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He carries a small thing, a shoe box, and in his head it’s Jeongin, all over again. Because his hands were outstretched the exact same way. The weight was bigger, the shape—different. No hard edges like now. Limp, lifeless body.
*
Jeongin’s next to him, but Chan imagines—what if he was gone?
What if he wasn’t here, and instead he was underneath the ground, cold, decomposing. His body swollen because that’s what dead bodies do. His eyes and mouth sewn shut.
*
Jeongin acts like nothing happened, and Chan doesn’t blame him for it. It was weeks ago, and for Jeongin, it was being unconscious and then waking up.
For Chan, it was panic. Searching for him underwater. Algae clinging to his face, obstructing his sight. Trying to move them out of the way, so desperate to see.
So desperate to find him.
And when Chan found him, he thought Jeongin was dead. But it wasn’t exactly that. He thought he was dead, and he thought he was definitely not dead, both at the same time.
He used all his strength to swim up to him as fast as he could. He grabbed him and pulled him up, and he didn’t know how to keep his head above the surface. He needed to turn him around, get underneath him, swim backwards to the shore.
And he looked at his face, not knowing if he was breathing. Not knowing how much water was in his lungs. Not knowing if he was alive. But he must have been alive.
And even if he wasn’t, Chan was determined to bring him back to life. Because that’s what you do. That’s what you can do. Someone could stop breathing, and their heart could stop beating, and you could make them breathe again. You could restart their hearth.
Chan was swimming, but it felt like forever. He couldn’t do it fast with Jeongin’s body between his legs, in his arms. He’s been spending so much time in water since he was a child, but he never learned how to swim in tandem with someone who doesn’t move.
*
No. It was not just losing consciousness and waking up again for Jeongin. It’s unfair to think that.
But it’s likely that Jeongin lost his consciousness quickly.
At that time, it all happened in the blink of an eye. One moment, Jeongin was swimming, and a moment later, he was gone.
A moment later, there was nothing, only waves and seagulls and a boat in the distance. Blue water, blue sky and bright, blinding sun. No Jeongin. As if he was never there.
For Chan, that’s when everything began, but Jeongin doesn’t remember what led to it. He doesn’t remember drowning, and he doesn’t remember hitting his head. Maybe he fainted from the sun exposure. To this day, they don’t know what happened.
And then, for Jeongin there was nothing. And he said he barely remembers regaining his consciousness, too. He only remembers that everything looked bright and that his chest was hurting. He doesn’t remember throwing up. Doesn’t remember Chan turning him onto his side. Doesn’t remember Chan calling to him, panicked.
“I don’t know, maybe I heard some noise,” he says, and Chan can’t help it—his heart is breaking.
*
He feels alone in his suffering.
Jeongin’s ribs heal, and water disappears from his lungs, and his body forgets. And he barely remembers anything, so there isn’t much to forget.
In Chan’s mind, the memory is vivid. As if it all happened yesterday. Or an hour ago. His body is in a state of alert.
He can’t forget. The crack of Jeongin’s ribs. The gargles coming out of his mouth.
He can’t.
*
“I’m sorry,” Chan says.
Jeongin looks at him quizzically.
“For breaking your ribs.”
And Jeongin’s expression melts into something Chan could only describe as pity. He knows Jeongin doesn’t mean it. Maybe he means love or comfort. Maybe he doesn’t understand Chan. Maybe he thinks Chan’s scratching an old wound.
“You don’t seriously mean it, right?”
Chan wonders if he should feel stupid.
“I should thank you for breaking my ribs. You saved my life, Chan. You can’t possibly feel sorry for that.”
“I don’t feel sorry for that,” Chan says quickly, as if Jeongin could die again if he didn’t clarify that’s not what he means. “Why are you accusing me…”
And he’s crying.
He closes his eyes and stands there, crying. He doesn’t want to look at Jeongin. Doesn’t want to interpret his expression anymore. He’s only making it worse.
Arms wrap around him. The same arms Chan grabbed when he tried to pull him out of the water.
Jeongin clearly doesn’t know what to say because at first he says nothing. He stays silent, holding Chan, and later, when Chan’s still crying, he says: “I know you didn’t mean it like that. Chan, I know. I’m sorry I said it.”
