Yeon-ah

She felt the worst pain of her life.
The pain of being abandoned without understanding why. The years passed slowly for her.
And too fast for him.
At first, she tried to wait.
She would send messages even knowing he wouldn't reply. She would go to places they used to frequent together. She held onto the hope that he would suddenly appear and say it had all been a mistake.
But he never came back.
So, little by little…
She learned to survive without him.
The pain hasn't gone away. It's just moved.
And she put all of that into her art.
Every longing became a painting. Every tear became color. Every memory became a canvas.
She painted skies as before. But now they held a melancholy quality.
Loneliness.
Hope.
And people waiting for someone who never came back.
Without realizing it, his paintings began to attract attention.
Small exhibitions turned into galleries. Galleries turned into interviews. Interviews turned into fame.
And she succeeded.
He achieved exactly what he said he would achieve.
…
About that…
He was gradually disappearing from the world.
The treatments became more strenuous. The body grew weaker. The days became more difficult.
He hardly ever left the house anymore.
His baggy clothes hid how much weight he had lost. Medications littered the table in his room. And the hospital machines already seemed like part of his routine.
Even so…
Sometimes I would secretly search for her name on the internet.
And she always smiled when she saw the paintings.
"I knew."
That's what I thought every time.
Even far away… Even alone… Even destroyed by illness…
He was still proud of her. Until one day, the doctor entered the room with that same serious look from years before.
And he understood even before the words.
His condition has worsened considerably.
The boy stood silently watching the rain through the hospital window.
We are still looking for a donor… but you need to get ready.
Prepare.
It was a kind word for something cruel.
He gave a weak smile.
How long?
The doctor hesitated.
We don't know exactly... but maybe not much.

Where are you going?
He remained silent for a few seconds.
Then he smiled weakly.
A tired smile.

• It doesn't matter.
  …
  He left before sunrise.
  Without saying goodbye to the studio. Without looking back. Without the courage to send one last message.
  Because he knew that if he heard her voice one more time…
  I wouldn't be able to leave.
  …
  The following morning, she immediately found it strange.
  No good morning messages.
  No response.
  She tried to call.
  Once. Twice. Ten.
  Nothing.
  Her heart began to race.
  So he ran to his house.
  When his mother opened the door, she immediately realized something was wrong.
  Her eyes were swollen from crying so much.
  Where is he...?
  The woman pressed her fingers tightly against the letter.
  And that made her world freeze.
  He left.
  She was speechless.
• What?
  He asked me to give this to you…
  The girl picked up the envelope slowly.
  His hands were shaking so much that he could barely open them.
  "Where did he go?!" she asked desperately. "What happened?!"
  His mother lowered her gaze.
• I don't know.
  And it was true.
  He didn't tell anyone.
  Her eyes immediately began to fill with tears.
  Then he opened the letter.
  And each line destroyed her little by little.
  He said he was tired. That he wanted to live another life. That he didn't love her the same way anymore. That she needed to forget him.
  Lies.
  But she didn't know that.
  And worst of all…
  The letter was written with too much affection to sound like hatred.
  That hurt even more.
  Tears began to fall onto the paper.
• No no…
  She pressed the letter against her chest, trying to breathe.
  Because it simply didn't make sense.
  Just yesterday he was holding her hand as if he would never let go.
  Just yesterday he told her to keep painting.
  So why?
  Why did he leave like that?
  His mother started crying when she saw her break down.
  But I couldn't tell the truth.
  It was the son's request.
  And at that moment…
  Sitting on the porch, holding that letter, wet with tears…

Photos. Audio recordings. Plans. Drawings that she would send to him first before showing them to anyone else.
She loved him completely.
And that was exactly why…
That he decided to leave.
Because I was beginning to realize something cruel:
If he stayed by her side…
She would watch him die slowly.
And he couldn't bear to destroy the person he loved most in that way.
So, that night…
He did the hardest thing in his life. That night, he didn't sleep.
The room was dark, lit only by the small lamp on the table.
The suitcases were already packed in the corner.
Clothes. Medicine. Medical tests. And the star-shaped keychain she had given him years ago.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he pulled out a blank sheet of paper.
The pen trembled between his fingers.
Because writing that letter meant accepting that she was really going to leave.
Even so… it began.
At first, he tried to write in a detached manner.
He tried to make it seem like he didn't care.
But every time she wrote something cruel… she would tear up the paper right after.
Because it was impossible to pretend that I didn't love her.
So, around three in the morning, he finally managed to finish.
A beautiful letter. Painful. Full of farewells hidden among lies.
When he finished, his eyes were red.
He carefully folded the sheet of paper and wrote her name on the front.
His mother appeared silently in the doorway of the room.
She was already crying.
Because he knew exactly what his son was doing.
Are you really going to leave...?
He lowered his gaze.
It's better this way.
The voice came out faltering.
She walked slowly towards him.
She will suffer.
His eyes immediately filled with tears.

