There are days when the mind is unusually noisy. Today is one of those days. I’ve been floundering under an unbearable load of work for what feels like forever, and when I finally glance at the clock, it’s already midnight. I turn off the lights in my deserted office and stumble outside. Unfinished work buzzes in my head like mosquitoes. I rub my temples, but it doesn’t help. At the intersection by Seolleung Station, I’m lucky enough to catch an empty taxi. Maybe he hears the fatigue in my voice when I give him the destination, because the driver steps on the gas without a word. I sink into the back seat like a shriveled twist of dried radish, pull my eyes away from the window, and look down at my phone. I scroll through the news, but nothing really registers, so I open KakaoTalk. I see your name, and for some reason there’s a glowing birthday emoji next to it. Oh, so today is your birthday.
There was a time when all of my relationships fit neatly inside my daily life. That was high school. When I went to school, my friends were there, and when I came home, I had dinner with my family. Even if I didn’t make any special effort to stay in touch or set up plans, I saw them every day, and it was natural for us to share those routines. I studied, played a little soccer during lunch, sometimes ditched evening study hall and went to karaoke, and I lived all of that alongside you.
The first time that pattern broke down was when I went to college. My high school friends, with whom I shared my daily routine, scattered to the eight corners of the country with their university acceptance letters in hand, and we no longer shared our daily routines spontaneously. I could only see your faces when I found a reason to meet and made an appointment. Out of habit, I hesitate to share my daily life with you. I realize that I don’t share my daily life with you as spontaneously as I used to, and that I only have the opportunity to do so a few times a year. Each of us has other friends with whom we naturally share our daily routines, and our routines have become distant.
This pattern continued to repeat itself at every juncture: military, graduation, and corporate jobs. Acquaintances would enter my life, stay for a while, and then leave again. Friends who were naturally together were suddenly out of reach unless I deliberately reached out. I made up various reasons to meet you for year-end parties and reunions, but somehow, every time, I felt that your older face was getting stranger and stranger. In my memory, you are still a boy, but I don’t know why your face looks so old, or when you gained so much weight.
I tap your name beside the birthday emoji and open a chat. I go to the Gifts menu and choose a coffee gifticon. I type out a birthday message with a little affection in it, then add a few words saying it’s been a while and asking how you’ve been. When I look up, the taxi is passing through Sadang. Even at this hour the place is still full of people. Even with the windows shut, I can almost hear the crowd outside. Then your reply comes in. Maybe I wasn’t the only one thinking of you tonight, and you sound genuinely glad to hear from me. We trade a few more small talk messages, and then we make a plan. This Friday evening, in Sadang. Only then do I put my phone down. I’ll see you again in person. We’ll talk about our childhood, about the everyday lives we live now, and I’ll ask how you’ve been. There’s no point lamenting how far apart our lives have drifted. Once a year, I have a perfectly good reason to reach out to you: your birthday.