#hyikien

Has it ever felt like a memory, a whisper from a forgotten dream, suddenly surfaces in the present, so vivid and potent it leaves you breathless? That’s how it was. How it felt. The rain lashed against the library windows, a melancholic symphony accompanying the quiet hum of turning pages. It was a Tuesday, just like any other Tuesday for the past three years. I, the quiet observer of this grand tapestry of literature, had settled into my usual corner, bathed in the soft glow of the reading lamps. It was a routine, almost a ritual, this daily pilgrimage to this haven of stories. And then, she walked in.

It was the first time we’d ever talked to each other, and yet she seemed oddly familiar. Her curls, a cascade of dark chocolate, framed a face that held a gentle, knowing smile. Her eyes, a deep, rich brown, held a warmth that both comforted and intrigued. She moved with a grace that was both earthy and ethereal, like a willow swaying in a gentle summer breeze. The way she moved, so fluent, so effortlessly elegant, reminded me of a hidden melody, only I knew the tune. She seemed oddly, fair. Not fair like a sunset in Autumn, but fair like the sunrise. Not like the first drop of winter, but like the last.

I watched her, mesmerized, as she selected a book from the towering shelves. Every detail about her, from the way her nose crinkled when she smiled, making her eyes seem to shrink into crescent moons, to the way her fingers, long and slender, danced across the worn spines of the books, captivated me. It was as if time itself stood still, the rhythmic patter of the rain outside fading into a silent hum. My heart, a restless bird trapped in a gilded cage, fluttered in my chest, a strange mix of hope and trepidation.

She found a table near the window, the rain a curtain of water separating her from the outside world. I, pulled by an invisible force, found myself gravitating towards her. A space opened up at her table, and for a moment, I hesitated. I, who had always found solace in the quiet corners of this library, was suddenly compelled to break my routine, to step into the unknown.

And then I spoke. It was a simple question, a tentative hello, but the words felt like a lifetime in the making.

As we settled into the rhythm of conversation, the words flowing effortlessly between us, a familiar comfort settled over me. Her laughter, like the tinkling of wind chimes, filled the space, chasing away the lingering shadows of loneliness I'd carried for centuries. It felt as if we were old friends, soulmates reuniting after a long separation.

"Have we met before?" she asked, her brow slightly furrowed, a hint of confusion in her voice.

The question, simple as it was, sent a shiver down my spine. The weight of countless lifetimes, of centuries spent yearning for this moment, settled upon me. How could I explain this undeniable connection, this inexplicable sense of recognition?

"We in fact have not, miss," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil within.

The centuries pressed in on me, the echoes of a past life, a forbidden love, a love that was deemed unholy in a time of intolerance and fear. I'd watched the world turn, felt the slow passage of time, seen empires rise and fall, felt the sting of loss and the bitter taste of separation. And with each passing year, each fading face, I longed for her - for her smile, her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke.

I lived, I breathed, I endured, all for this moment, for this improbable encounter that felt like a divinely orchestrated reunion. It’s a curse, this immortality, this eternal life, this endless cycle of birth and death. To watch those I love fade away, only to meet them again in a different form, in a different life – a constant reminder of the fragility of existence. My life, a never-ending tapestry of sorrow and fleeting joy, woven with threads of endless longing and hope. It is the price I pay for an eternal love that was once forbidden, a love that I can never, ever forget.

And here she was, before me, perfect and real. The woman who I'd yearned for across lifetimes. She who was forbidden, she who was impossible, she who was mine, now. It was the culmination of countless years of yearning, a bittersweet symphony of hope and sorrow.

The desire to hold her, to never let go, to finally escape this endless cycle of lives for a moment of peace, a moment of eternity, welled up within me. To die with her, to truly be with her until the very end, to finally be able to say, "till death do we part," and mean it, to really mean it. That is the dream I hold close.

The rain continued to fall outside, a constant reminder of the ever-flowing river of time. But within the walls of that library, bathed in the soft glow of the reading lamps, time stood still, suspended in a moment of shared connection, a moment of hope, a moment truly made of a lifetime of waiting.

What does it mean to be tethered to someone, to a feeling, to a memory, even when the world screams for you to let go? I don’t know, I’m still trying to figure it out. Maybe it’s the way the streets we used to walk on still feel like home, even when I’m miles away. Maybe it’s the ghost of your laugh that echoes in my mind when I'm struggling to find a reason to smile.

