In the interview, they asked if I believe in love at first sight.

I didn’t.

But this interview was for the people who believed in love. For those who believe that we believe in love. Perhaps it’s because we embody it in some form, packaged in our music and our smiles and our bright suits that never quite fit, but must.

There’s a tautology here, to receive love when we show it. But we show what we know of this imperfect thing, polishing the fragments we come across. And somehow, others can fill in that space, finish the puzzle, and read the picture in its completion. There will always be another era of this, after this.

That answer was too long. It was an answer that swam in my head when I showered, wavered in the unfamiliar weight of a hotel morning, meandered into the room after a bottle of wine. It was not the kind of answer for this kind of conversation.

So I smiled and said that I would believe in it when it happens to me. Then I gave the microphone to you.

You whined and said, Wonwoo, I thought you were a romantic.

I thought of three things to say back to you. I thought of what you could say back. What people will think, of things we say.

Didn’t say, because three seconds is all it takes for a broadcast mistake in front of a camera ready to strangle the sin from our mouths.

So I shrugged and looked back at the interviewer. I thought about the moment our hands touched when I handed you the microphone. I thought about all the histories where our hands have touched.

They asked you if you believe in love at first sight.

You said, I think I have to. And then you laughed, loud and boisterous and confident in the way I never could be. You never laughed to compensate for silence. I would rather swallow my world to force wordlessness, than to have my clumsiness forgiven.

They asked you what you meant. Of course, because you never realised when some things only made sense to you. You assume that everyone will spare you their patience. I suppose that is how you survive.

You looked at me and I wanted to tell you, don’t look at me. Not like that, not here.

You looked at me and said, I want it to happen to me.

I raised my eyebrow then. Said something wry and witty to move on to the next question. But I left my thoughts unspoken, and the thoughts lingered with me.

You believe that it will happen to you. That one day you will wake up and find your heart dissolved by a storm. I know what it’s like to wake up to an empty apartment and feel the absence of everything, like the ghost of a should be.

I get it. You always wanted the hurricane.

I saw the hurricane coming.

//

absolutely inspired by the full poem, this legendary thread of hoshi facts, and all those meme tweets about the svt interview dichotomy