Work Text:
February 20, 2026
To the man that could have been mine:
I first saw you in the cafeteria during the first semester as a freshman. I was with my friend, Taehyung, and I was supposed to be differentiating igneous from metamorphic rocks for my Geology finals. The words started to swim in my head, and I looked away from my laptop, glad to find reprieve from the bright eye-numbing radiation, when my eyes landed on you.
You sat two tables away from us, right across from me. Your eyes were glued to your laptop, brows furrowed at whatever it was that held your attention from your teammates busy laughing at your side. You wore this red university jacket over a plain black shirt, stainless glasses perched over your slender nose. It made you look more mature, older, and it matched your mustache. I didn’t think anyone would look good with that kind of facial hair on one’s upper lip, but that day, the world proved me wrong.
I couldn’t look away. I know I should, I was starting to look like a creep, but it wasn’t often I found attractive men on campus. And you were attractive. Not in a loud, boyish kind of way—the kind that announces itself to a room. No, it was a quiet kind. Not exactly soft, nor gentle, but the kind that took one single walk to have my head swinging to your direction.
“Who’s he?” I asked Taehyung.
“That’s the guy I told you about before. Jeongguk. Team captain. Remember?”
I nodded, because I did remember. I remember thinking how kind it was of you to accompany Taehyung when he got lost with the amount of paperwork that needed to be processed as a student athlete on his first day. It spoke much of what kind of captain you were to the team, and clearly it paid off because your members looked up to you.
So, you weren’t only good-looking. You were also kind, responsible, and good. Now, you were twice more attractive.
“Why’d you ask?” Taehyung smirked. “Your type?”
I smiled, and tried to deny.
“He is! I mean, I get you. He’s really hot.”
I smiled and stayed silent so he wouldn’t talk more, because the last thing I wanted was him calling their team captain over to our table, and making introductions when I’m in a hoodie I haven’t washed in a week, and only just a lip balm on my face. That day, I didn’t want you to notice me.
I stayed silent but in my head, I thought, hot might be an accurate description, but it was too shallow of a word to truly describe you. And it was weird to have that thought because I didn’t know you enough to think of anything besides hot.
I took another glimpse of you from behind the rim of my screen. Yeah, you truly were something.
I didn’t see you again for a long time. Far too long, I forgot about you, drowned in an ocean of obligations and academic responsibilities. From time to time, I’m reminded of your existence when Taehyung would mention you, not failing to emphasize how “gay and single and available” you were. I wanted to tell myself I didn’t care. But what a fucking lie that was.
It was one phrase. Five words that shouldn’t matter as much as they mattered to me. And maybe I was insane, lonely, and too surrounded by people who were falling in love left and right, that one simple phrase was summarized into one word—possibility. It spoke of too many possibilities, and I couldn’t help but indulge in them, in the private corners of my mind when I allowed myself to.
Permission was something I required of me whenever I thought of you, because reality was far too dull. You were the team captain in the swimming team in our university. You were a graduating student. You were well-connected to different people. I was, what? I was a freshman studying natural sciences who came to the city from a small province in the country. I was a scholar, with weight on his shoulders to uphold what was expected of him. I was no one in a sea of other scholars, in a desert of students, I couldn’t stand out, even if I wanted to.
Yet when I allowed myself to imagine, all those didn’t matter. You were just Jeongguk, and I was just Jimin. And I liked to think that on that day in the cafeteria, you did see me. Maybe your stare didn’t linger as long as mine, nor was it significant enough for you to ask my name to Taehyung, but your eyes did land on me. Maybe you didn’t know I existed, but that was enough. To be seen, even just partially. It was enough for now, to create the spark that would engulf me in flames later on.
Taehyung gave me your social media account. You weren’t active. Touche. And like an idiot who acted like he had all the time in the world, my finger hovered over the ‘follow’ button for far longer than I could afford it too. When I told myself I need more courage, I looked at your profile photo. It was a mirror picture. You were wearing this gray polo shirt, without your glasses this time. You looked good either way. I wondered if your wardrobe was filled with these clothes because it suited you.
My thumb neared a decimeter away from the button.
In the end I exited your profile.
It was an endless cycle of indecision.
On the rare times I was afforded free time from my cruelling chemistry major, I pondered about it. It was like a curse—the inability to decide whether the shame of doing it was worth it.
Shame, I called it, because what if you would wonder why someone you didn’t know suddenly followed him?
What if you would start asking around?
