Chapter 2

 " __ February Skies__"

'Year 2016 __(The Promise Unspoken)'

It was February 11th, Promise Day, and while the world around me was busy with talk of Valentine's, I was drowning in the pressure of upcoming exams. Ninth grade was starting to feel like a constant battle—exams, assignments, and the endless stress of just trying to get by. Love? That was something far off in the distance, a concept I barely understood.

While scrolling aimlessly through social media on a brief break, I came across a post: 'Who will be here to be my GF on this Promise Day?'

It was just a random post, probably made by someone bored or looking for attention. I smirked and, in the spirit of having fun, replied:

'My mom.'

It was a joke. Nothing serious. After all, who would respond to a silly comment like that? But then, out of nowhere, I got a reply from an anonymous account.

'Oh, that's funny.'

I (Bakha) froze for a second. A response? To my random, goofy comment? It wasn't a serious answer, yet it felt like... something real.

With a grin, I decided to play along and typed:

'Well, who else could it be? She's the one who always has my back!'

The conversation was awkward at first, but it was genuine, a small thread that started to pull us into a more natural exchange. The jokes came easily, and even though it was with a stranger, there was something about it that felt... different. The way they responded, not just with humor, but with curiosity—it made me want to keep talking.

From there, the conversation snowballed, and what started as a random, offhand comment turned into an exchange I'd never expected. We were still strangers, but for the first time in a long while, I found myself looking forward to a conversation with someone new. A promise, maybe, unspoken and unplanned, but somehow... meaningful.

The Promise Day exchange had been brief, almost like a forgotten note in the chaos of school life. I didn't give it much thought after that. The days passed, and I was too wrapped up in preparing for exams and the looming stress of schoolwork. February 12th came and went without a second glance at my phone, and I didn't even remember who I'd been talking to—until February 13th arrived.

It was a quiet Sunday, and my mind was still foggy from all the studying I'd done over the weekend. I had a few moments of peace before diving back into the textbooks. That's when I checked my phone, scrolling aimlessly through messages, when I saw it—another notification from the anonymous account.

'Hey, it's me again. Didn't expect to hear from you so soon.'

It took me a second to recall the person behind the message. Ah, yes. The one I had jokingly replied to on Promise Day. I smirked a little, already intrigued by the sudden message.

I quickly typed a reply, half wondering what had made them reach out again:

'Oh, hey. I wasn't expecting this either.'

There was a pause before they responded, but it was clear they were eager to pick up where we had left off. The conversation quickly fell into place, easy and natural, like we had never stopped talking. It felt strange at first, almost like a continuation of the fleeting connection we had on February 11th—yet this time, it wasn't random. We were both choosing to keep talking, and something in that small decision made it feel real.

'How's studying going?' they asked.

'Terrible, as usual,'…

I smiled at the screen, feeling a warm but strange sense of connection. It was funny how quickly something so small could turn into a regular back-and-forth.

That moment, on February 13th, was the beginning of something neither of us had expected—an unexpected friendship, or maybe more, wrapped in a conversation that had started off as a joke. But somehow, it didn't feel like a joke anymore.

I have quite beliefs on dreams and As he entered in my life I saw a dream ...…

In the quiet stillness of my dream, I stood before a child—his small face an enigma, a mirror reflecting the uncertainty I had once felt. He looked up at me, his gaze searching for something—an answer, perhaps, to a question he did not yet fully understand. 'Who are you?' His voice was not spoken, but the words hung between us, weightless yet profound.

Behind him, the path stretched into a field of thorns—sharp, endless, a reminder of all the pain and confusion that lay ahead. Each thorn seemed to grasp at him, pulling him back into a darkness he was too small to comprehend. His tiny hands reached out, but the more he struggled, the more the thorns seemed to bind him.

I realized then, the child was not just any child. He was me. A younger version of myself—lost, vulnerable, trapped in the very thorns I had once feared. His innocence mirrored the untainted parts of my soul, the parts that were buried, forgotten, or even rejected.

Without thought, I reached out to him. The instinct was primal, as if my very being understood what he could not. I took him into my arms, pulling him close, and with each step, I walked through the thorns, knowing the pain they would bring. The sharp needles tore at the fabric of my shawl, tearing it in places—each rip a wound I would carry with me. Yet, I did not stop.

In that moment, I realized that this pain was not something to be avoided. It was the price of growth, the cost of transformation. The thorns were not just obstacles, but symbols of the struggles we face in life—struggles that shape us, carve us, and force us to confront the darkness within.

As I carried him, the child's presence was not a burden, but a reflection of a part of me that still sought shelter, still needed protection from the world. He was both the innocence I had lost and the wisdom I had yet to gain. With each step, I was both the protector and the wounded, the one who endured and the one who learned.

The pain in my body was not just physical—it was an awakening, a reminder that we cannot escape suffering. But we can choose how to navigate it. I knew then that this was the path toward self-understanding. To shield him was to shield myself from the world's cruelty, to shield him was to confront the very thorns I had once feared.

