The days after I raised my voice in class felt like walking through fog—everything was unclear, heavy, and cold.
Areum stopped coming to school for a week. Her empty seat under the willow tree was a sharp reminder of how much I had lost. I wanted to fix it, to say sorry, but every time I opened my mouth, the words tangled and vanished.
At school, whispers followed me down the halls. Some kids said I was weird. Others said I was a troublemaker for defending Areum. No one understood what I was feeling.
At home, the air was thick with worry. Dad's cough had worsened, his shoulders stooped as if carrying invisible burdens. Mum tried to keep everything together, but even her smile seemed fragile.
Seojin watched me with big, worried eyes. One evening, he tugged at my sleeve.
"Hyung, did I make Areum sad?" he asked softly.
I froze. "No, Seojin. It's not your fault."
"But she looks sad," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
I didn't know what to say. How do you explain mistakes you can't undo?
One afternoon, I found a note tucked under my desk at school. The handwriting was delicate, almost hesitant.
"Sometimes, the hardest thing is to say sorry. But it's the first step to healing."
No name was signed.
I hoped it was from Areum.
That night, I sat by the window with my notebook open. The page stared back at me, blank and expectant.
"How do I fix what I broke with silence?" I wrote, then crumpled the paper in frustration.
The next day, I waited under the willow tree after school. My heart pounded when I saw Areum approaching, her steps slow, her eyes downcast.
"Areum," I said softly.
She stopped but didn't look up.
"I'm sorry. For the words, for the silence… I want to be better. For you, for my family, for me."
Her eyes lifted briefly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them.
"I don't know if I can forgive you yet," she whispered. "But… thank you for saying that."
In that quiet moment, I realized healing wouldn't come all at once. It was slow and fragile—but it was possible.