Y/N's POV:
The morning light, a cruel jester, painted everything in the room with Minji’s favorite shade of gold.
I hated it.
I hated the way the sun seemed to mock me, a constant reminder of what I'd lost, of what I was desperately trying to forget.
I wanted to wake up and not think of her, not the way I did yesterday, and the day before, and every day since she’d left.
I craved a moment, a single breath, where my mind wouldn't conjure up her face, her laugh, the way her hand fit perfectly in mine.
There were parts of me, I knew, that Minji had touched, had kissed, had seen in ways no one else ever had.
Those parts ached with a phantom pain, a constant throb reminding me of her absence.
I yearned for parts of myself she hadn't reached, untouched territories within my own soul where her memory couldn't penetrate.
I wanted there to be a corner of me that remained untouched, pristine, a testament to the fact that I existed beyond her memory.
It had been six months since she left, six months of trying to scrape away the remnants of her presence from my life.
Six months of forcing myself to go to cafes she hated, listening to music that didn't remind me of her touch, avoiding her favorite park bench like it held the plague.
“You’re doing it again,” Minho said, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
I hadn't even realized I was staring out the window, lost in a memory of Minji's delighted laughter as we walked hand-in-hand through the park, the very park I now avoided.
Minho, my oldest friend, had become an expert at reading the telltale signs of my descent into the abyss of her memory.
“Doing what?” I mumbled, forcing my gaze away from the window.
“The brooding, the staring, the general aura of someone who’s actively trying to will themselves into oblivion,” he said, his tone exasperated but laced with concern.
He knew I hated it when he babied me, but he also knew I needed it.
He was the only one who could pull me out of my self-imposed isolation, the only one who dared to remind me that there was life beyond the wreckage of our love.
“I’m not brooding,” I lied, picking at a loose thread on my worn-out jeans.
Minho let out a tired sigh, "Look, I get it. She messed you up good. But you can't keep doing this to yourself."
He was right, I knew that.
But knowing and doing were two entirely different beasts.
It was like trying to outrun my own shadow; no matter how fast I ran, how far I went, it was always there, a constant reminder of what I'd lost.
“I’m trying, Minho,” I said, my voice low. “I really am.”
He softened, his expression a mix of sympathy and frustration. “I know you are, buddy. But trying isn’t enough. You need to actually let go.”
Letting go.
The words echoed in my head like a bitter mantra. How could I let go of something that felt so intrinsically tied to who I was?
Minji was interwoven into the fabric of my being, her memory a ghost limb I couldn’t seem to stop reaching for.
“It’s not that easy,” I muttered, pushing myself out of the chair. I needed to move, to escape the confines of my apartment, the suffocating weight of my own thoughts.
“Come on,” Minho said, sensing my restlessness. “Let’s get out of here.”
He didn't need to ask twice. We ended up at our usual spot, a small, hole-in-the-wall ramen shop downtown.
It wasn’t fancy, but the food was good, the company familiar, and most importantly, it held no memories of Minji.
We talked about everything and nothing, the mundane details of our lives a welcome distraction from the turmoil within me.
Minho told me about his latest project at work, a new video game he was designing, his eyes lighting up with passionate excitement.
His enthusiasm was contagious, and for a little while, I forgot the weight of Minji’s absence.
As we were leaving, Minho clapped a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. “You know I’m here for you, right?” he said, his voice serious. “Whatever you need, whenever you need it.”
I nodded, grateful for his unwavering friendship. He was right, I couldn’t keep doing this to myself, couldn’t keep letting her memory hold me hostage.
I knew, deep down, that forgetting her wouldn’t be a conscious choice, a switch I could just flip.
It would be a slow fade, a gradual loosening of her grip on my heart. It would be a process, a journey back to myself.
The next morning, the sunlight seemed a little less cruel, the gold a shade less vivid.
I still thought of Minji, her image flashing through my mind the moment I opened my eyes, but the pain was a little less sharp, the memory a little less vibrant.
I knew the road to forgetting would be long, fraught with setbacks and moments of agonizing longing.
But for the first time since she left, I felt a flicker of hope, a tiny ember of belief that one day, I would wake up and her memory wouldn’t be the first thing on my mind.
One day, I would be free.