And as I walked, the thorns grew thinner, the path clearer. But the lessons lingered, for the journey had just begun. The child in my arms faded as I moved forward, but I knew that I would carry him with me always. The fragments of myself I had once discarded, the pain I had tried to outrun, would always be a part of me.

I understood, in that quiet moment, that it was not the thorns that defined me, but how I chose to walk through them.

And as I emerged from the thorns, the child's face softened. The question that had once echoed in the silence—Who are you?—began to find its answer. It was no longer a question of who I was, but of what I would become.

That night, as I lay in bed, I realized something. In the midst of all the chaos and pressure, I had found a connection. A simple conversation had turned into something meaningful. And for the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of peace.

Life had not yet turned serious back in 2016–2017. The world still felt like a distant echo, a blur beyond school corridors and quiet evening skies. I was drowning in the middle of exam season, carrying the weight of expectations on my back, while he—Jungkook—had just begun his journey in ninth grade. We weren't friends, not truly. We were simply names known to each other, orbiting in separate worlds.

And yet… a thread began to pull.

We were not bonded by deep friendship or spoken promises. What grew between us was quieter than that—something like a habit, a ritual carved by unusual faith. A gentle pull of destiny in fleeting moments that chose not to announce themselves. It wasn't distance that tested us, nor borders that divided us—we were both surrounded by our own people, our own routines.

He had his group of friends—vivid and loud—both in school and outside of it. And me? I had only him. Even in his absence, even in silence, it was him. Always him. My thoughts started ending with his name like the way night returns to the moon, uninvited but expected.

It had become a bond of loose threads—delicate, trembling in silence—threads that could unravel at the slightest pull of time. We walked through those years unaware of how thin the strings were that tied us together, how easily they could fray with distance, silence, or a missed message. And yet, even as everything felt fleeting, there was something in it that felt eternal. Like fate had left us clues written in invisible ink, only legible in hindsight.

Each interaction was a whisper, not a promise. Each moment, a flicker—not a flame. But in the soft pauses between his words and my heart, something sacred took root. We had no idea what we were becoming. But we were becoming.

Birthdays came and went—January for one, July for the other. No celebrations, no candles lit. Just ordinary days swallowed by the ordinary world. No messages, no moments captured in laughter or light. We did not yet know what it meant to remember each other on such days. We were strangers to rituals, unaware of the gravity small wishes could carry.

But even in that silence, something had already begun—like a soft hum beneath the noise of life, the promise of togetherness not yet spoken. The years moved forward, and we were moving too, unknowingly toward the moment when a wish wouldn't need to be made aloud to be felt. When remembering would become sacred. When absence would start to ache.

I was the one who received the first gift that made the world go still. No ribbons. No grand gestures. Just a poem—unpolished and clumsy, typed like he was unsure whether to hit send or delete it all. He named it 'The Girl Who Was a Stranger.' And in it, I found pieces of myself no one had ever seen, least of all him. He called me cold, annoying, a storm—and yet, in the same breath, soft, kind, a child full of quiet dawns.

'The Girl Who Was a Stranger'

There is a girl—a stranger to me,

Looks like a study worm, cold as can be.

The only job she claims with pride,

Is finding new ways to get on my hide.

But strange—her heart is kind and true,

To me alone, though not to the crew.

To them, she's stormy, loud, and wild,

To me, she's a soft, unspoken child.

She dreams in colors oddly drawn,

Hollow by dusk, but full at dawn.

She hides behind her sassy gaze,

Big eyes that spark in silent praise.

What should I do with a girl like this?

Half a puzzle, half a wish.

Should I fight her, tease her, let her be?

Or love the stranger who sees through me?

I read it again and again, like scripture written not in devotion, but in wonder. It was awkward. It was real. And it was mine. For the first time, I felt what it meant to be seen. Not by the world. Not by friends. But by him. Jungkook.

And in the space between the verses, I began to understand: he had already begun to matter. In ways that scared me. In ways that stitched into my breath. In ways that felt like the beginning of something too big for either of us to name.

I don't know what came over me. The moment I looked at her—half annoyed, half fascinated—I picked up my pen and wrote it. Right there in my notebook, as if my hand moved before I had the chance to think. Like something unspoken had found its way out without permission.

I didn't tell anyone.

Not my friends. Not even him.

But that day—half lost in laughter, half buried under books—I opened my notebook and wrote something. Quietly.

No one noticed.

But the page held everything I couldn't say aloud. I didn't even change the pronouns.

I left it the way he had once teased me—jokingly, half-serious.

But in that quiet ink, on a page no one else would read, I made it mine.

A secret memory.

A silent confession.

A little scar I wanted to hold close… even if he never knew.

She clutched the old notebook to her chest, the faint scent of forgotten pages mingling with the fresh ache in her heart. Her tears returned, but quietly this time. No loud sobs, no cries that could echo the emptiness in the room. Only the sound of someone being rewritten by absence, by the space he once filled.

