cherish | lee heeseung

°˖➴ #𝟯𝟯

Wrapped In Words

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THE DAYS passed quietly, as if the world was giving Haneul the space she needed. In her room, a soft stillness settled, broken only by the occasional scratch of a pen against paper or the gentle rustle of pages being turned. Outside her window, early morning birdsong bled into long golden afternoons, and each moment felt wrapped in delicate anticipation.

Haneul sat at her desk, elbows propped up on the worn wood, her hair tucked behind one ear as she stared down at the little journal nestled between her hands. The journal itself was modest — a soft leather-bound notebook, smaller than her palm, its pages blank and waiting when she'd first opened it. Now, they were slowly filling up with her thoughts, piece by piece, day by day.

Her handwriting, usually tidy and quick, had softened into something slower, more careful. She wrote with intention, with heart. This wasn't just a journal — it was a love letter built over time, scattered through memories, observations, and quiet admissions she had kept tucked away in her chest for too long.

One page read:

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"You always smell like cedarwood and something faintly sweet — maybe the coffee you drink or that detergent you pretend not to care about. But it's comforting. You smell like safety. Like home."
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She wrote about the day they had gone horse riding, how nervous she'd been, and how his hand on hers had instantly steadied her.

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"You didn't tease me when I said I was scared. You just smiled and said, 'I've got you.' And somehow, that was enough. That's always been enough."
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Another page was adorned with a small sketch — messy but heartfelt — of the hill by the lake where he'd set up that surprise picnic. Underneath it, in small writing, she'd added:

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"I still remember how you looked that day — sunlight on your cheek, that ridiculous smirk when you asked if I liked the strawberry cake. Of course I liked it. But I liked you more."
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The air in her room carried the faintest hint of lavender from a sachet by the window, and the journal picked up that scent as she worked. Every now and then, she would pause — not to rest, but to remember. To smile. To feel everything again. And then she'd put it back into words.

Pressed between one page was a tiny wildflower from a walk they had taken a few weeks ago — the color had faded slightly, but the meaning hadn't. On another page, she had stuck a tiny photo strip of the two of them from a photo booth Chaewon had dragged them into at the book fair months ago. Her eyes lingered on their faces — hers wide with laughter, his gaze halfway turned toward her, smiling.