The golden leaves of autumn had settled into a quiet rhythm, falling softly on the cracked pavement and whispering stories of change.
But inside me, a storm was gathering.
Despite the fragile bridge Areum and I were trying to build, the past still lingered—like shadows refusing to fade.
It started one rainy afternoon when I found myself alone in the school courtyard. The gray sky mirrored my mood, heavy and cold.
I pulled out my notebook, flipping through pages filled with sketches and letters. My fingers stopped on one I hadn't read in a long time.
"Dear future me,
I want to be a light, but sometimes I'm scared I'm just a shadow."
I closed my eyes and tried to push the doubt away.
But then the footsteps came—slow, familiar. Areum stood there, her umbrella dripping rain onto the wet ground.
"I found this," she said quietly, holding out a folded piece of paper. It was my letter, the one I had written after our fight months ago.
I felt my heart tighten.
"Why do you still have this?" I asked, voice barely steady.
She looked down. "Because I never stopped hoping you'd mean what you said."
Her words struck me harder than any insult or silence ever had.
"I do," I whispered. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry for all the things I didn't say."
She finally looked up, eyes shimmering. "Me too. I was scared. But maybe it's time to stop running from the past."
We stood there, the rain washing over us, as if trying to cleanse the hurt and fear.
That night, I lay in bed, thinking about everything—the mistakes, the silence, the bridges, and the light I wanted to be.
I wrote in my notebook:
"The past echoes loudly, but I'm learning to listen—to understand and forgive. Maybe that's how we start again."