love story

I recently came across an interesting philosophy column in the newspaper. It went something like this: love is a kind of structure. Once people enter that structure, they all end up repeating the same patterns—foolishly

so. In a romantic relationship, the one who loves more is always at a disadvantage, and the one who loves less holds the power. Just as celestial bodies endlessly orbit, drawn by their longing for the divine, a person in love circles around the one they desire, trying to get closer. It’s like a gravitational law that governs the power dynamics of love. I found it fascinating.

 

Today, I felt like scribbling down a few thoughts about my own experiences with love. What kind of future did I imagine when I was young? I didn’t expect a love like the ones in novels, but I figured I’d meet a nice girl, fall in love, get married, and become an ordinary husband with a son and a daughter. Now, in my mid-50s, I’m still single.

 

My first love was in 4th grade, when I was 11. A girl named Sung-sook transferred into our class. Her parents lived in Seoul, and she had come to live with her grandparents. She was beautiful and smart. I can’t quite remember if I really liked her or not. That winter break, around Christmas, I suddenly missed her terribly. I put on my dad’s boots and trudged through deep snow to her house, which was up in the mountains. The snow was so thick it felt like I was tunneling through it. When I finally got there, only her grandparents were home. They told me she had transferred back to Seoul. I never got to see her again. I just ate the meal her grandmother made me and came back down.

 

In 1986, when I was in 8th grade, there was a girl named Sun-joo in my class. She was also pretty, smart, and played the piano well. She liked me, and I liked her too. But my best friend Jung-hoon had a crush on her. It was a kind of love triangle. We went on a school trip to Gyeongju, and in front of Seokguram Grotto, Sun-joo asked me to take a photo with her. But thinking of my friendship with Jung-hoon, I said no. I was such a fool.

 

In 1987, my last year of middle school, there was a girl named Yeon-joo in my class. She was beautiful and smart, and lots of boys liked her. I heard she was dating someone, so I didn’t pay much attention to her. But one day, I noticed something had changed—she started looking at me like she had feelings for me. On the day of our spring picnic, she gave me a gimbap she had made herself. Strangely, it had chestnuts in it. I was eating it when I noticed her watching me from under a distant pine tree. Our eyes met. And in that moment, she was glowing—like a halo around the Buddha. I can’t even describe how deeply moved and excited I was. From that day on, I could think of nothing but her. We had a young but intense love. But six months later, she moved to a different region for high school, and our relationship gradually faded away.

 

The memories of Yeon-joo are still stored in so many places—the pine tree from that day, the gimbap with chestnuts, the school, her neighborhood. Everything related to her holds a piece of her. I heard she’s living in the U.S. now. I’ll probably never see her again, and I don’t want to see her.

 

Since turning 20, I’ve fallen in and out of love a few times, but none of it ever led to marriage. Now, I’m not really interested in getting married. Love? It’s nice if it happens, but I’m fine without it. I’ve experienced great love, I’m living well, and I’m happy—day by day.