dear. my halfway friend

I don’t know when I was struck by this kind of clarity, this sudden realization that

sparked something between us, starting a little blaze on the string that ties us together. There is

still a fondness that rests in my palms for you, the jung that can never be diluted nor destroyed.

I first learned of jung from my friend at my old Korean elementary school. I, an odd

international student from Canada who had slipped into the classroom halfway through the year,

and she, a smiling, pink-cheeked girl that is now only a haze in my memories. The week before I

left for home again, she said that she would never forget me, that the connection between us was

something called jung, or ujung. I never got her KakaoTalk or her phone number, but there is

still a fondness in my chest for her, a pulsing memory in my heart of her being the only student

who welcomed me with open arms, of sharing tteokbboki with her in front of the school.

You would know what jung is, right? That unbreakable, undetachable string that brings

two individuals together. It’s just like the atoms that make up you and I; jung is built into our

existences, and even as you upset me, disgust me, and materialize poison on my skin with your

sharp words, our connection will never be severed. No matter what you do, you’ll be here, and

I’ll be there with you in some form of way. And a part of me hates it.

But still, jung can only go so far. As sweet as my relatives make the notion out to be, jung

can turn sour. Connection isn’t always the passionate ties that keep lovers and friends together.

Connections can be made of thorns; a connection that you can’t let go of because the thorns have

already gone in so deep that you risk bleeding out once you take your hands off. Jung means that

somehow, I’ll stay with punctures in my hands, with blood trailing down my arms.

I used to want to keep you close, and I used to think that you were soft. I used to think

that we were something special, that there was just something in us that clicked together like two

puzzle pieces. In reality, I think I was just the softer one, the one you could mold to ensure that

you were always the bigger one, the better one. I used to think that you thought of me highly, but

now I know that we were only close because I was the one who was too blind to see, too deaf to

hear, too quiet to interject.

I was the easy one, the one that still had my hands wrapped around in our jung, kidding

myself into thinking that it was a string made of the softest silk when really, it had turned into a

bramble of thorns months ago.

I will say this plainly because you never seem to listen: you are mean. Your words

suffocate me like the summer’s heat, and your unwillingness to acknowledge this fact suffocates

me even further. You call me bestie and girly as you look down at me, and sometimes I stare into

your face and no longer see a friend but a shadow trying to swallow up anything that is good and

light. And always, always, I will peer into your dark eyes, and I will see that sweetness that I

wanted to preserve in my hands. Where did all of that go?

Sometimes, I want to melt you into my embrace, wrap my arms around you and tell you

that your misery is not a cage, that it is only a prison because it is of your own making. I want to

tell you that your life and the world you live in is not always against you. I know that you can be

sweet, that you have softness hidden between your ribs, between your shoulder blades. And I

want to ask you: why do you do this?

Is it because you feel as if though you aren’t enough? I will tell you this: you are enough,

and you have never not been enough. Everyone tells you this and yet you find ways to be more.

More spectacular than that girl, more knowledgeable than that classmate, more skilled than that

teammate. You are enough, you are enough, you are enough. You carve away from others and

think that it makes you seem greater, higher. You have always been enough. When will you

realize that you do not need to hurt others to see your own worth? Others’ achievements are not

an attack on yours; you are enough, you are enough, you are enough.

Or is it because you revel in the attention? Then, I will ask you this: is this the attention

you truly want? What do you stand to gain?

Or, maybe, just maybe, is it because you are just a hateful person? I know that this could

be a possibility, that you are just so full of this hatred that you have no other option but to project

it outwards, but I don’t want to believe it. I still have my fondness for you. How could I not

when we spent entire summers together? How could I not when we shared naps on the same

beds? How could I not when I thought you were the friend specially made for me, a perfect fit?

Those moments, our summers… I want to trust in those moments, and I want to trust in you.

You aren’t hateful, not truly.

At least that is what I want to think.

So please, tell me, why are you doing this?

The longer this continues—these remarks, these whispers behind backs that I don’t want

to hear, these hurtful words—the more my distaste towards you grows. Our jung is not evidence

for me accepting these remarks, these whispers, these hurtful words. I still want to preserve our

connection. I still want to preserve us. I want to look back at our moments, our summers, and be

able to smile at you across the table while we recount our memories.

Do you?

Am I really your bestie? Your girly or your ride or die bitch?

Or am I just your halfway friend? The friend that is tied so tightly to you that you think is

now a free target for practice. Do you know how much you hurt me? Your words don’t actually

just pass through me the way you think they do. Instead, they form a shadow of a girl besides

me.

Here I am, I tell myself. Here I am, happy and content with my life even as it is not

perfect. Here I am, smiling. Here I am, with my love for words and arts and literature and peeling

oranges for my loved ones and soft music and dresses and skirts and life.

But now, the shadow that you think of me rests on me, its arms languidly draped over my

shoulders as if it is a cape. Here I am, you tell me. Here I am, sad but not sadder than

you—because I can never be sadder than you. Here I am, socially anxious, but never more

socially anxious than you. Here I am, with my interests that you think of as too easy, with my

dresses and skirts that makes you think I am “less queer” than you are, and of course, with my

kindness towards others that you do not understand.

Dear my halfway friend, a part of me still loves you dearly, while another part of me

holds so much distaste and sadness towards you. The former still has its hands wrapped tightly

around your jung as if they are reins. But I know that no matter what I do, what I say, you will

remain like this. The latter part just simmers in so much sorrow. I feel like I am mourning

someone who never even died.

Somewhat (un)kindly,

Your somewhat friend