• I know.
  That destroyed him from the inside.
  Because there was no right choice.
  Staying meant making her watch him gradually get worse.
  Leaving would mean breaking her heart.
  Then he handed the letter to his mother.
  — When she comes looking for me… give this to her.
  The mother held the envelope with trembling hands.

It's just stress.
She didn't seem convinced.
Even so, she held his hand as she always did.
And that hurt more than any needle.
…
A few weeks later, a potential donor finally appeared.
For the first time in months, he saw hope in his mother's face.
For the first time… he felt it too.
Perhaps he would survive.
Perhaps he could stay by her side.
Perhaps there was still a future.
But then the doctor entered the room.
And all it took was looking at his expression to understand.
The kidney is not a match.
It was simple.
Direct.
Cold.
The boy lay motionless in his hospital bed.
As if he had stopped listening to the rest of the world.
His mother started asking the doctor desperate questions, but he wasn't paying attention anymore.
He could only think about her.
In her smile.
In the paintings.
In the plans they made together.
"When you become famous, I'll tell everyone I knew you before anyone else."
He remembered exactly how she laughed after that sentence.
But now…
Perhaps I wasn't there to see it happen.
…
As time went on, his condition worsened rapidly.
Very fast.
The pain worsened.
The treatment sessions left him exhausted.
Sometimes he would vomit alone in the bathroom and then wash his face before meeting her.
Always hiding.
Always smiling.
But she was starting to get scared.
One night in the studio, she held his face in her hands and whispered:
— You're disappearing.
His heart nearly broke at that moment.
Because she was right.
He was.
She gently stroked his hair.
Tell me what's going on…
His eyes burned immediately.
So close.
So close to telling everything.
But then he imagined her crying. He imagined her suffering. He imagined her waiting for someone who might die.
And he didn't succeed.
Then he simply held her hand and smiled weakly.
I'm fine.
It was the most painful lie of his life.
…
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He sat alone on the floor of the room, staring at her messages on his cell phone.

— Your tests show that your kidneys are functioning far below normal.
He frowned, not understanding.
What does that mean?
The doctor took a deep breath before continuing.
You have a serious kidney disease.
The world seemed to fall silent.
No… I think there must be some mistake…

• Unfortunately not.
  The boy felt his fingers grow cold.
  "We'll start treatment immediately, but…" the doctor hesitated for a moment, "…your case is already advanced."
  He stared at the doctor, unable to process anything.
  — Advanced…?
  If your kidneys fail completely, you will need a transplant.
  The words hit him like a punch.
  Transplant.
  Serious illness.
  Kidneys failing.
  He was still just a teenager.
  — And what if… they can't find a donor?
  The doctor's silence answered before his mouth even spoke.
  But even so, the man spoke carefully:
  Then your life is in danger.
  The boy slowly lowered his gaze to his own trembling hands.
  And for the first time…
  He thought about her.
  Not in itself.
  In it.
  Because the only thing I could feel at that moment was fear.
  Fear of leaving her alone. The months began to pass slowly.
  Treatments. Medications. Hospitals. Tests.
  His routine turned into white corridors and doctors with worried expressions.
  At first, he tried to act normal.
  I was going to school.
  I went out with her.
  He used to smile.
  He was pretending.
  But the body could no longer keep up.
  Dark circles under the eyes began to appear.
  He lost weight.
  His hands were always cold.
  And sometimes I had to stop secretly just to be able to breathe properly.
  She realized.
  Of course he noticed.
  One afternoon, the two were walking home from school together when he needed to stop discreetly in the middle of the sidewalk.
  She turned around immediately.
• It is good too?
  He forced a smile immediately.
  — I am.
  — You look pale.
  I'm just tired.
  She frowned.
  You're always tired now.
  He looked away.
  Because if he looked at her for too long… he might tell her everything.
  But I couldn't.
  I didn't want to see pity in her eyes.
  Then he continued lying.

