#softgrief

This isn’t about war. It’s about the weight of love when someone is called away. The way grief hides in fabric. In a mug left untouched. In a voice that forgets how to say goodbye out loud.

It’s about the ones who stay. And what they carry in silence.

Buying food outside always felt wasteful.

I couldn't afford to spend money

on something that disappears in a few bites.

That money could buy a book,

or a pen I love.

My best was this:

two boiled eggs

from home.

In college,

and later, as someone working,

lunch was always the same—

two boiled eggs and soy milk.

Sometimes that was all I had.

Back then,

that was the best I could do.

If even now

I still like eggs,

maybe they’re my soul food.

I feel a little sorry

when I think of eggs.

But I’m glad

I could at least choose the unfertilized ones.

Apologizing to the hens

was already enough.

If I had to apologize

to all the chicks

that never even got the chance to exist—

I probably would’ve died doing it.

착한 사람이라는 건,

손이 가지 않아 좋은 사람이라는 뜻

이득이 되어 좋은 사람이라는 뜻

불만이 있어도 말하지 않는,

말하지 않아서 더 좋은 사람이라는 뜻

상냥한 미소인데,

왜 나는 긴장됐을까.

눈빛은

다른 말을 하고 있었어.

내가 착각한 거겠지.

애써 내 탓으로 덮어놔.

근데 결국

내 말이 맞잖아.

그럴 줄 알았어.

I keep looking at the door. Though I’m not expecting anything.

Somehow, I’m standing by the intercom. In case someone rings the bell.

I don’t know why I’m like this. It feels like I’ve forgotten something.

If I take just one step from here, I feel like I might remember.

자꾸 문을 바라보게 돼. 도착할 택배도 없으면서.

인터폰 주변에 서 있게 돼. 누군가 초인종을 누를까 봐.

나도 왜 이러는지 모르겠어. 뭔가 잊어버린 것 같아.

여기서 한 발만 내딛으면, 기억이 날 것만 같아.