The willow tree swayed softly in the afternoon breeze, its leaves whispering secrets only we could hear.
It had become our quiet refuge, a place where words didn't always have to fill the space between us.
One day after school, I pulled my old notebook from my bag—the one filled with sketches, messy handwriting, and thoughts I barely dared to speak aloud.
I hesitated, then held it out to Areum.
"I write letters," I said softly. "Not to anyone in particular, just... to the future. To myself, maybe. Would you want to read one?"
Her dark eyes flickered with curiosity. She took the notebook gently, as if it were a fragile treasure, and flipped through the pages with slow, careful fingers.
I took a deep breath and began to read:
Dear future me,
I don't know what you'll become, or if you'll still remember the boy who built a cardboard house for his little brother. But I hope you're still trying—trying to be a light, even when the darkness feels too heavy.
I hope you've found someone who sees your light, even when you don't.
As I read, I felt the weight of the words lifting, like letting go of something I'd been carrying for too long.
Areum's eyes glistened, and she looked up at me, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Your light is already shining, Haejin."
For a moment, the world outside the willow tree didn't matter—the teasing at school, the worry at home, the silence between us. There was only this fragile hope growing quietly between us, like the first green buds of spring after a long winter.
I smiled, feeling something I hadn't felt in a long time—peace.
"Maybe one day," I said, "I'll write a letter to you. To tell you how much you helped me find my way."
She smiled back, shy but real.
We sat side by side in the golden light, the pages of my notebook fluttering in the breeze, carrying with them the promise of tomorrow.