Se-Ri's POV
Later that night, Amisha came in with a cardboard box."Stuff from your Toronto place," she said, setting it beside my bed. "Didn't know what you'd want, so I just took what felt... you."
Her voice was gentle, uncertain. She lingered in the doorway for a moment, as if waiting for me to say something — to ask about the drive, or to open the box right then. But I only nodded, pretending to be too tired. She gave me a faint smile and left the room, closing the door quietly, as though sound itself might break me.
The box sat there like a small, patient animal.I didn't touch it all day.
The night after, the silence became unbearable. The kind that presses against your ribs until you have to move, or breathe, or do something.
I pulled the box closer, peeled back the tape, and began sifting through what Amisha had rescued — sweaters that still held the faint scent of my old detergent, a cracked bottle of perfume that leaked slightly at the cap, the chipped mug from that café in Montmartre, the one Leo and I kept pretending was "ours."
Every item felt like a ghost, intimate and indifferent all at once.
And then — something unexpected.
A slim book, wrapped in worn brown leather.
I froze.
It wasn't mine.
I turned it over in my hands, tracing the texture of the cover. It was soft from years of use, the edges darkened with the oils of someone else's fingers. The title, embossed faintly in gold, was almost unreadable — a collection of Chinese poetry. I remembered it immediately.
Shanghai. The tiny bookstore that smelled like dust and tea. I'd pulled the book from a crooked shelf and said, half-joking, "Let's make this our trip journal." Leo had looked at me like I was suggesting a crime.
"You want to vandalize literature together?" he'd said, grinning.
We'd laughed. I'd forgotten about it the next day. Or maybe I'd just chosen to.
But now, seeing it here — in my box, in my hands — the memory shifted from sweet to sharp.
Because this wasn't my journal.
I hadn't known he kept it.Hadn't known he wrote in it.Hadn't known he took it with him when he left.
My throat tightened. My fingers trembled, hovering over the edge of the cover.
I shouldn't read it.
It wasn't meant for me anymore. Whatever was inside belonged to another version of us — one that didn't exist now.
But grief is greedy. It asks for proof. For something you can touch. For a reason to keep remembering.
I needed something. A thread. A reason. A truth. Even if it hurt.
So, I opened to the first page.
And began to read.