We met again when it snowed—
but it wasn’t really a meeting.
We looked at each other,
we smiled,
we shared memories in silence.
But we couldn’t stay.
And after that,
I could only see him
once every two years, if that.
The end of waiting
is not always a reunion.
Sometimes,
a meeting only deepens the longing.
I saw him again,
but even in that moment,
my heart kept missing him.
–
The day we met again,
he smiled brightly and said,
“It’s snowing.”
Just that one small sentence—
and I felt my heart melt.
He remembered.
That little boy remembered
what I had said before we parted.
“When the first snow comes… let’s meet again.”
It was something I said
just to make the leaving less painful,
a soft promise wrapped in fear.
And yet, he carried that promise.
He had held onto it.
I smiled.
Because it was snowing.
And he smiled too.
Because it was snowing.
In that moment,
we weren’t mother and son.
We weren’t child and adult.
We were simply
two hearts
who had waited
a long, long time
to be found again.
I didn’t say much.
Not enough “I love you”s,
Not enough “I miss you”s,
Not even the “I’m sorry” I carried in my heart.
Instead,
I smiled softly,
held your hand,
and wrapped you in my arms.
Maybe that was all I had.
Love that was slower than words,
and deeper than sound.
And I hope—
even if you don’t remember my voice,
even if you couldn’t see my whole heart,
you still remember
the warmth of my arms,
the touch of my hands,
the feeling of being loved.
On the days when you feel alone,
I hope that memory finds you.
Quietly, gently, like I used to.
I didn’t say much—
but I loved you more than enough.
I just hope you remember how it felt.
– I was always the one who hid
When I was young, I liked playing hide and seek.
But I was always the one hiding.
I used to wait with excitement—
hoping someone would come find me.
But when no one did,
that excitement quietly turned into loneliness.
Maybe even back then,
I wasn’t someone who waited.
I was someone who hid.
When I wanted to cry,
when I wanted to say I was hurt,
I hid.
I hid my emotions,
I masked my face.
I didn’t say what I needed.
I said I was fine. I said I was okay.
Behind those words,
a small version of me was hiding.
Maybe I was afraid—
that if I said too much,
people would leave.
That I would be too heavy,
too much to carry.
And after hiding for so long,
sometimes I don’t even know where I am.
What I feel.
What face is really mine.
I am still like that child.
Still hiding.
Still waiting for someone to come find me.
– Present, but never fully with me
I often saw my mother—
but most of the time, she was a shadow.
Her back as she tied her hair, rushing out the door.
Her silhouette blurred behind the front door.
Her eyes fixed on her phone, even when we shared a table.
She was always there—
but somehow, I still felt alone.
When I spoke,
she said “not now” or “be quiet.”
And by the time words came back to me,
they were too late for the moment they were meant for.
I remember waiting for her
more than I remember talking to her.
She was near like a shadow,
but never reached me like light.
That was my mother to me.
And in the shadow of that mother,
I quietly swallowed my emotions.
I tried not to be noticed—
afraid I might make things harder for her.
A child raised under a shadow
becomes an adult who hesitates to feel too much.
Even with love nearby,
they smile carefully,
and break quietly.
Even now,
when someone is right beside me,
I sometimes still feel alone.
Maybe because I lived too long
in my mother’s shadow.
The Child Still Stands by the Door
I used to stare at the crack of the door.
There was always something in that space.
It was a sound that suggested someone is coming.
Or it was the silence that says no one ever will.
The door was closed,
and I couldn’t open it.
Maybe it was because I learned too early
that those things were for grown-ups.
Or maybe…
because I was afraid no one would be there if I did.
I hid many emotions when I was young.
I didn’t say I missed anyone.
I didn’t say I was waiting.
Instead, I practiced looking okay.
I learned to smile,
because I thought that’s how love worked.
Looking back,
I realize I was a child with the face of waiting—
always facing someone,
yet never fully seen.
I am older now,
but that child still lives inside me.
Sometimes, when I fall silent
or stare blankly into the distance,
it’s him—still standing by the door.
This space is for him.
And maybe, for the child in you too.
The one who never said what they needed.
The one who kept their face tucked away.
You don’t have to speak just yet.
You can simply stay here.
I’ll go first.
Gently, slowly—
telling the story
so his face doesn’t disappear.
Peeking through the Crack 문틈아이 