24.10
Pieces of Home
Apgujeong Station is also right by the Hyundai Department Store, and even though it’s barely October, Christmas decorations are already going up. It feels strange—Halloween isn’t even here yet. And while Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated in Korea, it feels out of place to see Christmas come before it. Something about it doesn’t sit right with me; the sudden appearance of Christmas against a Halloween backdrop feels rushed. There’s no smell of pies baking in supermarkets, no pumpkins adorning front porches, and no talks of apple-picking weekends in upstate New York. And the Christmas lights, which usually don’t turn on till November, are already beginning to glow along the busy streets of Seoul. And this year, facing my first Thanksgiving-less November, everything feels a little strange and lonely. I guess I naively thought I’d always be home for Thanksgiving.
And on Line 3, packed like a sardine, my mind drifts to little pieces of home that I miss—like driving. I never thought I’d miss it, especially after the accident, but I do. I miss rolling the windows down, feeling the wind against my face, and singing along to whatever song on my playlist—having my own private karaoke sessions. Back home, this time of year, the air would start to carry that distinct fall scent of Jersey—fallen leaves, mingling with the cooler wind.
Thinking about driving reminds me of my last drive in Jersey. I wasn’t behind the wheel, but it was a perfect end-of-summer evening, with clouds painted pink and purple against the clear blue sky and the trees still so green. The windows were down, the slightly humid yet fresh air rushing in while music played in the back. I was getting a ride home, and we took an unnecessary detour through the familiar town we both grew up in, each in our own time. We drove down the streets I’d run by countless times, past the houses I’d nicknamed during my walks, around the corner where I’d once fallen off my bike—little pieces of memories and home that had carried me through the years. Then we turned onto the street where he grew up. The landscape had barely changed, even though he moved years ago. The driveway with the basketball hoop from his childhood, the little hill where he’d played soccer with his brother—fragments of his once home, left almost untouched. And the trees and street signs had stood through it all, witnessing the stories that shaped us. In that short drive around town, all those pieces and stories came together to knit this small town in Jersey, making everything, and him, feel so familiar—so much like home.
And those are the moments that tuck me in at night. This month has kept me on my toes—working through weekends, tackling new projects, and constantly turning over thoughts about work. I lie awake at 3 a.m., feeling the future looming over me, sharper and closer in the quiet. Having gone sober again this month, I don’t have that easy nightcap to ease my mind into sleep. So instead, my thoughts settle on old mistakes, unfinished tasks, worries, and frustrations that bubble up in teardrops. I wonder if it’s just stress, the things I miss, or maybe just insomnia. But sometimes, I prefer to think it’s just my 10 a.m. coffee finally kicking in.
Through the sleepless nights, it’s the small moments of calm that drift me toward rest—the suburban drives, naps under the backyard sun, the comfort of folding laundry at home. I turn over unfinished work in my mind, thinking about what I could’ve done better, what I should’ve done, but each night, I settle on the same realization: I just need to get it together.
Lately, I’ve learned that these little pieces of comfort don’t just come from memories; sometimes, they come to find me. Like the random texts from Phillip, full of photos of tacos or hot chicken sandwiches. Or friends visiting from faraway cities and countries, bringing small pieces of home with them. There are my quiet late-night walks, falling asleep to Brooklyn Nine-Nine, sharing time with the people who are close by. The hellos and goodbyes of friends visiting Korea, exploring the city together, knowing I might not see them again for a while.
I feel grateful for these moments, for the pieces of home that, in their own way, still watch over me.
And now, here I am, missing those suburban streets on this packed subway, struggling for space and air. I tilt my head up as if it might help me catch a glimpse of fresh air, but all I get is a stale breeze from the subway’s AC. And the train pulls into my station, but stick on and I stay on, missing my stop. I get off at the next one and walk the extra blocks back, just to feel the fresh autumn breeze against my face, letting it gently slap my hair to my face, while I lightly hum to the songs from my playlist. Weather like this would also soon be gone.
Yours always,
10.31 / 11:45 PM
One thing I do love about Korea’s subway is the empty trains. I love empty trains. As I sit in a seat, the subway that once felt suffocaitng, there is so much space. It also reminds me that. The pieces of home will come and go. There will be times when Im left all alone--then people hop on and off. But I guess this is what it would feel like. Once everyone goes back home. The things that make me feel at home, when they leave, I will be all alone. But people hop on and off the train—and i believe that will be it. And all I can do is to collect these pieces of home left behind, that i can knit them together to make a home.
d cheeseburger (though I’m still on the hunt for one that tastes like my dad’s; nothing quite measures up). Little reminders of home keep me grounded here: baseball, especially now that we’ve made it to the World Series. Baseball’s always been more than a game—it’s seventh-inning stretches with my dad, Dodgers-Mets games, and those late nights in the college studio with games on in the background. I love it for its improbability, the way it’s full of hopes and luck, and the near-impossible feat of hitting a pitch. There’s something about baseball’s slow patience and unpredictability that reminds me to hold onto hope.
But today is just one of those days I will leave a little bookmark—a day where in this city, I felt like home. Everything felt so normal. (Maybe its also because we won the world series). But it was also a day where I felt courage. The bold, courageous girl busting the doors down, and leading through a horror escape room—someone who definitely dont think that was in me. Learning to be bolder, and fearless. Being able to have and give to much of a positive energy (who know, if others thought it was annoying). I hadn’t seem Tim in a year—and maybe its the frequent calls that we still have, its as if nothing has changed. I feel like a student. And I cant wait till Jocelyn also comes and visits next month. People will come and go and there are still so much to look forward to.
We spend our lived looking for things that we cannot find.
I know i’m not perfect, but give it some time. I’ll be better