sunrise | bae joohyun & son seungwan

14

the funeral was on a cold december morning. the sky was polluted with clouds, and it felt too chilly to even snow. it was the type of weather where you find comfort in the frost, where you come to enjoy the numbness in your legs.

for most of these people, i've never seen them in black. joy always wears the most colourful things you can wear without looking insane. yeri usually enjoys sporting pastels. seulgi wears comfy stuff, making sure there's a pop of colour every time.

seeing them in such a dark and dull shade almost makes all of this worse.

we carry out with the ceremony. it wasn't in a church or a temple, as she was raised an atheist, so we all gathered at a small park where no one really goes. such a shame; it truly was beautiful.
her urn was placed on a makeshift pedestal (a park bench with some boxes stacked over one another) and we were all gathered in front. her parents gave a few speeches and anecdotes, and we all laughed a little to ease the pain. her uncle's turn came, then her grandmother, then joy, seulgi, yeri, and more family members after that. once everyone but me said something, some people looked at me weirdly, urging me to go up and talk. i didn't know what to say, though, so i stayed seated.

i could feel the disappointment in their stares, feel the air get colder through the sighs. i hadn't prepared anything for this, as i wasn't trying to think about her dying. i didn't have the time to write down what i felt after she was gone, after i lost my source of inspiration.

i'm in a constant art block, as she was the only piece keeping me going. every single thing i write seems to be missing something without her encouraging me. every line i trace, every drop of paint that finds itself on a canvas. every tune i hum, and every beat my fingers ache to follow.

she was the art, and now i don't know what to do.

looking back, i could've declared this to the crowd anticipating it. every word i've written in this book could've been one big obituary.

but the thing is: this is personal. i don't want people knowing about the countless moments we've spent just us two, or the feelings i've felt since the first day. i don't care who reads this, i just don't want them to know. reading sentences here and there isn't the same as knowing.
when you know, you don't even cry. you just can't bare to read what you did. every syllable makes you physically hurt and every letter makes you want to rip your eyes out.

when you know, the frustration of "this feels too real, this should've been written by me" completely takes over.

i don't want people knowing.