Dear Diary,
I wasn't supposed to say it today.
Not like that.
Not in the middle of a fight.
Not with my voice shaking and my throat dry and every nerve in my body screaming to either run or cry.
But I did.
I said it.
I love him.
And he said it back.
With tears in his eyes.
And now everything feels different.
Still tender.
Still unsure.
But somehow… freer.
Like we finally stopped dancing around something that was already here.
Like we stepped off the edge of something and realized we were already flying.
But first — before all that — we had to fall apart a little.
1:08 PM
It started with a canceled plan.
Again.
We were supposed to meet for lunch near the gallery. He promised. Said he was feeling better. Said he wanted to see me.
I got there early. Sat at a sunny table, heart tucked between my ribs like a secret.
And waited.
Twenty minutes passed.
No text.
No call.
I checked his messages. Nothing new.
I called. Straight to voicemail.
That's when I knew: something was off. Again.
1:42 PM
I left the café, walked toward the bookstore where we used to sit by the window. I almost didn't go to his place.
But I couldn't do it anymore.
I couldn't keep pretending that "he's tired" explained everything.
I couldn't keep swallowing my concern like it was selfish.
So I walked.
And knocked.
3:03 PM
He opened the door slowly.
Wearing a hoodie I didn't recognize, eyes shadowed, skin paler than I'd ever seen.
He looked… thin.
And exhausted.
And not just tired. But the kind of exhaustion that lives in your bones.
I stepped back instinctively. Not because I was afraid — but because I didn't know where the version of him I knew had gone.
"You didn't show up," I said.
His jaw tightened. "I know."
"I called. You didn't answer."
"I was sleeping."
I crossed my arms. "You said you were better."
"I thought I was."
Silence.
Heavy. Sharp.
Then: "Why didn't you tell me you weren't okay?" I asked.
He looked away.
"I didn't want to worry you."
I laughed — bitter and too loud. "You're already worrying me."
He didn't reply.
Didn't even flinch.
Just stood there, breathing like it hurt.
3:19 PM
I stepped inside.
Closed the door.
"I don't need you to be perfect," I said. "I just need you to be honest."
"I didn't lie."
"You withheld."
"That's not the same thing."
"It is when I'm sitting at cafés alone wondering if you're okay — when I'm crying into pillows because I feel you slipping and you won't even tell me why."
He looked at me then.
Really looked.
And what I saw in his eyes wasn't anger.
It was fear.
Raw. Real. Deep.
And suddenly I realized: he wasn't pushing me away because he didn't care.
He was pushing me away because he did.
Because whatever's happening — whatever this is — he's scared it's bigger than us.
3:27 PM
"Tell me the truth," I said. "Please."
He sat down on the edge of his bed, head in his hands.
"I don't know what's wrong yet," he whispered. "But something's off. My energy's been gone for weeks. I've been getting dizzy. Light-headed. Headaches. Weight loss. I keep… hiding it."
I felt my breath catch.
"Have you seen a doctor?"
He nodded. "Had some bloodwork done. Still waiting. I didn't want to say anything until I knew for sure."
"Why?"
He looked up.
Eyes red. Voice breaking.
"Because I didn't want this — us — to be about sickness. I didn't want to ruin it."
4:02 PM
And that's when it happened.
I sat next to him, trembling.
And I said it.
No drama.
No buildup.
Just truth.
"I love you."
He froze.
Turned slowly.
His eyes searched mine like he was trying to make sure he heard me right.
"I'm scared," I added. "And I don't know what this is going to look like. But I'm here. And I'm not leaving. So if you're trying to protect me by shutting me out — stop. Because it's not working."
And then, softly — barely above a whisper:
"I love you, Jung-Kyo."
4:05 PM
He stared at me for a long time.
Then blinked.
And the tears started falling.
He didn't sob.
Didn't break.
Just cried — quietly, like it had been waiting inside him for weeks.
"I didn't want to be loved like this," he said.
I took his hand. "Too late."
He let out a shaky breath.
"I love you too," he whispered. "I've loved you since before I knew I was allowed to."
And then he leaned forward.
Forehead to mine.
And we just breathed.
Together.
4:37 PM
We didn't kiss.
We didn't touch more than that.
But the space between us — that tiny distance — felt full of everything we'd been afraid to say.
And now it was said.
Now it's real.
And it's terrifying.
And beautiful.
And ours.
6:12 PM
We sat in silence after that.
Listened to the rain hit the windows.
He held my hand like he was afraid of letting go.
I didn't speak.
I just let him rest his head on my shoulder and finally stop pretending he was okay.
Because now we're in it.
Whatever this turns out to be — illness, fear, the unknown — we're not pretending anymore.
7:01 PM
Before I left, I kissed the inside of his palm.
And I said:
"You don't have to go through this alone."
He nodded.
And didn't argue.
9:24 PM
I'm home now.
Wrapped in a blanket. Still shaking.
Not from sadness.
But from everything.
Because I said the words.
And I meant them.
And he said them back.
And now the world feels clearer and heavier and more fragile than it ever has.
I don't know what happens next.
I don't know what's coming.
But I know this:
I love him.
And no matter how short or long we get, no matter what comes of this...
I'll keep choosing him.
Again and again and again.
– Mi-Chan