P'Fah has been gone for three weeks now—almost a month. The house feels strangely empty without her, as if her absence has left a silence that stretches across every room. I try to distract myself, to keep busy, but every night, when the world quiets down, I'm left with the hollow ache of missing her. I can hardly sleep without her around, my mind drifting back to all the little things she used to do: the way she'd hum while cooking or the soft shuffle of her footsteps down the hallway.
Sometimes, when the loneliness feels too sharp, I slip into her room. I'll lie on her bed, inhaling the faint scent she left behind. It's like a quiet balm, a thread connecting me to her across the distance. Her scent is calming, something warm and familiar that wraps around me like a gentle embrace, and for those few moments, I can almost pretend she's right here. With her smell surrounding me, I finally find peace, my mind and body surrendering to the comfort of her presence, even if it's just imagined.
It didn't take me long to realize that her room is the only place I can sleep soundly these days. Curling up in her bed, I pull her blanket over me, burying my face in its folds. It's as if she's holding me, her arms wrapped around me, keeping the world at bay. On those nights, wrapped in her warmth, I fall asleep easily, sinking into dreams where she's still here, talking and laughing like always. I don't know when she'll be back, but this is enough, for now, to keep me going.
One night, while exploring her room out of curiosity and a touch of desperation, I stumbled upon a small box hidden in the corner of her closet. It's her treasure box, the one she mentioned a few times, though I'd never actually seen it before. She told me once that it's full of her most cherished possessions, and as I opened the lid, I understood. Inside are her cassette tapes, each one carefully labeled, a collection she's been nurturing for years. Fah always loved collecting things, finding beauty in small, seemingly forgotten objects, and these tapes are no different—each one a piece of her history.
One tape catches my eye, its label worn and faded. I pop it into her old Walkman, half-expecting it to be a song she recorded from the radio or some favorite band she adored. But then, I hear her voice, soft and a little shy, introducing the recording. She's playing guitar, strumming simple chords, and humming a song I don't recognize. Her voice wavers, a little unsteady but full of feeling, and I close my eyes, letting her melody wash over me. I can picture her, sitting alone in her room, recording herself late at night, her fingers brushing the strings with that same quiet confidence she always had.
Listening to her voice feels like a private glimpse into her world, as if she's sharing a piece of herself that she's never shown anyone else. I sit there for hours, replaying the tape, letting her voice fill the empty spaces she's left behind. I wonder if she knew how much comfort it would bring me, or if she even remembers that she recorded this at all. But for now, it's enough to feel close to her, to know that a part of her lingers here, waiting for me to find it. And in this small, intimate way, it feels like she's wrapping herself around me again, her presence a soft lullaby that eases me into sleep.
I couldn't help myself. After finding that cassette and listening to her voice over and over, I felt this strange urge to share it, or at least a part of it. So, I took a picture of the cassette, holding it carefully so as not to smudge the label, and posted it on my Instagram. I hoped, in some unspoken way, that she'd see it. Maybe it was a quiet way of calling her back, of letting her know how much I missed her. I added a caption, something simple and vague—just a single music note emoji. Part of me worried she'd be upset; her treasure box was something sacred, something private. Fah didn't like anyone touching it, much less sharing it.
She noticed almost immediately. My phone buzzed with a message from her, and my heart jumped, anticipation and nerves tangling together. I stared at the screen, bracing myself for a scolding, for her to tell me off in that way she does, gentle but firm, reminding me that her things are meant to stay hers.
But instead, her message surprised me.
"How do I sound? Is it bad?" she asked.
Her question hung there, unexpected and vulnerable, like a window into her own insecurities. I imagined her face, probably smiling in that slightly embarrassed way she always does when she shares something personal. My fingers moved over the keys quickly, almost without thinking, eager to reassure her.
"No! You sound amazing, and I love it!" I replied, hoping she could feel the truth in my words. Because she did sound incredible. There was a rawness in her voice, something delicate and haunting that stayed with me long after the song had ended.
A minute passed, then another, and my screen stayed silent. She didn't reply. I wondered if she was reading my message over and over, or if she was at a loss for words. Or maybe, I worried, my response had somehow crossed a line, and she was unsure how to react.
After a moment, I typed out another message, hesitating only briefly before sending it. "Can I keep it?" I asked. The thought of returning it felt like letting go of a piece of her, something precious that had brought me comfort during these empty nights.
As I waited, my mind filled with the memory of her voice on that cassette. I imagined her sitting alone, recording in the quiet, strumming those soft chords just for herself, never thinking anyone else would hear it. It was a part of her I had never known, a side of her that was raw and unguarded, and now that I'd found it, I couldn't bear the thought of letting it go.
