Letters Don’t Need Permission

Dear Ji-ho,

I'm writing this while waiting at the bus stop near Chollima Street.
It’s cold—the kind that sneaks into your sleeves and stays. Rain taps out a rhythm above me, the sky the color of wet concrete. Around me, everyone stares ahead like there's nothing left to look forward to.

But I’m smiling. Just a little.

Your letter is in my coat pocket. Folded, softened at the edges. I've read it more times than I care to admit—at home, in the archives, even once at a traffic checkpoint while pretending to check my shoelace. I meant to answer sooner. But you know how it is here: silence is the safest kind of affection.

And then there’s the other thing.
You’re younger.
Not much, really—but enough to make my mother raise an eyebrow, and my aunt whisper things she thinks I can't hear.
They’d ask questions I don’t have answers for.
Not yet.

But your music has answers I didn’t know I needed.
And somehow, your voice reached places in me even I had stopped visiting.

So—yes.
Say hi, next time.
I won’t look away.

And if the world we live in doesn’t make room for this kind of thing,
we’ll make a corner for it anyway.
Even if it’s just a night at a time.
Even if it’s only in headphones and letters.

Still listening,
Soo-min