*
They tip-toe around it. Jeongin knows Chan can’t let it go, but he doesn’t know how to help. And Chan feels guilty, because it’s not him who almost died.
Jeongin watches TV, but what if he drowned then? He wouldn’t be here. Chan would be here, all alone. Or he would be surrounded by friends, accompanying him in his grief.
He feels so horribly guilty for imagining it.
*
“Chan, tell me what’s wrong.”
“What?”
“Tell me what’s wrong. Exactly. Tell me what makes you upset. I want to help.”
That’s the moment Jeongin breaks their silent pact of not talking about it anymore. It. The incident. The near-death experience. The scare. The almost-tragedy.
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
Jeongin looks like he’s about to scold Chan. Like he’s about to say ‘don’t act stupid’. But instead, he says, “We don’t have to talk about it if it’s too much for you. But I think I made a mistake of not talking about it at all with you. I think I felt ashamed.”
“None of this was your fault.”
“I don’t know if it wasn’t my fault. I don’t remember what happened.”
“Still, not your fault. You can’t blame yourself for this. It was an accident.”
“I hate that I made you like this,” Jeongin says suddenly.
The words are bitter, and Chan almost flinches.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty for doing something heroic,” Jeongin continues.
“Stop it.”
“You saved me. And even if what happened wasn’t my fault, I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine what you felt, but I want you to tell me, if you want, someday. Maybe that would be healing?”
This conversation is going in the wrong direction. Chan feels like he’s in a cage. And Jeongin’s looking at him like he thinks what he’s doing is helpful.
“I… There’s nothing to talk about. I just need to forget.”
“Chan, I don’t think you’ll forget.”
And maybe it’s true. The memory of what happened doesn’t seem to fade. The water that was in Jeongin’s mouth still exists somewhere, too. Maybe it’s back in the sea, or maybe it evaporated. Maybe it evaporated and then fell back onto the sea as rain.
“I think you will feel better as more time passes,” Jeongin says. “But I can’t just stand here and watch.”
And maybe Chan should say—let me deal with this on my own. Yes, you’re right. One day I’ll feel better.
But he cracks, even though he’s already so broken. And he wants someone to pick up the pieces.
*
“We need to make more memories for you, Chan,” Jeongin says. “And they will cover up the bad memories. We shouldn’t be at home all the time. Let’s go somewhere every weekend.”
And they go—but never to the sea. And never to the lakes. And never to the mountains because what if Jeongin falls. And never near the mountains because what if a stone falls onto Jeongin’s head and he dies.
And they drive, but what if their car crashes?
But Chan knows he can’t live like this. Scared that the simplest of things could take Jeongin away—he can’t.
Jeongin isn’t scared, and Chan tries to be like him.
*
“You know I could die at home, too, right?” Jeongin asks. Chan’s so used to his bluntness that his heartbeat barely picks up. “I could trip and hit my head against the table and die. It’s probably as likely as a stone falling onto my head from a mountain.”
Chan hums.
“Or I could die in my sleep. You never know.”
“I don’t want you to die,” Chan says. His voice is hazy. He’s trying to keep his emotions at a distance.
“And I’ll do everything not to die. But we need to live.”
Living. Doing things.
Will Chan ever be able to go to a beach again? He used to love them so much.
He used to love the seas and the oceans, but the sea almost took Jeongin away.
He should hate it.
But does he?
“Let’s go to Busan next week,” Jeongin says.
It’s a fair wish. It’s Jeongin’s hometown, but it’s so close to the sea.
Chan knows Jeongin would never suggest going near it. He wouldn’t ask Chan to go to the Haeundae Beach, but they would hear the seagulls flying above the city, the same seagulls that were flying above them as Jeongin nearly drowned.
No, they wouldn’t be the same.
It all wouldn’t be the same. What happened, wouldn’t happen again.
Going to Busan isn’t more dangerous than going to any other place.
Jeongin is looking at Chan, and he seems to regret making the suggestion. He looks sorry, like he didn’t realise that this would be too much.
But is it too much? Jeongin is right. Chan can’t live in fear all the time.
“Okay,” he says, his voice weak. “Let’s go.”