To: Ju Ly

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Dear Ju Ly,

It’s me again. As I write this letter, Ju Ly, it’s three in the morning for you. How are you sleeping these days? I hope you are eating well, I hope you are sleeping well. I say these to you particularly often. Have you ever felt the need to focus on a single wish for it to get closer to coming true? That’s my intention when I say these wishes for you. Even when you no longer need such wishes, I’ll wish you all the same. For you to always enjoy nourishing meals and get plenty of sleep.

When June rolls around, a white butterfly visits the flower bed in front of the bookstore I work at. Have you seen this butterfly, too, Ju Ly? Near the spot we’d take smoke breaks together. Fluttering as if to fly away. Fluttering as if to get closer. Sighting the white butterfly flying around like a specter is one way I know summer has arrived. The butterfly is gone when the rainy season arrives, and it showed up again this June. Sometimes, while watching the butterfly weaving through the leaves of the flower bed, I suddenly think about someone, and when I look again, the butterfly has disappeared without a trace. Even when I’m sure I was trailing the movements of the butterfly’s wings with my gaze.

The rain hasn’t been letting up in Seoul. A few days ago, rain was forecasted for the day, but the sky remained full of clouds and the air humid. I told my friend that I thought the rain was waiting until everyone had gone home to finally cry all at once—boo-hoo-hoo! In response, my friend said, “I really like the whites of your eyes.” I must have made a funny face while pretending to look like the sky holding back the rain like tears. Even so, what a random response!

Ju Ly, what’s your favorite kind of weather? I love thunderstorms. I once saw an incredible thunderstorm during one of my travels. The kind of storm where the lightning splits the sky into pieces and the thunder shakes the ground as if to sink it. I was traveling through eastern India and stopped by Kolkata for a few days. In the early morning, light flashed over my eyelids and a loud boom startled me awake. I slipped into my sandals and went outside. The U-shaped building featured an open-air corridor that doubled as a terrace, and because there were no tall buildings in the neighborhood, the view was unobstructed. And that’s when I saw it. Before my eyes, diagonal bolts of lightning tore up and down the sky, striking again and again. From the far mountain valley across the village, parts lit up blue before getting lost in complete darkness, over and over. The thunder was so loud, my entire body shook in the vibrating air. I just stood there. Getting soaked in the barrage of rain. I felt at peace. So much so. The twisting, the crashing, the madness. How the storm stomps around and pours out. What appears only to disappear. That’s what feels real to me.

Whether something is real or fake—perhaps it’s not such a big deal, but back then, knowing the difference felt so important to me. The very self I see in the mirror is fake. The world going by some distance away also seems fake. Everything seems fake. Even now, just as before, I still don’t have an answer for what “real” means, but that doesn’t change how real that night felt to me. And I still love thunderstorms to this day.

While out in the corridor that early morning, I didn’t see anyone else. The next day, the sun beat down from a sky streaked with gentle clouds. The scene made me picture an entity who had placed their index finger in front of their lips to go Shhhhhhh!

After I received your letter, Ju Ly, I thought about your friend. I wondered about who she was, and the things about her that can’t be guessed easily. I worried that you might worry about me worrying over you, and I was afraid I couldn’t do anything to make you feel better. So, I’ve been passing June and July quietly, and I’ve filled this letter with other stories… I wanted the letter to feel like going for a short walk together with you.

I’m purposely stopping myself from looking up an image of The Whispering Gallery. Because I like how the gallery appears in my imagination—a place where two people grow more quiet the closer they get. Please say hello to N for me.

Missing you lots,
Kyeonghwa