May 18 “He’s Cold Again”

Dear Diary,

He's slipping away.

And I don't know how to stop it.

I keep telling myself not to panic. That people pull back sometimes. That even the best things in the world need space.

But this isn't space.

This is distance.

And it's not the kind that heals.

It's the kind that leaves you staring at the phone, rereading messages that used to sound like warmth — and now just feel like polite echoes.

He's cold again.

Not mean.

Not cruel.

Just absent.

And it scares me more than anything else has so far.

10:02 AM

He texted me this morning.

Simple. Flat.

Jung-Kyo: "Morning. Hope you slept well."

No nickname.

No question.

Just… surface.

I responded with a selfie holding my tea, trying to keep things light.

Me: "Survived the night with caffeine and fleece. How's your energy?"

He didn't reply until after noon.

Jung-Kyo: "Still low. Headache. Probably gonna lie down for a bit."

That's when I knew.

He wasn't just tired.

He was pulling away.

12:48 PM

I didn't respond right away.

Not because I didn't care.

But because I didn't know how to respond without sounding like I was accusing him of something I couldn't even name.

I hate this.

The not-knowing.

The waiting.

The way love can feel like a door slowly closing — not slammed, just gently, soundlessly drifting shut while you stand on the other side, pretending you don't notice.

3:04 PM

I walked past the noodle shop today.

The one where he first told me, "You laugh too hard when you're hurting."

I almost walked in.

Almost ordered something.

Almost sat at our booth and waited for the past to wrap itself around me like a blanket.

But I didn't.

I kept walking.

Because I couldn't bear to sit somewhere that used to feel safe — and now just feels like an echo.

4:27 PM

I called him.

I told myself it was just to check in. To hear his voice. To remind myself that this is real, and not some story I wrote in my head.

He answered.

His voice was low.

Not sleepy. Just… dulled.

Like someone had dimmed the edges of him.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound breezy.

"Hey," he replied.

That pause again.

That space where warmth used to live.

"You okay?" I asked.

He hesitated.

Then: "Yeah. Just exhausted."

I waited.

Hoping for something more.

Anything.

An "I miss you." A "Wish I could see you." A "Sorry I've been off."

But it didn't come.

Just breathing on the other end of the line.

I tried again.

"Want me to come by? I can bring soup. Or tea. Or just sit."

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Then: "Not today."

And my heart cracked.

Not because he said no.

But because he didn't say why.

Or I wish you could.

Or even thank you.

Just… "Not today."

5:15 PM

I hung up first.

Politely.

Gently.

And then I sat on the floor of my bedroom and let my heart catch up to my brain.

Something is wrong.

Not just tired.

Not just stressed.

Wrong.

And I don't know what it is.

But I can feel it building — like thunder just past the horizon.

7:02 PM

I didn't text him again today.

I wanted to.

I wanted to say You don't have to do this alone.

I wanted to say I'm here. Even when you're quiet. Especially then.

But I didn't.

Because I think, deep down, he knows that.

And if he's still choosing silence…

That's his choice.

8:47 PM

I scrolled through our pictures tonight.

There aren't many.

He doesn't love being in front of a camera.

But the few I have — stolen shots of him reading, sipping tea, sketching something on a napkin — they hold something I'm afraid of losing.

Ease.

Light.

A version of him I'm not sure I'll see again.

9:20 PM

Chae-Sun asked if I was okay.

I said yes.

She looked at me for a long time and said, "You don't lie very well anymore."

I laughed.

And almost cried.

Because she's right.

He's made me too soft for lies now.

Too known.

Too seen.

10:11 PM

I stared at my phone for an hour tonight.

No new messages.

No calls.

Just the last thing he said:

"Not today."

It's amazing how two words can echo like an entire goodbye.

I don't know what's happening, Diary.

But I know what it feels like to be shut out slowly.

To have the warmth fade one degree at a time.

To sit in silence that used to feel safe — and now just feels like waiting for the storm to arrive.

And I'm trying so hard not to panic.

To give him space.

To respect the quiet.

But every part of me is screaming:

Please don't disappear.

Please don't fade.

Please let me in.

Because I've lost people before.

But losing someone like him — someone who made me believe again, feel again, live again — would break me in a way I'm not sure I could survive.

I want to knock on his door.

I want to say: Don't do this. You don't have to carry whatever this is alone.

But he has to choose that.

He has to let me.

And right now…

He's not.

So I wait.

And I wonder.

And I hope.

That tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that…

He'll let me in again.

– Mi-Chan