A week later, he began to realize that something was wrong.
It wasn't just tiredness.
It was different.
The pains would come out of nowhere, tightening his chest as if there was no room to breathe. Sometimes he had to stop halfway up the school stairs because he simply couldn't get enough air.
But he didn't tell anyone.
Much less for her.
She always smiled and said, "I just slept badly."
That night, he was home alone doing math homework at the kitchen table.
The clock was showing almost midnight.
The whole house was silent.
He rubbed his tired eyes as he wrote in his notebook.
Then a sharp pain suddenly shot through his chest.
He immediately put his hand to his chest and closed his eyes.
Ah…
His breathing faltered for a few seconds.
And then…
Ping.
A red drop fell right in the middle of the leaf.
He stood motionless.
Another drop fell soon after.
Ping.
The boy touched his own nose slowly.
When she spread her fingers apart…
Blood. His heart raced instantly.
The blood began to flow faster, staining the notebook, the assignment numbers, and his hand.
He pushed the chair back quickly and tilted his head upwards, trying to stop the bleeding.
Damn it…
My vision became somewhat blurry for a few seconds.
That wasn't normal.
The pains.
Shortness of breath.
Tiredness.
Now, blood.
Fear began to grow slowly within him.
The following morning, after his mother insisted when she saw how pale he was, he finally went to the hospital for tests.
The strong smell of medicine filled the hallway as he sat waiting, holding the hospital bracelet on his arm.
His foot tapped nervously on the ground incessantly.
Then the doctor appeared, holding several test results.
— You can come in.
He entered the room trying to appear calm.
But his heart was beating too fast.
The doctor sat down opposite him and slowly took off his glasses.
The serious expression made his stomach churn even before the words came out.

She looked at him slowly.
And he smiled in that calm way that always warmed her heart.
Artists need good materials.
Her eyes welled up with tears.
Because no one had ever taken her dream so seriously before.
Then he took another key from his pocket.
And there's one more thing.
She tilted her head, confused.
Come with me tomorrow after class.
The next day, he took her to a small room on the second floor of an old building near the center.
When he opened the door…
She was speechless.
The place was filled with blank canvases, neatly arranged paints, and light streaming in through the large windows.
A small studio.
Hers alone.
She turned slowly to look at him.

• What is that…?
  — A place for you to paint.
  Her eyes widened.
  — You rented this?!
  He scratched the back of his neck somewhat awkwardly.
  Your mother is always complaining about the paint in your room… so…
  She felt her throat close up immediately.
  — You did this… for me?
  He looked directly into her eyes.
  I would do anything for your dream.
  That day, she cried in his arms for the first time.
  Not out of sadness.
  But because finally someone believed in her.
  After that, the studio became their favorite place.
  She would spend hours painting while he sat on the floor doing homework or just watching.
  And he really was watching.
  Every detail.
  Each color.
  Each stroke.
  As if I were seeing the most beautiful thing in the world.
  "Why are you staring at me?" she asked once, without taking her eyes off the screen.
  Because you look beautiful when you paint.
  She almost dropped the paintbrush.
  He laughed.
  — And because one day your paintings will become famous.
  — For…
  I'm serious.
  She sighed softly.
  Sometimes I'm afraid I'll never succeed.
  He got up from the floor and went over to her.
  Then he gently held her hands, which were stained with ink.
  Listen to me.
  She looked at him in silence.
  Never give up on this.