What if you would make the connections through our mutual friend?
What if you would know I was interested? Me?
Would you even follow back? What if you would not? That would be the most probable result, would it not be?
What if you would look over my profile? Would you like what you’d see? Enough to follow back even when you didn’t know me enough? Or even at all?
In the many times I visited your profile, my thumb never moved.
I was a coward. And pathetic, really.
The second semester started. My academic load was heavier, and I was taking required courses I wished I wasn’t, namely—Biology, a student chemist’s archnemesis. Or whatever it was they said.
One afternoon, I was bent over the table, watching the animal cell sample through the microscopic lens. It looked like an intricately combined shape, and I had to trace over the tiny organelles like nations I might never visit. I scribbled down their names on my paper—mitochondria (France), golgi apparatus (Greece), smooth endoplasmic reticulum (Brazil).
At the back of my mind, I wondered if you had gone to any of those countries. If you had gone out of the country at all. If you wanted to travel and where.
My pencil paused against the rough surface of the paper. Why would I care? Why should I care? I shouldn’t. You were simply one guy who caught my eye many months ago, and yet you were like a ghost who never left the room.
I wouldn’t say I truly liked you. How could I? I knew probably three things about you: your name, your Instagram profile, and that you swim. Yet something about you remained unforgettable. Or perhaps you were just someone attractive and I was craving for a real connection, after having gone through years of none of it. You looked, you seemed, as if you could offer me that. You know, I was a man of science, I relied heavily on evidence to make conclusions. Yet that was perhaps the only ungrounded conclusion I ever made.
The night when I got home, I didn’t have to wonder more about you with the amount of topics I had to study for the exam the following day. Studying could easily take me away, put me into a space where I remained untouchable by the world. By the time I came to, it was already 2:00 AM, my eyes were straining, and I couldn’t differentiate the color blue from red.
I sat on my chair for a second, staring at my phone that’s been taunting me for months. Then my hands moved at its own accord.
I opened Instagram. I searched your profile. It was there at the top, as if waiting for me. I stared at your picture for a beat longer. It was still the same. Gray polo. Black phone. The shadow of your mustache on your upper lip. The lack of glasses that gave your face a fuller view, as if inviting people in.
My thumb hovered again, like it always did.
It shook ever so slightly.
Would you follow me back?
Would you recognize me as the girl from the cafeteria?
Would you wonder how I found your profile?
Would you think of me as strange for following you even when we did not personally know each other?
I didn’t want to know the answers.
I closed my eyes and bit my lip.
My thumb pressed down.
And I threw my phone down the bed as I stifled my scream on the pillow. Don’t make noise, don’t make noise, don’t make noise, people sleeping! It was impossible not to, but I managed to keep my silence.
There I was, losing my mind over a simple follow. And there you were—wherever you might be—oblivious of my turmoil, oblivious of my existence.
But now I had set something in motion, irreversible like a combustion reaction; connected our worlds that would otherwise have remained separated.
That night, silence hung heavy around me.
You didn’t follow me back.
Of course. Not that you were obliged to, because you weren’t. I wasn’t disappointed because disappointment came from expectations, which I had none. It relieved me, to be honest, because now I could see you without having to be seen in return, even through something as simple as a social media account. It felt like permission for me to know you without having to take the leap of truly knowing you. But a quieter voice in a deeper part of my brain asked, why did you not follow me back?
You didn’t know me, yes, but we had mutual friends. Didn’t you recognize me from the cafeteria? Not that you had to. But did you? Did you and you didn’t just care enough?
All these questions, plaguing me, choking me. So, I answered them myself. You didn’t recognize me, of course not, and a seemingly private person like you only kept his circle close. That surely didn’t include me. That’s okay. In fact, that’s a perfectly valid reason, not that you need any more valid reason than not wanting to press back that button.
Yet I liked to think that when you got the notification, you paused even for a second longer than two. You cocked your head or furrowed your brows like you did back then, and asked, who is this? When you clicked my profile and scrolled through the two pictures I had posted, you’d think…
What did you think? I couldn’t put words in your mouth. I didn’t have enough shame for it, but I did wish you thought I was pretty. But clearly, not pretty enough to be followed back.
I didn’t ponder it for longer than a week. I had tasks to accomplish, deadlines to meet, exams to study for. You were just a guy, about to leave this university in a semester, and I was just another guy who needed to find his footing in this rather challenging terrain.
