"I Wasn't Saved, But I'm Still Here." — On nights when no one's words could reach me, I kept searching for my own.
Poem: About Salvation
Words of salvation— there were none for me.
None of them reached me. Not to the very core of my heart. Not even close.
But you know, only when I wrote about Acchan, I could breathe—just a little.
Even if I was crying, even if I was shaking, writing was the only thing that kept me and Acchan connected.
Not someone else’s words, but the memories with that person— they are still the reason I'm alive.
Every time someone asked, “Are you okay?” after Acchan passed, I really wanted to say, “No, I’m not okay.”
But I couldn’t.
I didn’t have the strength to respond. Everything people said— it felt like throwing a stone on a thick duvet. No sound, no bounce. Just sinking.
The more I heard “Time will heal,” the more distant the clock hands felt.
“Cheer up,” they said, but I didn’t even know how to do that anymore. Sometimes, I even got angry.
Maybe I just didn’t have the capacity to be saved by words.
Or maybe, there really are no such things as “magic words.”
Still, I opened note every single day. And I wrote about Acchan.
Even while crying, I wrote. On hard days, I scrolled through old LINE messages, closed them halfway through, then opened them again— and wrote just a little.
Only during that time, did I feel like we were still connected somehow.
That was salvation for me. Not someone else’s words, but the act of reaching for memories with my own hand.
If I hadn’t written, I might’ve truly broken.
I would’ve crumbled— quietly, invisibly.
Reading others’ notes and posts who went through something similar— sometimes I found myself whispering, “I get it.”
Their words echoed emotions I couldn't voice, and just reading them brought me to tears.
But did that ease my pain? Not really.
Their grief was theirs. Mine was mine.
We could stand next to each other, but we couldn’t swap places.
Sure, there are people in this world facing war, disasters, farewells more unbearable than mine.
So I tried telling myself, “I’m not the only one suffering.”
But the loneliness deep inside— it stayed.
Comparing pain doesn’t make it lighter. In fact, it felt like I was running away from properly grieving.
I could only hold myself together by remembering Acchan.
I made a choice—not to forget. To remember, as my own way of living.
Through writing, I retraced the time I spent with Acchan.
Maybe it was like reconfirming my love with my own words.
I wasn’t saved. But I’m still here.
I write about the time I had with Acchan, cry a little today too, and still say to myself—maybe that’s okay.
Maybe this is what salvation means for me.
And maybe— for someone still living through a night where no words can reach them,
these words might light up something small.