The wait stretched on, but I held my phone close, checking it every few seconds, hoping to see her typing bubble pop up. When she finally responded, the notification lit up my screen with a single word that made my heart swell.
"Alright."
And then, just a moment later, she added, "Keep it safe."
It was like a quiet promise, a small but precious permission. I felt her presence in that moment, as if her voice was lingering not just on the cassette but also within me, filling the empty spaces she'd left behind. I clutched my phone to my chest, knowing that this piece of her was now mine to cherish and keep safe, like a tiny flame I could carry with me, lighting the way back to her.
I was just finishing my last class of the day when my phone buzzed with a message from Fah. The notification glowed on my screen, her name a bright beacon against the usual dullness of routine. I opened the text, and there it was—something I hadn't dared to hope for: "I'll be coming home this evening."
The words felt like sunlight breaking through clouds, filling me with a warmth I hadn't felt in weeks. She was coming back. I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face, a quiet relief washing over me as if the weight of her absence had finally lifted. Without a second thought, I typed a reply, my fingers moving quickly as I asked, "Do you want me to pick you up at the BTS station?"
I wanted to see her right away. The idea of waiting until she got home felt unbearable; I'd spent so many nights lying in her room, listening to the ghost of her voice on that old cassette, missing her with an ache I couldn't name. My heart raced as I waited for her reply, imagining how it would feel to see her again, to catch that first glimpse of her face after so many lonely days.
Then her response came through, and the thrill that had been building in my chest faltered.
"I'm coming home with Daniel," she wrote, almost casually, as if it were nothing.
The name hit me like a stone, heavy and sharp. Daniel. Her boyfriend. Knowing he'd be the one to bring her home, a pang of disappointment cut through my excitement. I tried to shake it off, to tell myself it was silly to feel this way. But it lingered, settling like a weight in the pit of my stomach.
I forced myself to type a reply, "Okay, safe travels." It felt cold, too brief for how much I wanted to say. But what else was there to say? I didn't want her to know the sudden heaviness I felt, the tinge of jealousy prickling beneath my skin. I knew I should be grateful she was coming back at all. Yet, that small, selfish part of me wanted it to be just the two of us, like it always had been.
Just as I reached my apartment, my phone chimed again. I glanced down to see a new message from Fah, and my heart skipped a beat as I opened it, trying to keep my hope in check.
"Daniel's just dropping me off," she wrote. "I'll be home for two days."
I read the words once, then again, letting their meaning settle in. Relief washed over me, banishing the heaviness that had crept in before. She was coming home, truly home, and for two whole days. It was more than I'd dared hope for, and suddenly the disappointment from earlier melted away. I could almost feel her presence already, filling the quiet spaces she'd left behind, bringing back the warmth that had been missing.
I typed out a reply, struggling to find the right words, my excitement bubbling over. "Two days? Just us?" I sent, my fingers tapping anxiously against the screen as I waited for her to respond.
My mind raced with possibilities, imagining how those two days could unfold. I'd cook her favorite meal or surprise her with the playlist I'd been making, each song reminding me of her in some way. I wanted to go out with her and do all the things we used to do when we were young. We could talk late into the night, like we used to, sharing stories and laughing about things only we found funny.
Her reply came through, short and to the point, "Yes, just us."
It was all I needed to see. I smiled, tucking my phone into my pocket, already making plans in my head. The next few hours felt like an eternity, anticipation building with every tick of the clock. I straightened up her room, folding the blanket carefully and putting her favorite mug on her nightstand. I wanted everything to feel welcoming, as though every detail whispered that she was missed, that she belonged here.
When I finally heard the faint hum of a car engine outside, my heart leapt. I opened the door just in time to see her step out, waving a quick goodbye to Daniel as he drove off. And then, as she turned to face me, our eyes met, and that familiar warmth filled me, easing every doubt and fear.
"Welcome home," I said softly, unable to hide the smile spreading across my face. She returned it with a gentle smile of her own, and in that moment, it felt as if no one else existed, just the two of us, ready to make up for all the time we'd lost.
I helped Mom prepare dinner, suggesting that we make Fah's favorite—fried chicken, the way only Mom could make it. Just the thought of it brought back memories of us sitting around the table, laughing and chatting while Fah eagerly reached for her favorite pieces.
But Mom sighed, rubbing her tired eyes. "I'm too exhausted from work today," she said with a small, apologetic smile. I could see the weariness in her face, the long day she must have had. My heart sank a little, but I didn't want Fah to come home without a proper welcome, especially after being away so long.
"Don't worry, I'll help," I offered quickly. "I can handle it; you just guide me through." I hadn't cooked fried chicken quite like hers before, but I was determined. I wanted Fah to feel at home, to see her eyes light up at the sight of her favorite meal.