You weren’t also active on your account. Every post you made were reposts from your team account. I was hoping to get to know you better. I was hoping you’d post a picture of the garden near our oval with your shoes at the far bottom corner so then I could hypothesize that you might like running. I was hoping you’d post a picture of the food you just bought so I’d get a glimpse of what it was that you liked to eat. I didn’t even hope to see a picture of you, to fill my curiosity of whether or not you shaved your mustache after so many months. I wanted to know you from what little you allowed your audience (me) to. But you didn’t. And that was okay.
That helped me slowly put you in the farthest corner of my mind, which you should have belonged in the first place.
As weeks passed by, I truly, honestly forgot about you.
But fate had the time of its life taunting, teasing, playing with me as if I was a mere toy.
One night, I was out with my friends, clubbing. I had a drink in my hand, dancing to the music, losing myself to the noise. You might not approve of it, but partying helped me release the pent-up pressure of everything piling on top of me. It was difficult to be always expected to excel, most especially if it came from yourself. But you wouldn’t know that about me, would you, because you didn’t know me. You would have known that. I would have let you know that.
The club was dark. I turned my head just the slightest. A familiar silhouette caught my eye. No, I told myself. It couldn’t be, I said again.
Then you turned around.
You didn’t see me. You never had, but I saw you. I was certain it was you. You were wearing a black shirt again, and your glasses framed a dark shadow over your face, and my curiosity fulfilled, you didn’t shave your mustache just yet.
A jolt ran through my body as you passed by me and my friends.
You didn’t notice me. Not even when I was wearing one of my favorite tops, shaping my imperfect but good-enough figure, wearing make-up that made me look happy looking at my reflection in the mirror. That night, I wanted you to notice me. But you didn’t. You left the club with your friends. And it felt like you brought my air with you.
The next day, with my head pounding like crazy, I cannot help but wonder what the coincidences were of us meeting in that specific club, out of many clubs in our city.
Do you go there often? Or was it just that particular night?
Did you really not see me? Forget about recognizing me, but just seeing me? Did I really not catch your eye, under those dark, dimmed lights? Did I really not make you pause, even for one millisecond, had you wondered if I was around here, had you thought if you should tell your friends to stay a little bit longer?
I liked to think you didn’t see me at all. Because I didn’t want to think about you seeing me then turning your head the other way around. Call me foolish. Call me insane. But if lying to myself comforted me, then that’s what I would be doing.
I called that night a timely coincidence.
And yet there’s this saying—once is coincidence, twice is a choice.
Two weeks after that, I went out again. Different club. Same city.
It was already around 2:00 AM. I wasn’t drunk. I didn’t allow myself to, that night. I didn’t want to be nursing a cruel hangover the next day, because I had topics to cover for an upcoming exam. As you can see, I knew well how to balance my responsibilities and self-indulgence. Was that a trait that’s attractive to you? Admirable? Even just, impressive? I didn’t want to know, and it’s nice that I might never know.
That night, I flirted with a guy, because yes, Jeongguk, my world truly did not revolve around you. I liked you but I also did not know you enough to snake my arms around you like a koala. The chat between the guy and I didn’t last long and I was back to finding myself in the chaos of sweaty bodies and 2016 tunes.
Then I went to the bathroom. When I got back, I passed by the bar area. It was crowded. I was watching my feet, when I looked up to fight my way through the tight space.
This time, our eyes met.
Our eyes met. I saw you.
And this time, you did see me.
I couldn’t control my reaction even if I wanted to. My eyes widened like I recognized you and I had, but that would be strange for you, would it not? Because you didn’t recognize me, you didn’t know me. No matter how much I wanted to.
I forced myself to move, to go back to my friends, while having to scour my brain for answers on the probabilities of us meeting again in a different club this time, so soon after last time.
What did it mean? Did it mean something? Should it mean something? Or was it simply just mathematics, numbers telling me that there weren’t a lot of clubs in the city to choose from, and that twice could simply be just as a coincidence as the first time?
I didn’t listen to that voice. With liquor in my system, I gained confidence and opportunity that I never quite had before.
As the crowd thinned out, I noticed you coming closer to where we were. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to do something, but I wanted a safety net to protect me from humiliation.
And so, suddenly, my words started slurring, and my balance shifted like I couldn’t tell my right and left foot apart. My friend was supportive, instantly clocking onto my act. You were only a meter away, and I was holding a bottle I didn’t drink from, but I acted like I was several shots deep in tequila. I swayed my hips to the music, sang until my voice cracked, flicking my hair.
