Beneath the Same Sky

They say you never forget your first love. I think that’s only half true. Because I never forgot the way she fought me over a marriage we never agreed on. I was nine. She was almost ten — older by three months and never let me forget it. Back then, the world was simple: sea breeze in the morning, rice fields in the afternoon, and Eun-bi shouting my name at sunset. We were poor — not in the starving sense, but in the way people in the city never really understood. Shoes had holes. Roofs leaked in the rain. Dreams were luxury. But somehow, we had everything we needed. Especially each other. --- Her house was just across the dirt road, next to the fish market. I could always tell when she was awake because her laugh would echo through the village like a bird that forgot it wasn’t meant to fly in circles. That day, I was trying to fix the wheel on my broken toy car when she came charging toward me like a soldier on a mission. “Tae-oh! You i***t! Come here!” I flinched. That was her love language: insults wrapped in urgency. I stood up, wiping dust from my palms. “What now?” She held up a small plastic box of cracked marbles. “We’re playing family. You’re the husband.” My body tensed like she’d hit me. “H-husband? That’s weird!” My voice cracked embarrassingly. “I’m not doing that!” She rolled her eyes dramatically, the way she’d seen women do in dramas. “You don’t have a choice. My mom already said we’re getting married when we grow up.” I blinked. “She what?” --- That evening, both our families were sitting under the big neem tree behind her house. The air was filled with the smell of grilled fish and barley tea. Our parents were laughing like this whole "wedding" thing was a joke they all silently agreed to play along with. “They already act like an old couple,” my mother teased. “Might as well seal the deal now.” Her father chuckled, tossing peanuts into his mouth. “You hear that, kids? We’re going to have a village wedding someday. Start saving now!” Eun-bi didn’t blink. She looked at me with a grin so wide, it scared me. “See? It’s official now.” I turned red. “I-I don’t… I mean… maybe later?” Wrong answer. She stood up, flipped her braid back like a drama queen, and declared: “Fine! I’ll marry someone rich! Someone who lives in Seoul and doesn’t play with beetles!” She stormed off, leaving me frozen in shame. --- > That was the first time she said she’d leave. I didn’t believe her. But somewhere deep down… I knew she meant it. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not because of the mosquitoes or the heat — but because I kept wondering what Seoul smelled like. Whether it had more lights than stars. Whether she’d actually find someone richer. Better. Cooler. Someone who wasn’t me. Three summers passed like songs half-remembered. The kind that leave echoes even when you forget the lyrics. I was twelve when I first realized I didn’t want Eun-bi to marry anyone — not even in pretend games. She was twelve going on twenty, with eyes that saw things far beyond our village, and a tongue sharp enough to cut through my silence. We still met every day — by the old boat dock, where the rusting trawlers sat like sleeping whales. That was our place. No one else came there unless they were lost or lonely. Maybe we were both a little of both. --- “Do you ever wonder what Seoul looks like at night?” she asked once, lying on the wooden planks, eyes to the sky. I shrugged. “Probably too bright to see stars.” She smiled, but her fingers curled slightly into her palms. “Exactly,” she whispered. “That’s what I want. No more darkness.” She turned to look at me. “Don’t you ever feel like this place is too small for us?” I didn’t answer. Because it wasn’t too small for me. It only felt small when she talked like this — when she dreamed out loud in a language I didn’t know how to speak. I watched her silhouette against the sunset and thought: If I could build a city with my hands, I’d make one just for her. --- That year, her father got sick. Her mother started working longer hours, cleaning houses in the richer part of town. My mother sometimes helped, and I’d overhear them talking late at night — hushed tones, unpaid bills, medicine they couldn’t afford. Eun-bi stopped bringing marbles. She stopped pretending to marry me in games. Instead, she started sketching buildings in a notebook. Towers. Shops. A world without fish or dust or broken bicycles. And I started falling for her. Not in the dramatic way that stories describe. It was quieter than that — like something planted too deep to dig up. It happened in the way I waited for her voice every morning. In the way I noticed the sadness behind her sarcasm. In the way I hated the word “goodbye” every time she walked away. --- One day, I caught her crying behind the marketplace. She was squatting near the water pump, notebook in her lap, hands shaking. I didn’t say anything. I just sat beside her. She wiped her eyes before I could ask. “It’s nothing. Just dust.” I didn’t believe her. But I didn’t push. That’s the thing about Eun-bi — she let you in only when she wanted. And I was scared that if I knocked too hard, the door would close forever. She finally broke the silence. “I’ve been talking to someone. Online. He’s from Seoul.” My stomach turned. She didn’t look at me. “He says he can help me get out. There’s a festival in the city next month. If I can get there… I might not have to stay here forever.” I stared at her. My throat felt tight. “You trust him?” She looked at me then — not like a friend, not like a kid — but like someone asking for permission to chase a storm. “No. But I trust myself.” --- That night, I couldn’t sleep again. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of summer insects, thinking about how easily she could disappear. Like smoke. Like wind. Like something that was never mine to hold. And for the first time, I started planning too. Not for Seoul. Not for dreams. For her. If she was going to run — I was going to run with her. --- > It wasn’t love yet. Not the kind that novels talk about. But it was something stronger than friendship. And something more dangerous than silence. The night air was thick with salt and something harder to breathe — maybe fear, or maybe love in its cruelest form. We left the village like thieves. No goodbyes. No notes. Just shadows sneaking out of cracked windows and hearts thudding too loud. Eun-bi had planned it all. She always did. “The festival is tomorrow night,” she’d said, voice trembling with excitement. “There’s a ship leaving early morning. We’ll sneak into the lower hold. No one will check there.” I nodded like a fool, though my hands were shaking. Not from fear of getting caught. From fear of what I already knew. That she wouldn’t come back. --- We hid behind stacked crates by the docks, waiting for the signal. A red cloth tied to the third mast. I watched her closely. She wore her brother’s oversized jacket, a scarf covering half her face. Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight — not with joy, but with fire. That same fire I’d seen the day she said she’d marry someone rich just to escape. “Once we’re in Seoul,” she whispered, “I’ll take you to that night market I told you about. The one with the colored lanterns and fried squid on sticks.” I smiled faintly. “You mean it?” She looked at me. And for a moment — just a moment — her eyes softened. “If you show me that market before sunrise,” she said, “maybe I’ll marry you after all.” My breath caught in my throat. --- We climbed into the ship hold just before dawn. It was cold. Damp. Reeking of fish and rust. But I didn’t care. I was with her. She curled beside me, head on my shoulder, legs tucked close like a bird nesting before flight. And I… I didn’t sleep. Not a second. I watched the gray light bleed into the sky, afraid that if I blinked, she’d disappear. --- When I finally drifted off — just for a moment — it was to the sound of her breathing. But when I woke up… She was gone. --- “Eun-bi?” Silence. “Eun-bi!” I scrambled up, hitting my head on the low ceiling. My voice echoed in the steel belly of the ship. I ran to the hatch. Came out onto the deck. Searched the docks. The road. The streets beyond. She wasn’t there. Only a crumpled scarf remained — the one she wore to hide her face. It smelled like her shampoo. Like lemons and ash. --- I waited there all morning. All day. I searched the festival. Ran past candy stalls and fire dancers. Asked every vendor, every child, every woman in a jacket too big — but none of them were her. By nightfall, I was back at the ship. Alone. I didn’t cry. Not then. I just stared at the horizon, wondering if it was possible to drown on dry land. --- > She left without a goodbye. Without a note. Without me. That was the moment I stopped believing in promises. And started chasing ghosts.