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Maybe it was me.
I’ll never know how many times you searched for flights from ICN to JFK, how long you wrestled with the idea of a fifteen-hour journey, whether to endure that stretch of sky or not. I can only imagine—the ache of wanting to stand on unfamiliar soil, the thrill of being wrapped in a language not your own, the comfort of coming home just when the world begins to wear you out, and being met with a face that feels like a fireplace.
And I do know this—you, who always chased the next unknown, did not choose to spend Christmas in a city you'd already seen. You chose to spend your one precious break with me. And that, I know, means everything.
“You think love is simple.
But it isn’t just a string of disjointed sensations.
Love is persistence, tenderness, longing…”
— Hello Sadness, Françoise Sagan, from the book you gave me.
I scrubbed the hallway for your arrival. Poured bleach into the corners of the bathroom. Didn’t even put on music—
I wanted the brush to echo sharply against the bathtub. I’ve welcomed many into this apartment, but not with this kind of flutter.
Settling into a new country, a new school, takes more quiet endurance than I ever imagined. The fear of isolation loomed large, and I thrashed about, desperate not to be alone. Year one, I called strangers friends. Year two, I called no one at all. And only in year three, as you said, did I begin to feel something like peace. Something earned.
To have you, someone who’s known me for twelve years,
walk into the New York I’ve been building for three, felt more meaningful than anything this city had given me. I’ll admit it now. I liked showing off to you. That I lived here. But truth is, for the past two years, I was just a visitor too.
I have a friend who closes each year by listing their favorite things— a film, a book, a meal, a moment. They say they never do anything special to greet the new year, but their quiet ritual always struck me as far more elegant than any noisy party I’ve stumbled through. They also write down the kind of person they want to become, and choose one small, achievable habit to carry into the new year.
Mine was this:
Become someone who knows why they love what they love.
Because loving without reason feels like an unfinished exhibit, a show without curation. We are—lucky or not—a generation exposed to everything.
Right now, I’m writing this from Spain. I began in Amsterdam, wandered through The Hague, Rotterdam, Belgium— and now I’ve arrived at the final stop. Just like you said, the southern sun here falls on the orange trees in the exact same hue. A perfect tone-on-tone. Every step feels like walking through a painting.
Yesterday, I walked without a map, chose a restaurant without a name, and ordered a glowing glass of Aperol Spritz. And even then, I was thinking— You’d like this place too.
I’ve walked through so many galleries (including the ones you recommended) that I think I’m suffering from art fatigue. One night, I came home hungry after skipping meals to see every exhibit, collapsed onto the bed,
and laughed— a deep, echoing laugh of disbelief. People like us never quite vacation, do we? Why pay to suffer?
Sometimes I wonder— am I consuming art, or is it slowly consuming me?
I used to think humility and confidence were opposites.
But I remember what you said at that little wine bar in Dimes Square, just two hours before you left New York. That sometimes, not denying your strengths is the most humble thing you can do. Confidence isn’t the same as self-worth. You can’t force it. If you’re good at something—say so. And it surprised me that you, of all people,
worried about confidence. I thought you are the one who understands its quiet strength better than anyone I know.
In Belgium, I bought a furry vintage jacket and a shirt embroidered with strange little patterns. We're all in that phase where we want to look just a little ridiculous. Even without you, I find myself stepping into old, musty vintage shops and picking out clothes that are oddly plain yet slightly offbeat—the way we used to do together.
Two years in a row, we’ve spent Christmas side by side. First in France, where you were, then in New York, where I am. From that night of pork belly and instant noodles in a tiny Airbnb kitchen in Paris—to last year’s glittering celebration in New York City— I loved both. I loved you in both.
And maybe more than anything,
I love growing older with you.
To borrow the words of a poet: we live somewhere between too much and just right, and walking that line with you feels like the greatest grace.
(But seriously—standing next to you makes me look round as a dumpling. Do me a favor. Put on a little weight.)
The sunset of the Spanish hills
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2023, Chirstmas Paris,
2024, Christmas NYC