I didn’t look at you. I didn’t want to see if you were or weren’t looking. And I truly wasn’t performing for you. Maybe, a little bit. But that’s how I party. I party like a wild animal released into the jungle.
Yet I did hope you were looking. I did hope that you recognized even my top from our one-second eye contact by the bar area. And I did hope that you liked what you were seeing, that you thought of it endearing to see someone be so inhibited and uncaring of other people’s opinions. And I clung unto that hope for the rest of the night like the foolish man that I was.
I noticed your group and mine slowly nearing. My friend, my dear, supportive friend, noticed you standing behind me. Without warning, he suddenly pushed me. I honestly, truly, lost my balance. I didn’t see it coming. And like it was those cliche movies, I felt your hands on my back. Briefly. So brief, I could almost forget it. It was warm, gentle, and hesitant. It didn’t linger long, because I caught myself too. That barely-touch did not bring sparks as I would have thought because it felt too organized, ingenuine. It felt wrong because I didn’t lose my footing. I wasn’t drunk. But you didn’t know that. You didn’t need to know that.
And so I turned around, sheepish, and slurred out, I’m so sorry! You smiled down at me, and this near, I could see you even more clearly. How beautiful, handsome, devastatingly attractive you were. It was almost impossible. And you were smiling at me. Me! Then you replied, and said, it’s okay, like the kind man I knew you were. Even when in retrospect, any decent guy would have done what you did, I didn’t want to entertain that. Not with you so near; when for so long, you were just a profile picture—a man in a gray shirt taking a mirror photo.
We stayed in each other’s orbit for the rest of the night. I “stumbled” on you once more, apologized once more, and you said, it’s okay, once more. It was humiliating, because I had otherwise perfect balance and had to pretend I didn’t have it. I needed a reason to talk to you without feeling like I was going to melt into a puddle of pitiful ice cream.
And you, you were so kind. When I suddenly said hi! to you in a very cheerful, drunken demeanor, you responded in the same energy. It was the third time our eyes met that night. I wasn't actually drunk to forget it. I wished I was. I wished I was drunk enough to forget how your eyes crinkled when you smiled, or how your voice sounded soft and rough at the same time when you waved back at me.
I truly just thought you were indulging me, and that you were just fond of being on the dancefloor even when you weren’t… dancing. I didn’t want to make such bold assumptions. I have at least more shame than that. And yet… and yet…
And yet I did notice how your friend kept on pushing you near me. I did notice how you tried to evade him as if you were embarrassed. I did notice how he kept smiling at you whenever we were near.
Did I notice correctly? I knew I did, I wasn’t blind. Did I interpret that correctly? Because, Jeongguk, I interpreted that as you, somehow, somewhat, in some fucking way, was interested in me. Even for that moment, under those dark, neon lights, surrounded by inebriated people, with the full knowledge that whatever this was would never make it past the club doors, I felt alive by that split-second interest.
It didn’t matter that you didn’t follow me back, or that you didn’t recognize me as the girl from the cafeteria.
At that moment, my fantasies and reality converged.
You saw me. And I think you liked what you saw. I hoped.
I half expected you to approach me, because my observations were leading up to that conclusion, if you had enough courage that was. But you never did. It came to the moment of you stepping out of the club with one final look at my direction (at me? Near me? I may never know), but you never did approach me.
I comforted myself in two cases: (1) I interpreted wrong and you weren’t interested in me. Maybe your friend was simply laughing about how I kept on stumbling on you. Maybe he thought I was interested in you and that you should do something about it. Regardless, I was wrong. Or (2) I was right and you were interested, but you didn’t want to push boundaries because in your eyes, I was a drunk guy in a club. From what little I knew about you, I inferred you were kind, decent, and responsible, so maybe you didn’t want to seem opportunistic.
Even as the next day came, I couldn’t decide which of those two was the real case.
Which was it?
Maybe it was none. It could be.
Yet the indecision to reach an answer that could stop my thoughts from spiraling was haunting me.
It didn’t help that you still haven’t followed me back. You were a guy who clearly—obviously—was unaware someone like me even existed, happily going about your daily routine while I was losing my mind trying to rationalize an interaction in a damn club. It felt unfair, because it was. And I was the one bearing this burden on my shoulders, putting meaning on things that could have meant nothing at all.
And so several weeks after that, I opened Instagram. I searched your profile. You were at the top of my list. Is that obsessive of me? I’m sorry, I had no harmful intentions.