The wind outside whispered, its playful gusts laughing like he had—soft and teasing. But it wasn't him. It was just a cruel echo of a voice long buried.

'One day, you'll understand how much you mean to me,'...…

I turned the notebook page, her hand trembling as she traced the ink—the words he had written, the ones I can almost hear in his voice. His words, his heart bleeding onto paper as he had done so many times before.

The red threads—those invisible, unbreakable strands—still connected them. But not by wrists, nor hands, but by something deeper, something visceral. They were tied through their tears, through the blood that flowed through their hearts and pierced their souls. Every tear that fell from her eyes was a drop of his presence, a reminder of the bond they shared, a bond that neither time nor distance could truly sever.

I felt the sting in her chest as I read the verses, her heart aching with every word he had once written for her, for them. And in the hollow spaces between each breath, I knew. I felt it, deep inside—he misses me too.

The sobs came, now full and raw. Breaths shallow, chest tightening as if to hold the very pieces of mine that were falling apart. Hiccupping between the sobs, I realized the truth in the question that gnawed at my heart.

I closed the notebook slowly, pressing it against my chest as if it could soothe the pain. And then, in the silence, whispered to the wind, to the empty room, to the absence of him.

'I sit here without my identity.

A face without a face, a soul that aches with the weight of a love that no longer exists...

but maybe, just maybe, fate had nothing to do with it. Maybe it was me, all along. Maybe I tied these threads myself—twice, with a knot, with a kiss. And now, I have to decide whether I keep them or let them slip away.'

I stared at the place where he once stood, where his laughter had once filled the air, and wondered if letting go was even possible. Could I ever truly sever a bond like this? Or was I simply holding on to a memory, to a part of herself that was gone?

The notebook slipped from my lap.

It landed softly, but to me, it sounded like thunder.

I stared at it—those verses—his verses.

They didn't feel like memories from another life.

They felt like my only life.

He had written them for me. Not for the world.

And yet here I was, the only one left reading them,

trying to remember how it felt to be known.

'You mean the world to me.'

He had said it laughing, tapping his pencil against his desk in front of me.

I thought he was teasing.

But now that laugh haunts me more than silence ever could.

I didn't cry this time.

Tears felt too soft for what I was feeling.

This wasn't sadness.

It was the sound of time giving up on me.

I pressed the pages against my chest,

feeling his handwriting like skin—fragile, breakable.

And I whispered to the space he used to fill,

'I heard you then. I just didn't know how to answer.'

The clock on the wall was ticking like it had all the time in the world. But I had none. It was my birthday—another day that should've been filled with cheer and excitement, but instead, it hung in the air, a weight I couldn't escape.

I sat there, waiting. Waiting for something, anything. A message. A call. A sign that he remembered. But the day didn't shift. It stayed still, a silent reminder of the distance between us. The silence stretched, pulled me thin. I could almost feel his absence like a physical ache, like a part of me that I couldn't find, no matter how hard I searched.

The hours passed slowly, cruelly. Each tick of the clock sounded like a reminder of how much I missed him. How much I needed him. My mind kept drifting back to the moments we shared—so vivid, so full of life. His smile, his laughter, the way his eyes always seemed to hold a secret, a promise, unspoken but so clear. I'd felt like I was part of something. A promise that wasn't meant to be broken. A connection that felt real.

But that was before. Before everything changed.

Now, here I was—an empty space where his presence used to be. An ache in my chest that couldn't be soothed. I clutched my birthday gift, trying to find something to hold on to. But the more I tried, the more I realized that nothing would fill the gap he left behind.

And I was waiting—for him.

To be seen.

To be in touch.

To be here.

I had waited.

All day long.

And the weight of waiting was heavier than time itself.

He wasn't just a person to miss—

He was a memory I fought to keep alive

while fighting the illness within me.

My tired, fragile eyes searched the air,

tried to remember

the shape of his hands,

the quiet marks of his existence,

the map of his face—

especially his eyes.

Those eyes that never lied to me.

They felt like home.

They were the medicine I needed—

carrying not just my weight, but his own unseen burdens too.

I remember how those eyes stayed warm in the bitterest cold

and turned cold when the world was warm.

Even my fingertips—

they felt like sculpting tools

when they touched him,

as if I was trying to carve his presence

into permanence.

He used to make faces just to make me smile.

He listened with more than ears—he listened with silence.

He protected, even from a distance.

Raw, imperfect, but always there.

But now—

I just wanted to escape reality.

To run.

To choose a college that made sense only because it was far.

My mind was foggy.

Blurred.

Caught between white and black.

It wasn't light.

It wasn't darkness.

It was... gray.

'I thought I saw him, his silhouette—no, just the lingering shadow of a dream. Was it his smile or just the one I've been carrying with me all this time? It's as though the lines blur, reality slipping through my fingers, like sand through a hand. My heart races. Or is it just my mind playing tricks? A cruel trick. Was he ever here, or did I imagine him in the spaces between the world I left behind and the one I am now stumbling through?'