Mom hesitated, but she eventually nodded, giving me a small, proud smile. She showed me her way, walking me through every step—the way to season the chicken just right, how to get the oil to the perfect temperature, the timing that made each piece crispy and golden. My hands fumbled a bit at first, but with her guidance, I managed to get it just right.
As I watched the chicken fry, I couldn't help but think about all the times Fah and I had shared this meal together, the comforting simplicity of it. I could almost picture her sitting at the table, teasing me about my cooking skills, laughing at how far I still had to go before I could match Mom's expertise.
When I placed the platter of fried chicken on the table, I couldn't help but feel a bit embarrassed. Some of the wings had come out perfectly golden, but a few others were... well, a little too crispy. Okay, they were burnt. I had tried my best, following Mom's instructions, but frying chicken was clearly more of an art than I'd realized.
But when Fah sat down and reached for one of the darkened pieces, she didn't hesitate. She bit into it with a contented look, chewing as if it were the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted. I watched her, almost wincing, as she finished the whole wing, burnt bits and all.
"P'Fah, eat the ones that aren't burnt," I said, gesturing toward the better pieces. "I didn't mean to make you suffer through my mistakes!"
She shook her head, her smile warm and stubborn. "No way. This is the first meal you've ever cooked for me. I'm going to eat every bite, just as it is." Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she reached for another crispy wing, almost like she was daring me to stop her.
I couldn't help but laugh, her confidence and teasing putting me at ease. "Alright, but don't blame me if it tastes like charcoal!"
She took another bite, savoring it dramatically before looking up at me with a grin. "You know," she began, the warmth in her eyes softening her words, "it's not bad at all. But I hope it's even better next time I'm back." Her voice carried that familiar, playful tone, and I knew she was only teasing, but something in the way she said "next time" made my heart skip.
I felt a surge of happiness, more than I could express, and it was hard to look away from her smile. She didn't care if it was burnt or imperfect; what mattered was that I'd made it for her, that I'd tried. Sitting there together, sharing this simple meal, I realized just how much I'd missed moments like these—where time seemed to slow, and it was just the two of us, like it always used to be.
After dinner, I glanced out the window and saw Fah in the garden, sitting on the old swing set that had been there since we were kids. She sat quietly, gently pushing herself back and forth, lost in thought, her figure silhouetted against the soft glow of the garden lights. The sight stirred something in me, a mix of nostalgia and warmth that I couldn't ignore.
I slipped on a jacket and made my way outside, the cool evening air brushing against my skin as I walked over to her. The garden was filled with the gentle sounds of crickets and the soft rustling of leaves, wrapping us in a peaceful cocoon. I took a seat on the swing beside hers, the familiar creak of the chains bringing back memories of all the nights we'd spent here, sharing secrets under the stars.
"Remember how we used to come out here after dinner every night?" I asked, glancing over at her. "We'd stay until Mom or Dad came out to tell us it was too late."
She laughed softly, nodding. "Yeah, we'd see who could swing the highest, then jump off at the last second. I can't believe we never broke a bone doing that."
I chuckled, picturing our younger selves with scraped knees and wild grins. "We thought we were invincible back then."
Fah tilted her head back, looking up at the sky as if searching for something in the stars. "Those were the best times, weren't they? Everything felt so simple."
There was a hint of wistfulness in her voice, and it tugged at something deep within me. I wanted to tell her that it could still be that way, that we didn't need to lose the ease we'd had as kids. I wanted to believe that we could bring back that simplicity, even if just for a while.
I gave her swing a gentle push, watching as she soared higher into the night, the thrill of the movement bringing a smile to her face. Feeling a playful urge, I slowly began to push her harder, teasing her as she laughed and squealed with delight. It was a sound that filled me with joy, reminding me of carefree afternoons spent playing without a care in the world.
After a few moments of her gleeful swinging, I decided to take it a step further. I stepped in front of her swing, blocking her path with a playful grin. "Alright, that's enough of that!" I said, and I gently caught the swing, bringing it to a stop.
P'Fah looked at me, surprise mingling with amusement, her hair swaying gently in the breeze. In one swift motion, I pulled her into a hug, enveloping her in the warmth of our shared memories. The world around us faded into the background as I held her close, savoring the moment.
"I miss you, P'Fah," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. The words held a weight I couldn't quite articulate, filled with all the unspoken emotions I had bottled up during her absence.
She squeezed me tighter, the scent of her shampoo and the familiar warmth of her body comforting me. "Me too," she replied softly, her breath tickling my ear. There was a sincerity in her voice that made my heart swell, a promise of the bond we shared.
For a moment, we simply stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, the night enveloping us in its tranquil embrace. I could feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against my chest, grounding me in a way that felt both familiar and exhilarating. It was as if the swing set and the garden had transported us back to a time when life was simpler, and all we needed was each other.