Your profile picture did not change. Same gray polo shirt. Same black phone. Same indication that you haven’t followed me in return.
My thumb hovered. It did not shake this time.
I breathed a deep sigh.
My thumb pressed down.
From ‘following’, the button turned ‘follow’.
Your account was public when I followed you. But when I unfollowed you that day, your page suddenly said your account was locked, and I should request to follow.
I laughed silently, knowing full well that should I have no shame left to follow you again, you would know. It didn’t matter, because I had no plans to follow you again. I had no plans trying to interpret and make meanings out of little interactions. I had no plans making questions about whether or not you have other shirts aside from black.
You were just a guy I met many months ago. And you clearly did not want anything to do with me. And that’s okay. That should be okay.
Maybe our worlds were meant to be separated after all.
The silence that trailed after me through my classes that day hung heavy around my shoulders.
I went on about my studies, survived the second semester thankfully, and was well into my summer courses. I was supposed to be enjoying my vacation, resting, but I was still studying.
Occasionally, I wonder about you. But not so much. Rarely, even. I wondered if you studied half as much as I did, what your plans were after you graduate because you got delayed, right? What job you were hoping to get into when you eventually finish university. But then, I don’t pause to think about them.
Different worlds, remember?
It was midsummer when my best friend, Hobi, suddenly shared about this guy that he liked, and how desperately he wanted to make the first move. I convinced him to go do it (even when I myself would not), but he was stubborn. He said he would not, could not. How could he?
It reminded me of myself.
And it was clear to me that he liked this guy, that he wanted things to move forward for them, so I told him: follow his Instagram, and then I will request a follow for Jeongguk’s private account.
I was setting up myself for failure, I knew. I was 100% sure I was just going to end up in your notifications box, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t for you. I didn’t do it for you. I did it for him. (They are now happily together by the way.)
And so I ended up finding myself in a place where I told myself I would never wander again—your Instagram account.
It was locked. Request follow, it said. The rejection was already taunting me even when it didn’t happen yet.
But it was okay. I neither did it for me nor you.
And so when I clicked ‘follow’, I didn’t feel my heart racing, or my thoughts running miles per hour.
I simply locked my phone, tucked it inside my bag, and returned to studying. I was studying Maths that time, Calculus, the bane of my existence. It quickly engulfed me into its chaotic universe. I hated every hour I spent trying to differentiate equations. I doubt you would understand, you study a completely different field. That kind of divergence would have been nice between us. I could almost imagine it—you losing yourself at the sight of me integrating, while me wondering how you can keep up with multiple readings, along with having to train as an athlete. Then again, too different worlds, it’s difficult to find common ground.
An hour or two may have passed when I took a break.
I opened my phone again.
And there it was.
There it fucking was.
The notification was as bright as my laptop screen—jeonjk is now following you.
To be honest, it first felt like Calculus had done a number on me and now I’m caged in my thoughts. But then I checked, and it was real. You did not only just accept my follow request, but you followed me back. You followed me back. Something you didn’t do almost a year ago. Why? Why?
What changed? Did you recognize me now? Did you remember me as the guy from the club? The guy from the cafeteria? The guy whom you had mutual friends with?
I thought you were a private person, hence why you didn’t follow me in return before. So, why would you accept me—someone you didn’t know, haven’t talked to, or even fully interacted with—into your private account? Maybe I thought wrong? Perhaps, because for truth’s sake, I didn’t truly know you, Jeongguk. I only knew you from bits of pieces of information I was given. I treated everything like data points and made a trendline to interpret them.
It was insane—I was fucking insane.
But this… what did this mean? Because to tell you honestly, this felt like permission to fully know you while being known in return. Almost permission to enter your chatbox, to type out a single: hi.
That haunted me like a stubborn shadow.
As weeks bled into months, the summer ending and the new semester starting, I stood at the thin threshold between “to do” and “not to do”. I have never made the first move on any person at any point in my life. I didn’t think of it humiliating per se. I feared the fact that reciprocity was not assured. Well, nothing is truly risk-free in this life, but I didn’t want your rejection pulling me even further down when I didn’t even always like the person I saw in the mirror.
I kept on telling myself the outcome didn’t matter, that my value was not tied to whether or not you liked me too, but I could not even imagine pressing the message button.
It didn’t help how suddenly… open you became to your audience. Your posts became more frequent and personal. I started knowing more about you from you and not from my interpretations or from Taehyung or from somewhere else I’ve coincidentally found.
