.
2:37 PM
We ended up at a small corner noodle shop, the kind with paper menus and scuffed tile floors and soft music playing over the speakers.
We ordered.
We sat.
We didn't speak much.
But his eyes never left me.
I tried to distract him with small talk. Asked about his favorite comfort food (udon). His least favorite color (neon orange). The last dream he remembered (something about being chased by ducks in business suits).
He played along. Smiled. Gave answers.
But then, in the middle of me fake-laughing at one of his duck impressions, he said:
"You don't have to pretend with me."
I froze.
Chopsticks mid-air.
"What?"
"You don't have to wear the mask."
I stared at him, throat tight.
"I don't know what you mean," I lied.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice low.
"Yes, you do."
2:51 PM
I didn't answer.
Just stared down at my bowl, the steam fogging my glasses.
He reached across the table — didn't touch me, just placed his hand near mine, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
"You laugh too hard when you're hurting," he said gently. "You get polite. You ask about everything except yourself."
I blinked.
The tears came fast.
Silent.
Hot.
Embarrassing.
I wiped them away and muttered, "God, I hate that you can see through me."
He smiled — soft, not smug.
"I don't see through you," he said. "I just see you."
3:03 PM
We left the noodle shop in silence.
Not awkward silence.
Just full.
Full of everything I couldn't say and everything he didn't need me to.
We walked through campus. He didn't ask where we were going. Neither did I. Our feet just… carried us.
Eventually, we ended up at the sculpture garden behind the music building — the one with benches shaped like open books, trees that always seem to bloom early, and the gentle murmur of a nearby fountain that sounds like a lullaby.
We sat.
Side by side.
He didn't speak.
And I was grateful for that.
Because sometimes words feel like too much.
Sometimes silence feels like safety.
3:41 PM
After a while, I said, "I'm tired."
He nodded. "I know."
"Not just today. Just… in general."
"I know."
I let the words hang in the air for a bit before adding, "It feels like I've spent years building a version of myself I thought people would love. And now… I don't even know if that person is real."
He turned toward me, expression unreadable.
"You don't have to be perfect to be loved."
I shook my head. "You don't get it."
"I do," he said softly. "You think being lovable means being low-maintenance. Easy. Quiet. You think it means never needing too much."
I swallowed hard.
"Because when you did need something — someone — they left," he added.
And that's when I broke.
Because he was right.
And hearing it out loud made it real.
4:07 PM
I didn't cry this time.
Not really.
Just leaned against him, let my head rest on his shoulder, eyes closed, body still.
He didn't move.
Didn't shift.
Just let me be there.
Held the silence like a promise.
At some point, he said, "You don't have to know who you are right now. You're allowed to just be."
And I think that might've been the most loving thing anyone's ever said to me.
4:41 PM
He walked me home.
Didn't rush.
Didn't talk much.
But he stayed close — not too close, just close enough to remind me I wasn't alone.
Before he left, I turned to him.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"For what?"
"For being so messy."
His eyes softened.
"Messy is human," he said. "It's also honest."
I nodded.
Then whispered, "You know me better than I know myself sometimes."
He smiled.
"That's because I'm paying attention."
5:02 PM
He left with a small wave.
No hug. No lingering stare.
Just trust.
That I'd be okay.
And that he'd still be there, regardless.
9:38 PM
I've been sitting in bed for the last hour replaying that moment.
His voice.
His stillness.
The way he didn't try to fix me — just sat with me in it.
And I realized something:
He doesn't just make me feel safe.
He makes me feel known.
Like even if everything else falls apart — my ambition, my confidence, my walls — he'd still be there, sifting through the rubble, gently saying:
"I'm here."
I've never had that before.
Not really.
And now that I do…
I don't think I can go back to anything less.
– Mi-Chan