quiet

There's a tiny stationary store at the bottom of the hill before the ascent to my school. When I first got here two years ago, there was an ancient woman working the store. Back bent, hair white and as tiny as her tiny store, she would sit on a plastic stool and smile a tiny smile when I bowed my head in greeting. She would be at her store every day until one morning, I found the store closed. It stayed closed for a few days but opened up again a few days later. This happened for months until one day, I realized that the store hadn't been open for a long while. A year passed and the store stayed closed. Just last week, as I was walking to school, I saw the door ajar. While passing, I took a peek inside and saw a man and a woman cleaning out the store. One can only assume that tiny old woman... well, you know.

This made me immensely sad for some reason. Even sadder than when my own grandfathers passed away. There was this woman I grew accustomed to seeing day after day. And now, she no longer is there. She's no longer anywhere.

The same goes with friendship. Up till now, I haven't felt lonely in Corea. I enjoyed all times spent with friends. I enjoyed all times spent alone. However, after a recent unpleasant interaction with a friend, the quietness of home seems far bigger and vast than before. It's almost as if the pit in my stomach has manifested itself into my apartment, covering me in a noiseless cocoon of dread. I'm sure this feeling will pass, as time allows all things to do so. Time will bring the sound of laughter and hope and cheer that is needed. But for now, it's too quiet.