Eunji

Dal, my assistant, has just left after going over my commitments for the next two weeks, leaving me alone in my Seoul penthouse. Preparations for the BLOOM tour will start soon, and I know I won’t have much time to relax.

I swipe my finger on my phone, ordering food, and with a deliberate slide of a touch-sensitive panel, I usher in a cascade of warmth, transitioning from clinical, bright white lights to a soft, amber glow that bathes my open concept living room in an intimate radiance.

I hit play on my digital home player system, filling the air with my favorite soothing afternoon playlist. I pull my hair down in a low bun, feeling the strain on my scalp ease, and slip into one of my favorite fuzzy oversized sweaters with deep, warm pockets that cradle my hands.

I exhale deeply, a surge of relief wash over me, as I embrace the welcome silence. I gaze out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the city unfold beneath me. The skyscrapers, the bridges, the traffic, a pulsating network of lights that stretches out as far as the eye can see. I lean against the glass, letting my mind wander to memories of past birthdays.

Birthdays were always different.

On birthdays, my mom, my sister, and I would smile, laugh, and act like a normal family.

On birthdays, we would forget the pain and the secrets that haunted us. I always loved birthdays.

Because on birthdays, everything paused and we could pretend.

Today’s the 19th.

I can’t do it. I can’t go.

Every cell in my body recoils at the thought of walking into that hospital and seeing her lying there, lifeless. Her pale face, her closed eyes, her still chest.

Something feels different this year. I don’t feel that tug to be by her side anymore.

My guilt is still there, gnawing at me, but there’s something else too. A sense of self-preservation that stops me this time.

If I don’t go visit her this year, it will be the first time in all my life that I’m not by her side on this day.

 Even after I started training and after I debuted on Blossom6, I always made time to travel to her on the 19th and spend the day with her. Even though she couldn’t hear me, or see me, or talk to me. I’d talk to her, tell her I forgave her, and ask her to forgive me, and ask her to forgive my sister.

But this year, the mere idea of stepping inside that hospital, and seeing her, makes me want to vomit.

The notification chimes on my phone, letting me know my food has arrived. 

As I swing the door open, the aroma of Miyeok-guk wafts through the air, instantly whetting my appetite.

Placing the bag on the sleek kitchen counter, I unwrap the package to reveal the steaming hot seaweed soup, the savory scent filling the room. The soup is neatly contained in a sturdy, clear container, and the vibrant green seaweed floats on the surface. I scoop a ladleful of Miyeok-guk into a bowl, and the broth glistens. The fragrance of seaweed, beef, and other savory ingredients meld together, transporting me back to Birthdays Past.

I set the table with care, placing the bowl of Miyeok-guk at the center. The steam rises, and the inviting warmth of the soup beckons me. I grab a pair of chopsticks and settle, ready to savor each spoonful.

The first taste is visceral, the familiar flavors dance on my palate—nutty seaweed, hearty beef, and the subtle notes of garlic and sesame oil. Each sip is supposed to be comforting, but instead, there’s something else, a pit that grows in my stomach and a lump that chokes in my throat.

I stifle a sob as tears spill from my eyes. Flashbacks flood my head; mom’s harsh words, my sister’s smug and scornful stares, the pain at the bottom of my feet, the constant hunger, the darkness that swallowed me as I curled up in a fetal position.

Feeling the bile rising in my throat, I sprint to the bathroom and barely reach the toilet before I vomit.

More tears stream down my face.

It’s the 19th, how dare I be so ungrateful!

It’s the 19th, I don’t deserve to feel comfort.

I don’t deserve anything unless it comes with pain.

Pain is what makes me talented.

I’m so ungrateful.

I’m so ungrateful.

I’m so ungrateful.

I close my tear-filled eyes as I lean against the toilet and sleep claims me.

For a few minutes, the pain is gone as I am enveloped in peace.

A few minutes later, I wake up and wipe my mouth.

When I walk back to the table, my heart is pounding and my head is spinning. Opening up my fridge, I unveil a beautifully decorated pink cupcake, adorned with a single flickering candle.

Placing it next to the now cold and unfinished Miyeok-guk. I light it up and the soft glow of the candlelight adds a touch of warmth that I crave, but can’t quite capture.

Wiping the tears off my cheeks, I make a silent wish and blow it out.

“Happy Birthday, eomma.”