One day, an unfamiliar envelope arrived—
its handwriting, strangely familiar, yet not.
When I saw the name of the island written in the address,
the long-sealed box of memory opened without a sound.
It was from the young man from the upper division—
the one whose shadow had once fallen across my childhood.
The scent of the sea from those days.
The white walls of a small church.
Only faint, fragmented images surfaced—
as if we had made a promise there,
though I could no longer recall its shape.
Inside the letter,
he wrote:
"We promised to marry."
And at the edge of the page,
in careful handwriting:
"I've always believed in you."
For a long while, my fingers wouldn't move.
A promise I did not remember—
yet for him, it must have been an undeniable truth.
That distance between our memories
felt like being split into two separate selves.
"Did I ever say such words?"
"Did I ever feel that way?"
The more I reread it,
a chill took hold in my chest.
The thought that the "me" in his memory
might have acted on her own,
might have hurt someone without knowing—
terrified me.
In the end, the misunderstanding was cleared.
It was all just a mistake.
We exchanged no more words after that.
But ever since then,
I began to keep my distance—deliberately.
Misunderstanding and expectation—
both are frightening things.
If so, it's better to offer nothing from the start.
Speak only what is necessary.
Work quietly.
Pass through life like the wind.
Beauty, voice—
perhaps they mean something to others.
But to me, they were burdens.
Only through distance
could I preserve my own outline.
And so, my way of living took shape—
to touch neither anyone's eyes,
nor anyone's heart,
ever again.