August in Busan was still summer. I was at the Gwangalli beach alone and for the first time, realised how a vast a beach was and how small we really are.
September in Busan was windy, balmy, and truth to be told, there are some days I cannot remember how it smells, or what it looks like. And on the days when I do, I’m wondering, maybe I’m there and asleep, and actually am dreaming about my life here. Maybe time twisted and bent over backwards to make something happen. I remember my head twisting into the crook of your neck to shield myself from the wind and the sand. But I don’t actually remember the details anymore. It remains to be just a memory that continues to burn at the back of my eyelids, sometimes perhaps so bright that I have to pull my eyes back open to extinguish them.
October in Busan was the annual fireworks festival across Gwangan Bridge. You asked me to go with you. I declined and went with other people. But sandwiched between a million people or so, we were looking up at the same thing. A million people on the goddamn beach - what are the odds of you finding me?
November in Busan was exam time. There had been little time to hang out because you were always cramming and I was always missing and running about in other places trying to soak up as much before I had to leave. “Hey… where are you?” “I’m at XXX. Are you at the library again?” “Yeah. Maybe see you later.” We went to the beach that chilly month and I remember your scarf around my neck a lot that month. I had been very lazy to buy my winter wear. You asked me if I had ever tried eating ice cream in winter before and for the first time in my life, the mix of the cold wind, cold ice cream and cold lips burnt my mouth and subsequently all of my insides as we tried to cling on desperately to the next warmest thing.
December in Busan and the present twists itself into the past like a Möbius strip. Past hellos turn into goodbyes and the goodbyes present themselves as a possibilities of future hellos.