He slowly snatched the notebook from her hands before she could hide it again.
Hey!
But it was too late.
His eyes were carefully analyzing the drawing.
It was a painting of the two of them sitting on the school roof looking at the stars.
The wind pattern looked almost real.
This is incredible.
She buried her face in her arms on the table.
Stop praising everything I do…
He chuckled softly.
It's not my fault you're good.
She peeked at him between his arms.
— You say that because you love me.
The boy was silent for two seconds.
And then he replied naturally:
Yes. Also.
She felt her face turn completely red.
And he smiled, watching her nearly die of embarrassment.
At that moment, she still didn't know…
But years later, every time she held a paintbrush, she would remember that exact phrase.
"You feel alive when you draw." Her seventeenth birthday was a quiet affair.
The mother had forgotten again.
No cake.
No congratulations.
No gifts.
She was already used to it.
Sitting on the floor of her room, she absentmindedly sketched on a small sheet of paper while the rain beat against the window.
Then he heard light pebbles hitting the glass.
Toc.
Toc.
Toc.
She opened the window, confused.
And she found him underneath, completely soaked, with a huge smile on his face and several shopping bags.
Are you crazy?! It's raining!
— Happy birthday first. Scolding later.
She ran downstairs.
When he opened the door, he entered shivering with cold while holding the bags securely inside his coat.
— He got completely wet!
But not the gifts.
She blinked in surprise.
Gifts?
He slowly placed everything on the kitchen table.
A huge painting kit.
Professional paints.
New brushes.
Sketchbooks.
Art pens.
Her eyes began to shine gradually.
— You… bought all this for me?
— Uhum.
She touched the materials as if they were too fragile to be real.
But that must have been expensive…
It was worth it.

And without realizing it…
The years began to pass.
But they continued exactly like that: side by side. High school seemed less tiring when she was around.
That was what he thought about every day.
While the other students complained about the classes or slept on their desks, she sat near the window, distractedly sketching in the corner of her notebook.
Always drawing.
Sometimes flowers.
Sometimes people.
But mostly the sky.
She drew skies of all kinds: cloudy, rainy, full of stars, sunset, dawn.
As if each drawing held a hidden feeling.
He rested his face in his hand as he watched her finish the details of a small painting.
You should show this to someone.
She was almost startled when she noticed him looking.
Don't start...
I'm serious.
She closed the notebook quickly.
It's not all that great.
He let out a sigh, already accustomed to it.
She always did that.
He used to draw incredible things… and then hide them right away.
You know it's good.

• I am not.
• And yes.
• I am not.
  So why does everyone stop to stare when you draw?
  She looked away, shyly.
  He smiled slightly.
  Even as a child she was like that: extremely talented, but also extremely insecure.
  She fiddled with the pencil between her fingers.
  My mother thinks art doesn't offer a future.
  His smile faded a little.
  She continued looking at the drawing.
  Sometimes I think I should stop.
  At that very moment, he straightened up in his chair.
  Don't even think about it.
  She slowly raised her eyes.
  He rarely spoke so seriously.
  — You look different when you draw.
  — Different how?
  He thought for a few seconds.
• Alive.
  Her heart raced so fast that she turned her face away immediately.
  He didn't even notice.
  He continued speaking naturally:
  — When you draw, it seems like you forget all the bad things.
  She remained silent.
  Because it was true.
  Drawing was the only time she didn't feel lost.

The first day they met began with a fight.
She was eight years old and was kneeling on the school floor trying to pick up the colored pencils that two boys had deliberately dropped.
— Your drawing is strange.
— It looks like something a baby would do.
She tried to ignore it, but her eyes were already filling with tears.
Then a backpack hit one of the boys in the head.

• Shut up.
  They both turned around, startled.
  He was standing there.
  Short for his age, crumpled uniform, messy hair, and an irritated look.
  "Are you crazy?!" the boy complained.
  So what?
  Even though he was small, he stepped in front of her as if he were a shield.
  The two boys rolled their eyes and walked away grumbling.
  Silence hung in the air.
  She blinked a few times, surprised.
  Then he bent down on the floor and began picking up the scattered pencils without saying a word.
  "Thank you…" she murmured softly.
  — Hm.
  She watched him place each color in the correct order inside the box.
  Blue. Red. Yellow.
  She smiled without realizing it.
  You are organized.
  My mother scolds me when I mess things up.
  She chuckled softly.
  It was the first time he had heard that sound.
  And without understanding why... I wanted to hear it again.
  When he finished, he handed her the box.
  — You draw well.
  Her eyes lit up.
• Serious?!
  He quickly looked away.
  The sky turned beautiful.
  She smiled so wide that it made his little heart race strangely for the first time.
  I like the sky.
• Why?
  She pointed upwards.
  The late afternoon was turning the clouds orange.
  Because it never stays the same.
  He watched her as she spoke of the sky, as if she were sharing a precious secret.
  And at that moment…
  Even though she's just a child…
  He knew he wanted to keep hearing her voice every day.
  After that, the two became inseparable.
  She shared her snack.
  He would carry her backpack when it was heavy.
  She used to draw stars in his notebooks.
  He was waiting for her to get out of class so they could leave together.