You once posted a picture of cats in your dorm and my first thought was, shit, he likes cats too! First common ground. It made you look softer and gentler to me, that despite how large your athletic arms may be, you’re also just as taken aback by these adorable furballs.
You once posted on mother’s day. First was a short clip between you and your brother. You were just filming yourself together in front of the mirror, but it was so cute, and your brother was so cute. Then the next story was a photo of your father tying your mother’s shoe laces, and the caption was in dialect. A dialect I also spoke. My first thought was, second common ground! And then next, fucking hell, he’s also family-oriented?!
When it was your birthday, I was tempted to reply to one of your stories—happy birthday! Safe. Unassuming. Completely innocent. And genuine too. It didn’t have to matter that you didn’t know me (or just partially knew me), but it did. It did to me.
No amount of self-talk was able to push me into doing it. But I did wish you a happy birthday, Jeongguk. I truly did.
I was never quite brave enough to bridge the distance that was separated by one chat box, and so I tried allowing you to get to know me better through my posts. I became more active, posting about my life—the food I ate, people I’m with, classes I’m taking, experiments I’m doing, books I love reading. And I would check like a damn lunatic if you had already viewed it. If you did, I would feel successful because the post reached its intended audience.
I gave you a glimpse of my life; a life that you could have and more if you… if you only…
… if I only…
One chat box away. Just two letters. It could be the only thing separating us from a potential future.
Future. You may call me insane.
What future?
A future where our worlds did not just connect, but they collided. Fiercely. Where you and I start talking with each other, awkward at first, but then slowly finding our tempo the longer we spend our nights getting to know one another. Then slowly, one of us (hopefully you) would invite the other for a quick meal, or coffee. Then another would follow, and another, and another, and soon, we’d find ourselves spending our meals together.
You’d walk me to my class because my schedule is tighter than yours. And by the time I finish a long laboratory session, I’d find you sitting by the open deck, waiting for me, working on your own obligations. And I would be bone-deep exhausted, but then I would see you, and feel like I could finally breathe again. And you would see me too, and a smile would break on your face, similar to the one you gave me back in the club. Do you remember?
I would go with you when you go for a swim in the university pool. We would introduce each other to our friends. We would plan trips within the city, explore new sites and cuisines.
There would not just be me and you. Suddenly, there would be an us.
I never thought of what it was like to kiss you, or even hug you. The most I thought of was holding your hand, or being held by your hand, but even that came very rarely. I didn’t sexualize you because you weren’t an object for pleasure to me, Jeongguk. You were a real breathing person who was capable of providing genuine connection. That’s what I sought. Sex was easy. Sex could be found anywhere to anyone. I didn’t need sex. And I respected you enough to not think of you in that way.
I wanted more… I wanted…
That future.
One chatbox away. Just two letters. A simple hi.
I never sent those two letters.
It might remain as one of my greatest what-ifs in my life.
When I read the message, it didn’t feel like a bus suddenly struck me. It almost felt inevitable.
Taehyung said: Guys, I have sad news. I think Jeongguk already has someone.
I asked: What made you say that?
He replied: I bumped into him on my way home. He was with this guy. He was carrying his bag.
And all that ran through my head as I read the message again and again was: if I had just sent those two letters, would it be my bag you’d be carrying?
Jeongguk, I might not fully know who he is in your life, or who he will be. I also do not have any intention of knowing. If he makes you happy, then it joys me to know that, like everybody else around me, you’ve found love in another person.
It is true that while I can convince myself that I somehow, in some way, somewhat knew you, the truth of the matter is that—I did not. I do not know you for who you truly are. I did not allow myself to. You did not allow me to. But your actions were far beyond my control.
The only question that lingers to me now is that: would things be different had I just chosen differently? Become braver? Become less concerned about what you or others may say for coming forward about what I feel?
Yet I couldn’t do it. I grew up in a difficult household, Jeongguk. And it forced me to build walls around myself, making romantic feelings known to other people feel dangerous. And I’ve never been one comfortable with danger.
I don’t mourn you because I never had you.
I mourn the future that could have been ours, the simple intimacy that could have been shared between us, the bond that could have been formed.
I mourn the countless possibilities that lie in a single word: hi.
I mourn my inaction, the delay, and now the consequences.
But this is life. We meet people. We feel things. Our paths converge, then diverge, then never to cross again.
And so this is my unsent letter to you, the man who could have been mine.