let’s build a hypothetical here, okay? play along, answer in your head, you don’t need to tell me what you’d say and do, i just want you to think about it.
you have had a rocky life, but on the whole it’s been good. your mother passed when you were young so suddenly you hardly remember her face, just the sounds of sweet french lullabies and the smell of peonies that clung to her hair. here one day, gone the next. it was hard, of course, but your father didn’t collapse into nothingness like others when faced with losing the love of their life. he worked harder to be everything you needed.
you did everything together, he supported everything you did. he learned those french lullabies but it never sounded quite the same, and instead of peonies he smelled like cedar and moss. those things became more of a comfort to you than the faint etchings of the memories of a child you don’t remember being anymore.
you go to a beautiful town in the south, south of busan. a place littered with small time charm. friendly faces and family, cool ocean salt spray and beautiful flowers scenting the air. a vibrancy you’ve never known, though you’re just a child still. your father lifts you onto one knee in a seemingly endless field of flowers underneath a black velvet blanket sky, holes punched through, dazzling with starlight. he tells you a story you’ll never forget, in a way you’ll never be able to replicate. a story of love and devotion. the ardent love the characters feel for each other become the blueprint for the same passion that blossomed for telling stories.
from then on, everywhere you had a notebook. then a laptop as you got older, constantly writing, constantly submitting stories. you want to make your father proud, you want to show him just how deeply he influenced you with the simple act of entertaining a child. but most of all, you just want to tell the stories you love.
high school ends, and you get picked up by one of the biggest publishing houses in all of south korea. you celebrate, and your father looks at you with tear-stung admiration. you get your first tattoo with him holding your hand tightly, a typewriter behind your ear.
your first book wasn’t remarkable. in sales, anyways. you write it under your own name, a fantasy in a similar vein to the legends of that small town you and your father visited years ago. but it was published and you were happy, though had to face the possibility of never being published again- but the next manuscript is better. a different genre, a mystery. you write it under a pseudonym paying homage to the stars you found your passions under. céleste.
céleste is a hit. keeping your identity a mystery only adds to the appeal. it’s hit after hit, you finish a trilogy and while you’re experiencing success, truly, for the first time in your life, everything is slowly crumbling. your father is your bed rock, your foundation- but what other relationships do you have? you withdraw further and further, wrapped up in the secrecy of your identity, unable to maintain friendships or relationships because you’re in your early twenties and seem like an unemployed recluse- who wants to hang around that? you’re also paranoid about the fragile peace you have with the identity remaining a secret. you were even published in france- if you were found out you’d be watched constantly.
it became easier to lie. to pretend. you even lied to your father. innocent things to ease his worries.
after the final book in the trilogy is when everything goes south.
you want to change genres, you want to try something different but everything you write sounds contrived. you try to find a spark of inspiration for mystery but nothing is coming. it’s all people want from céleste, anyways. but then, the gut punch comes as you’re barely scraping yourself off the creative floor.
your father is terminal. one day, he just woke up and didn’t recognize you. he gets moved into hospice care, the best you can get. it’s not cheap but the royalties are more than enough. besides, he doesn’t last long.
days where he’s better and knows your name are overshadowed by days where he become violent and scared- restrained by staff and sedated. you play guitar for him to try and help him, visiting him every day, but you knew it was a waiting game. it’s only a month before you, sitting by his side, see the light go out from his eyes. like someone blinked a switch.
it’s a blur of screaming, sobbing, the smell of burning pork overpowering the lingering cedar and moss. your last anchor to the world is gone. you’re scared and alone for the first time in your 25 years on this earth. no shoulders of friends to cry on, or strong comforting arms to hold you and tell you you’re going to be alright. you are an island, adrift and lonely.
now… if you were them…
