Chapter 10: Whispers of Goodbye

Christmas morning dawned crisp and bright, the cityscape dusted with a light frost that glittered under Seoul's winter sun. The air was filled with the scent of pine needles and the promise of a delicious feast. My family, gathered around a mountain of presents, felt more complete, more…normal, than it had in months.

But amidst the festive cheer, a part of me felt strangely detached. I kept replaying Shawn's words from that day by the library, his confession echoing in the silence of my thoughts. Three months. It felt like both an eternity and a fleeting blink of an eye.

For the first time in my life, I made an excuse on Christmas morning. Slipping away from the family festivities, I bundled up in my warmest coat and scarf, a wave of nervous excitement bubbling in my chest.

"Eomma," I'd announced, trying to sound casual, "I'm going to meet a friend. Be back later for lunch!"

My mother, ever perceptive, had simply smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Of course, Ryung-ah. Give my regards."

She didn't need to ask who this "friend" was. She'd seen the way Shawn looked at me, the way my own gaze lingered on him a beat too long. I was grateful for her silent support, her understanding that transcended words.

Shawn's family's apartment was warm and inviting, the air filled with the aroma of cinnamon and baking bread. His mother, ever gracious, welcomed me with a warm embrace and a plate piled high with Lebkuchen, their gingerbread spices a familiar comfort.

His brother, already halfway through a mug of hot chocolate, greeted me with a knowing grin. "So, the prodigal son returns for Christmas, huh?" he teased, earning himself a playful nudge from Shawn.

And then, my gaze landed on Shawn's father. He was a tall, imposing figure, his presence commanding respect, much like mine. But unlike my father's stern demeanor, there was a warmth in his eyes, a hint of amusement that softened his features.

He extended his hand, a firm handshake that spoke of strength and quiet authority. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Wan Ryung," he said, his English tinged with a slight German accent. "Shawn has told us a lot about you."

Heat crept up my neck, a blush I couldn't suppress. Shawn, talking about me? To his father? It was both exhilarating and terrifying, a confirmation that what we shared, this secret we'd so carefully guarded, was slowly but surely stepping into the light.

The weeks that followed were a blur of studying for final exams, exchanging nervous glances with Shawn across crowded classrooms, and stealing precious moments together whenever possible. Every shared laugh, every brush of our hands, every whispered "I'll miss you" felt imbued with a bittersweet intensity.

Graduation day arrived, a flurry of gowns, mortarboards, and tearful goodbyes. As I stood on stage, receiving my diploma, my gaze swept across the sea of faces until it landed on Shawn, his gray eyes shining with pride.

Later, amidst the celebratory chaos, I made sure to seek out his family. His mother embraced me warmly, a silent promise in her eyes. His father offered a firm handshake and a knowing nod. "Take care of him, Wan Ryung," his brother said, clapping me on the shoulder. "He's a good one, even if he doesn't always show it."

And then, in the fading light of the afternoon, it was just Shawn and me, standing beneath the cherry blossom trees that lined the school entrance. Their delicate petals, pink and white against the azure sky, rained down on us like confetti, a bittersweet farewell.

"Three months," I said, the words catching in my throat.

Shawn nodded, his gaze searching mine. "Three months," he echoed, his voice rough with emotion. He reached out, his hand finding mine amidst the falling petals, our fingers interlacing in a silent vow.

We had three months to figure out the rest, to bridge the distance that threatened to separate us. Three months to chase our dreams, to hold onto the hope that bloomed between us, as fragile and beautiful as a cherry blossom in the springtime.

And I, for one, was determined to make every moment count.

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The following months were a bittersweet symphony of togetherness and a gnawing dread. Shawn was always there—a constant shadow, a comforting presence. He’d accompany me to every audition, his silence no longer unnerving but a soothing balm to my pre-performance jitters. He’d sit patiently in waiting rooms, flipping through dog-eared copies of theater magazines, a small, encouraging smile gracing his lips whenever I caught his eye.

He never complained, never once made me feel like my dreams were a burden. And yet, a veil seemed to hang between us, woven from unspoken words and the looming shadow of his departure date.

His melancholic moods were more frequent now, his gaze often distant, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts I couldn’t decipher. But then, there’d be those fleeting moments—a flicker of determination in his eyes, a tightening of his jaw—that hinted at a plan forming beneath the surface.

He still hadn’t told me where they were going, this mysterious "somewhere else" that hung over us like a shroud. And as much as I yearned to know, to rip off the bandage and face the unknown head-on, I couldn’t bring myself to ask. It felt like acknowledging the inevitable would somehow make it real, would shatter the fragile illusion of normalcy we’d built around ourselves.

Those three months, free from the constraints of school uniforms and curfews, were both exhilarating and agonizing. We explored every nook and cranny of Seoul, our laughter echoing through ancient temples and bustling street markets. We devoured spicy tteokbokki from street vendors, our fingers brushing as we reached for the same skewer. We shared whispered secrets under the neon glow of karaoke bars, our voices blending in off-key duets that made our hearts soar.

We were living in a bubble, a beautiful, fragile bubble on the verge of bursting.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, our time together…stopped. Shawn, my ever-present shadow, vanished. His phone went straight to voicemail, his texts unanswered. His presence, once a comforting weight, became a gaping hole in my life, a void that echoed with his absence.

Days bled into weeks, the silence stretching into an unbearable eternity. I oscillated between anger and worry, my heart a raw, pulsing wound.

The world moved on, oblivious to the storm raging within me. Auditions came and went, my heart no longer in the performances. My mother, her brow creased with concern, would watch me with silent understanding, her gentle touch the only solace in a world that had suddenly grown cold and distant.

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Weeks turned into a month. An entire month since Shawn had vanished into thin air. My phone, once a lifeline connecting us, now mocked me with its silence. Every unanswered text, every unanswered call, felt like a nail hammered into the coffin of our unspoken promises.

My imagination, fueled by worry and a healthy dose of teenage angst, went into overdrive. Had something happened to him? Had his family been in an accident?

I scoured news websites, local and international, my heart pounding with each headline about car crashes, natural disasters, and…yes, even airplane disasters. It was irrational, I knew, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

"He wouldn't just…leave, would he?" I muttered to myself, pacing my room like a caged animal.

My mother, a patient soul, had tried everything to pull me out of the abyss of worry. She'd coaxed me into joining family dinners, dragged me to the cinema for mindless rom-coms, even signed me up for a pottery class (which, I'll admit, had a surprisingly calming effect on my nerves). But nothing could erase the gnawing emptiness that had taken root in my chest.

Logic dictated that there had to be a reasonable explanation. Families moved, plans changed, unforeseen circumstances arose. Maybe their departure had been moved up, and in the chaos of packing and goodbyes, Shawn simply hadn’t had a chance to contact me.

I tried to bury myself in my acting. It had always been my escape, my way of channeling emotions into something tangible. But even on stage, the joy felt hollow, the applause a distant echo. Shawn's absence was a lead weight in my chest, dragging me down with every line, every gesture.

"Wan Ryung-ah," Director Park, had pulled me aside after a particularly lackluster rehearsal. Her gaze was kind but firm. "Your heart isn't in it. Whatever's troubling you, you need to deal with it. The stage demands honesty, and right now, all I see is a shadow of your true potential."

Her words stung, but they were a much-needed wake-up call. I couldn't keep living in this limbo of uncertainty, clinging to hope that felt increasingly fragile with each passing day. I needed answers, even if they were painful. I needed closure.

But where do you even begin to seek closure when the person you're seeking it from has vanished without a trace?