Trip Journal — Leo's Entries
Se-Ri's POV
I sat on the ground, leaning against my bed. The journal rested in my lap, heavy in a way paper shouldn't be.
It wasn't structured like mine would've been — no dates, no neat headings, no intention to impress.
Just quick thoughts. Scribbles. Words pressed down a little too hard in places.
I turned to the first full page.
She asked me to write a trip journal and I said yes.
I felt like it wasn't me. But for the first time, I felt human.
A smile ghosted my lips.
She talks in her sleep.
Last night she said something in Korean I didn't understand. Then laughed.
I wanted to ask what it meant. I didn't.
Some things feel better left like that. Like found poems.
She stood in front of a lacquered cabinet for fifteen minutes today, just admiring the inlay. Said it reminded her of her mother's temple jewellery box.
I couldn't stop looking at her reflection in the glass.
She doesn't know she carries her history with her. It follows her like perfume.
She asked if I missed my mother. I changed the subject.
I wanted to say: I miss the version of her I invented to survive.
But that didn't feel like a vacation answer.
I turned the page.
The entries changed. Not in structure — they were still fragmented, still pretending to be casual.
But I could feel it:
The weight under the words was heavier now.
Like he wasn't just writing about what we did —
He was writing about what he couldn't say.
She doesn't flinch when I'm quiet. Most people do.
She just waits. Or makes fun of me. Or brings me snacks.
Sometimes I think she understands me better than I do.
Other times, I think she's waiting for me to become someone I'm not sure I can be.
She told me I reminded her of winter. I asked why. She said, "Because you make everything feel still. But you're also the reason I want warmth."
I didn't respond. I didn't know how to.
I still don't.
My mother treats me like I'm a devil.
Am I?
But with Se-Ri, I don't feel like one.
What if I really become one?
I'm afraid.
I did something to let her down.
This is it. I ruined it.
But she still sobbed, clinging to me.
Clinging to a man who had done wrong to her.
I turned to the final pages.
One was blank.
The second-to-last had a line scratched through it — unreadable.
And the last page was full.
The handwriting looked rushed. Slightly slanted. Emotional.
[Unsent. Not addressed.]
You once asked what I'm afraid of.
I said "nothing." That was a lie.
I'm afraid I'll fail you in slow, invisible ways.
Not by cheating or leaving or saying something cruel.
But by being me — too silent, too closed, too sharp around the edges.
I'm afraid you'll start to shrink yourself just to be close to me. And you won't even notice until it's too late.
I'm afraid of your goodness.
And I'm afraid of what loving me will cost you.
But I love you.
I love you more than I trust myself to show it.
I don't know if I'll ever be enough.
But please know — if I vanish, it's not because you weren't enough.
It's because you were too much light.
And I didn't know how to step out of my shadow to reach you.
At the bottom of the page, almost like an afterthought, were several ragged scribbles:
I am not her…
I am not her…
I am not devil…
I closed the book.
This wasn't just a trip journal.
This man had written his feelings in fragments, because it was the only way he knew how.
For the first time in months, I cried in the open.
No shame. No sound.
Just grief. And love. And the unbearable clarity of finally knowing the truth too late.