Our days in the shelter evolved into a semblance of domestic tranquillity, a stark contrast to the chaos that reigned outside. In that confined space, Yihyun and I carved out a life for ourselves, celebrating small joys and milestones, finding solace and strength in each other's company.
We shared stories, dreams, and laughter, the sound a rare and precious melody in the oppressive silence of our surroundings. For a while, we managed to forget the desolation beyond our walls, basking in the warmth of our newfound love and the comforting illusion of security.
However, the cruel reality of our world refused to be ignored. It shattered our sanctuary in the dead of night, a sudden and brutal reminder that safety was nothing but a fleeting mirage. The infected, driven by their insatiable hunger, descended upon our haven, their feral cries a harbinger of destruction.
In the pandemonium, Yihyun and I fought back, side by side, but it soon became apparent that our shelter, our home, could no longer protect us. Amidst the chaos, we made the heart-wrenching decision to flee, to abandon the fragile life we had built. In the confusion, we were separated, a maelstrom of snarling infected driving a wedge between us.
In that moment of frantic escape, we shared one final look, a silent vow. We had predetermined a rendezvous point early in our cohabitation, a contingency plan neither of us had truly believed we would need. Now, it was our only hope, a thin thread of connection as we ventured into the night, alone yet still bound by our promise.
The world was a blur of motion and terror as I ran, the sounds of pursuit a constant companion. My heart ached with the fear of losing Yihyun, of never seeing her face again, but the promise we made propelled me forward. I had to survive; I had to reach our meeting place. I clung to the hope that she was out there, doing the same, that we would be reunited in a world that seemed determined to tear us apart.
I reached the designated rendezvous, my body pushed to its limits, every breath a ragged gasp for life. The location was a secluded spot, one we had chosen together, its relative isolation a strategic choice for safety. As I arrived, a surge of relief washed over me, quickly replaced by anxious anticipation. I scanned the surroundings, searching for any sign of Yihyun, but she was nowhere to be seen.
I waited, each passing minute stretching into eternity, the silence around me punctuated by the distant, ever-present moans of the infected. Night bled into day, and day faded into night again, the cycle of light and darkness mirroring the tumult of hope and despair in my heart.
As the hours turned into days, the initial surge of adrenaline that had fuelled my escape ebbed away, leaving behind a gnawing fear. Thoughts raced through my mind, each more harrowing than the last. Had Yihyun been caught? Had she been forced to find refuge elsewhere? Was she lying injured, or worse, somewhere between our lost sanctuary and this lonely meeting point?
Despite the desperation clawing at my insides, I clung to the promise we had made to each other. The possibility that Yihyun might still arrive, might still emerge from the shadows, kept me anchored to that spot. I rationed the meagre supplies I had managed to carry, always saving a portion for her, just in case.
But as days turned into weeks, the stark reality of my situation became impossible to ignore. The world I waited in was relentless and unforgiving, and the likelihood that Yihyun had met some cruel fate grew with each silent, empty dawn.
Eventually, I was forced to confront the possibility that I might never see her again, that our plans and promises were as fragile as our brief illusion of safety. The pain of that realization was a sharp, bitter counterpart to the love and happiness we had shared.
I knew I couldn't stay at the rendezvous point indefinitely. Survival demanded movement, action, but leaving felt like abandoning Yihyun all over again, severing the last thread of hope that she might still be alive, that we might be reunited.
In the end, I left a note, a message scrawled with shaky hands, marking the tree at our meeting spot with our initials and a heart, a symbol of a love that had endured the darkest of times. It was both a farewell and a beacon for Yihyun, should she ever arrive.
With a heavy heart, I turned my back on the rendezvous point, stepping once more into the uncertainty of survival alone, carrying with me the memory of Yihyun, the love we shared, and the unyielding hope that somewhere, somehow, she might still be fighting to find her way back to me.
***
Joon-ho watches me with a thoughtful expression, clearly piecing together the fragments of my past that I've let slip through our conversations.
"When was it?" he finally asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to shatter the fragile peace surrounding us.
"It was during my second apocalypse," I reply, the words heavy with the weight of memories.
Joon-ho's eyes widen slightly, a mix of surprise and curiosity flickering in their depths. "Do you... do you try to find her again? I mean, in the third apocalypse?"
I nod slowly, the ache of that memory still fresh, even now. "Yes, I tried. When everything crumbled again, when we were all thrown back into chaos, I searched for her, clinging to a sliver of hope that she might have survived, that we could find each other again."
"And?" he presses, leaning in slightly.
I sigh, the pain of the admission sharp as ever. "I found her, or perhaps it's better to say I saw her. But it wasn't the reunion I had hoped for. Too much has changed. She didn't recognise me, and the world has made her wary, distrustful. I couldn't get close, couldn't earn her trust again. It was as if we were strangers, or maybe we truly were by then."
Joon-ho remains silent, allowing the weight of my words to settle between us.
"In the end, I had to let her go," I continue, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. "All I could do was watch from a distance, making sure she found safety, at least for a moment. I couldn't be a part of her life again, but I could wish her well, hoped for her to find some peace amidst the chaos."
The admission feels like a confession, a release of a burden I have carried through yet another cycle of despair and survival. Joon-ho reaches out, placing a hand on my shoulder in a gesture of understanding and solidarity.
"In every apocalypse, we lose a bit more of ourselves," I say, meeting his gaze. "But we also hold on to the hope that others might find their way, might survive the darkness. That's all we can wish for, in the end."
Joon-ho nods, his expression sombre yet kind.
"To wish them safety, to hope for their peace... it's the most human thing we can do."