Sometimes, I wonder if this is what they mean by a curse. Being bound to something that’s both beautiful and agonizing, like a melody that’s so sweet it hurts. It’s a truth that bites, a feeling that refuses to be silenced.

I remember the time I told you I’d travel the world, just to see if there was anything that could make me forget you. I thought the mountains would whisper your name, the crashing waves would carry your voice, and the stars would sparkle with your memories. But, they were silent. Only the echo of your absence reverberated in my soul.

I was tired. I was burdened by the weight of this love, this relentless yearning. I tried to run, to push you out of my mind, to drown you in the noise of the world. But, you were the only constant, the only quiet whisper amidst the cacophony. I couldn’t escape you. And maybe, I didn’t want to.

There are days when I wake up and the sun feels like a punch in the gut, reminding me of how far I am from you. I hear old songs that make me want to scream, wishing I could rewind time, wishing I could just see you once more. But I know, I’ll never be able to.

But still, even when the world feels like a cruel joke, even when I’m drowning in the sting of what could have been, I always find myself coming back to you. It’s a journey that I repeat again and again, a cycle I can’t seem to break. Each time, I tell myself, “This is the last time.” But, inevitably, I find myself back in the thought of your presence.

It’s not just the memories that pull me back, it’s the promise. A promise that I made to myself, a promise that I cling to even when the world shouts at me to give up.

The world doesn't understand. It tries to shove me into a box, label me as delusional, as clinging to the past. But they don’t get it. It's not about possession, it's about a truth, a feeling that I can't deny, a love that transcends the boundaries of time and choice.

Why is it that we readily accept the ache of loss when a life is extinguished, when a body is laid to rest, yet struggle so fiercely with the slow, agonizing burn of a living absence? I've never understood it, this easy categorization of grief. It's as if the world, in its infinite wisdom, deems some sorrows more valid than others, some tears more worthy of shedding. But I can tell you, from the depths of my aching heart, that the pain of losing someone who is still breathing, still walking this earth, is a different kind of hell. It's a quiet torture, a constant erosion of the soul.

I never liked grief. I hated the taste of it, the way it clings to the back of your throat, a bitter, metallic tang that makes every swallow a struggle. I loathe how it twists and warps the familiar, how it paints people in shades of grey and shadows where once there was vibrant colour. Most of all, I hate the powerlessness it brings, the feeling of being a spectator to a tragedy I can't prevent, a storm I cannot weather for them. People grieve for the departed, for the ones who have left this world behind, and while I acknowledge that pain, understand its depth, it's the grief for the living that claws at me, suffocates me.

He's here, physically present. I see him, I hear his voice, I feel the warmth of his skin if I reach out. But it's like looking through a warped mirror, seeing a reflection that’s familiar yet somehow alien. The distance between us, invisible yet impenetrable, grows with each passing day. It's a cruel irony; to be so close yet so impossibly far. It's a constant awareness that the person I love, the person I once knew so intimately, is slipping away, fragmenting like a shattered glass sculpture, leaving behind only the memory of the sharp, beautiful edges.

I’m grieving for him, for the parts of him that are vanishing, for the laughter lines that are fading, replaced by a stillness I find unsettling. I’m grieving for the shared moments, the inside jokes, the unspoken understanding that once existed between us, now buried under layers of something… different. I understand his journey, the reasons behind the changes, the invisible wounds that have reshaped his world. I absorb it all, feel the weight of it pressing down on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. And it hurts. It hurts so much.

Seeing him change, seeing the light in his eyes dim, the vibrant energy replaced by a quiet solitude, breaks me in a way I never thought possible. My heart aches for him, for the pain he carries, the battles he wages within himself. I've tried to be a shield, a soft landing place in the midst of the storm, but the truth is, I am helpless. As much as I yearn to ease his burden, to mend the cracks that have appeared in his soul, I can only stand by, a silent observer in my own personal tragedy.

And it's in these moments, when I'm sitting across from him, when his gaze grazes mine, that the deepest pang of grief strikes. It's the grief of knowing that while he's physically present, a part of him, a significant part, is no longer accessible to me. It's like watching the tide slowly recede, leaving behind shells and secrets on the once-familiar shore. I'm drowning in the silence, the unspoken words, the chasm that yawns between us.

The truth is, I don't know how to navigate this grief. I don't have a manual, a guidebook that tells me how to grieve for someone who is still living, still breathing, still capable of smiling and laughing, even if those smiles and laughs feel distant and hollow. It feels like an impossible paradox, a contradiction in terms. How can I grieve for someone who is still here? How can I reconcile the love I feel with the growing sense of loss?