Gorgeous | P.WB

1

Haewon's POV

My life has been far from a fairytale. Every time I dared to believe that things were finally falling into place, it all just came crashing down.

For example, just when I thought I was finally breaking out of my shell and talking to people outside my small circle, I was diagnosed with lung cancer. That diagnosis pushed me so far back from the progress I had made.

I lost so much after the diagnosis, but losing him was the hardest. After years of admiring him from afar, I thought I had finally gotten close to him, even though we were in the same group of friends. Then, just like that, he was gone too.

After my diagnosis, I had to leave my home country and travel to the USA, hoping for better treatment. As time went by, my contact with friends back home began to dwindle, and that included him. Before I knew it, I had completely stopped talking to him. I had his contact number and his social media, but I just couldn't bring myself to reach out. Maybe it was because deep down, I felt he saw me as miserable and was only talking to me out of pity. The thought of him feeling sorry for me was too much to bear, so I chose silence instead.

After months and months of grueling therapies, endless medications, and countless procedures, I finally beat cancer. People often say that surviving cancer brings a newfound confidence, a renewed zest for life. But for me, that confidence never came. Instead, I felt a profound emptiness. All the confidence I had painstakingly built up before my diagnosis seemed to have vanished. I had fought so hard to break out of my shell, to connect with others, and to believe in myself. But cancer took that away from me, leaving behind a shadow of the person I once was. The victory over cancer felt hollow because the person who emerged on the other side was not the same. The fear and isolation had stripped me of the courage I had once found, leaving me lost and struggling to rebuild my sense of self.

As the cancer receded, a new battle emerged—depression and anxiety crept in like unwelcome shadows. While it might seem logical to assume I would have been depressed during the grueling fight against cancer, many hoped that once treatment ended, so too would my struggles with mental health. Instead, the darkness not only lingered but intensified.

Imagine the weight of expectation, the pressure to feel relief and joy at overcoming such a monumental challenge. Yet, for me, there was no celebration, no respite. Instead, there was a deepening sense of emptiness and fear that seemed to swallow me whole. The very foundation of my being felt shaken, as if the ordeal had unearthed dormant demons that now refused to be silenced.

People around me expected me to bounce back, to embrace life with newfound gratitude and vigor. But inside, I was crumbling. The scars left by cancer were not just physical; they ran deep into my psyche, weaving a complex tapestry of fear, sadness, and uncertainty. It wasn't simply a matter of "moving on" or "getting better." My mind became a battleground where every victory against cancer seemed overshadowed by the relentless onslaught of depression and anxiety.

I clung to fragments of hope, desperately trying to find solace in the small victories of each day. Yet, the struggle persisted, sometimes feeling even more suffocating than the battle with cancer itself. The world outside may have seen a survivor, but inside, I was grappling with a different kind of survival—one that demanded resilience beyond physical healing, a resilience to face the invisible wounds that threatened to consume me.

As my condition deteriorated, doctors advised that returning to my home country, to my family, might be best. So I did. Now, here I am in Korea. When I returned, I made a promise to myself—to cherish each day and make the most of every moment. But today, that promise feels shattered. Today was anything but the best day.

I ran as fast as I could, even though I knew I shouldn't because it might make me faint. But did I care? Sungchan had early practice, so he couldn't take me to university. My parents thought I was too young for a car, so I found myself sprinting to catch the last subway train that would get me to university on time.

As I dashed through the streets, I felt the first drops of rain splashing down. Within moments, a torrential downpour engulfed me. I couldn't afford to pause. Desperate, I threw my bag over my head and pressed on, each step heavier than the last.

As I stepped onto the train, finally catching my breath, I became painfully aware of how heavy my breathing was and the ache in my chest. Leaning against the train's wall, I tried to steady myself and regain composure. It was then that a voice broke through the haze around me.

"Haewon."

It was him—the boy I lost touch with during my treatment, the same boy who welcomed me back at the party, the one I admired for so long.

"You don't look too good," Wonbin's voice cut through my daze.

"Wait," he said, rising from his seat. "Sit down first." He gestured towards where he had been sitting.

I couldn't refuse his offer. I sank into the seat he offered, grateful for the chance to rest.

"Take this," he said softly, offering me his handkerchief.

It wasn't much, but it meant the world to me. I used it to dab my face and blot the wet spots on my clothes before whispering, "Thanks. I'll wash it and return it to you."

"It's okay. Why did you take the subway, though?" he asked, concern coloring his voice.

"Sungchan had early practice, so he couldn't drive me today," I replied softly.

"You could have asked the girls or Eunseok. You shouldn't have run here," he said, his brow furrowed with worry as he referred to our friends.

"I didn't want to bother them," I murmured, feeling small.

I felt Wonbin's gaze on me.

"You never change, do you? Always willing to take on your own burdens but reluctant to ask for help from others," he said with a sigh.

"What about you? You usually drive your car," I asked him.

"I sent it to the garage. It'll probably be back in about a week," he replied quietly.

Silence settled between us, neither awkward nor comforting. Maybe we never had much to talk about anyway.

"That's our stop," Wonbin said, standing up.

I followed him out through the train's door.

Maybe today wasn't so bad after all.