I died quietly. No thunder, no final words, no theatrical 'goodbye'. The light simply went out. And a moment later, it flickered back on. But I... remained.
The world became muted. As if someone had covered everything with a wet towel: sounds were muffled, colours lost their vibrancy. I could hear the rain outside, but the drops didn't beat against the glass. They simply hung in the air, as if time had stopped.
He was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall. Do Yeon. He wasn't crying. He was just staring into the emptiness, right where I used to be. Sometimes I thought he could hear me, that he could sense my presence. He would turn his head, pause... as if someone had quietly called his name.
I reached out my hand — through the air. He sighed. I smiled. Silly habit.
The day I died smelled of autumn. Yellow leaves clung to my boots, the air was damp and cold, but not yet winter. We had argued that morning — over nothing. And by evening, I was lying in the rain, watching the red lights of the ambulances bleed across the wet asphalt. He didn't make it in time. And neither did I.
How much time has passed — I don't know. Clocks didn't run here. Only memories moved, like shadows on the walls of the room. I tried to leave. But every time he placed a cup of coffee on the windowsill, I would hear: "You would have added more sugar, right?" And I stayed. Perhaps I've become something of a habit. A ghost who doesn't know why he's here.
I saw everything. His loneliness. His movements when he tried to understand where I was, when he searched for me with his eyes. His attempts to talk out loud, to fill the void with words that seemed not to reach me. His silence, which weighed heavier than all the screams in the world.
I felt the scent of his hair when he leaned over the table. I watched his fingers barely touch the paper, and my heart — if it were still beating — would clench with the impossibility of touch. I was here and absent all at once. The presence of my death became a part of his life, a part of his shadow.
And yet... he breathed. He lived. Even when the world seemed shattered into a million pieces, he collected them, bit by bit. His gaze sometimes rested on the empty space where I stood, and in that look — hope.
I knew my existence no longer served the purpose of holding on. But letting go... letting go isn't something that can be done instantly. I remained to watch, to breathe the same air, to feel life continuing without me.
I tried to leave. I slid through walls, through the floor, through time. But I always returned. A ghostly habit, a memory of the past that was still breathing here.
I saw his smile — rare, quiet, like a reflection of the sun on a wet street. He barely noticed me, but I felt it: he was living. And in that was my reward, my silence, my world.
I was here to wait. To wait until he became himself again. To wait until the pain became bearable. To wait until the memories stopped being chains and became something he could carry with him easily, like air.
And I realized: I stayed not to hold him. I stayed to allow him to go.
I reached through space, trying to understand what it meant to be simultaneously a part of the world and outside of it. I sensed every sound, every smell, every light. The world was muted, but alive.
I thought about what it means to love when you can't touch. I thought about how the past pulls you back when you've already gone, and how hard it is to let go when all that's left is a shadow.
I wasn't tied to him. I was tied to myself, to our time together, to the world we shared. And now, all of it was slowly dissolving.
But as long as he breathes, as long as his gaze stops at the empty place where I stood, as long as he smiles, even quietly, even with pain — I remain. To wait. To love. To watch. To be the one who saw, and the one who was.
And maybe, someday, he will feel me, not with his eyes, but with his heart. Someday he will understand that I was here not to hold on, but to allow.
And until that day comes, I stay.