In this blog post, I’ll share my honest thoughts on how time transforms the grief of parting ways with someone you love.
Breakup. It was a word I’d heard countless times in romantic movies and love songs, but to me, it felt strangely unfamiliar. That’s because, in my twenty-odd years—a life not all that long—I had never experienced a heartbreaking breakup. So I had no idea what a breakup was, how to face it, or how to let go of someone dear to me. And just as I was so clueless about breakups, my first one—one I could never have imagined—came upon me silently.
It was the winter of 2011, a particularly cold year, when I was twenty. I was working on a group project for my notoriously difficult college Korean language final assignment at the Global House dormitory. Just as I was struggling so hard my head was throbbing, I received a sudden call from my mother, who preferred calling over texting. I remember the vibration of my phone that day as vividly as I remember the cold weather. Even now, five years later, I cannot forget it.
“@@, I think you need to come down to Suwon. Are you very busy?” “Yes, Mom. What’s wrong?” “Well… your older brother, ○○… I think he committed suicide… I’m so overwhelmed right now…”
My mother couldn’t bring herself to finish her sentence. Her words were disjointed, and the sudden news that “my older cousin had committed suicide” felt completely out of the blue. Everything felt strange and confusing. And in that moment, I could hear the sound of tears falling from my mother’s voice on the other end of the line. Faced with my mother’s tears—something I had never seen in my entire life—I froze in place, unable to move, and could only respond with a long silence. That was how my older cousin left us.
My cousin ○○ was six years older than me. When he was about three months old, my aunt passed away in a traffic accident. As the youngest of three siblings raised by my uncle without a mother, he came to live with us just before starting middle school due to my uncle’s family’s financial situation. We lived together for nearly ten years, from when I was eight until I was seventeen and in my first year of high school. My childhood was always spent with him; I couldn’t even talk about my childhood without mentioning him.
When I came home from school, my parents were almost never there. They both had to go out to work, so my younger brother and I were left home alone. As a young child, I envied my friends who had their mothers at home when they returned from school. Perhaps that’s why I relied on my older brother even more. Every day when I came home from school at 5:30 p.m., I waited for him to return from school. There was nothing particularly special about the time we spent preparing dinner together and eating while watching Pokémon, but I really loved those moments. In that way, Brother ○○ was like a real older brother to me, and to my mother, he was a son she had raised with all her heart.
Back then, the six-year age gap felt enormous. My brother was much taller than me, stronger, and better at sports. I always wanted to beat him, but I never could. Once, while racing him, I even threw sand from the playground at him just to win. Of course, I got a good beating from him that day. I remember trying my hardest not to cry, thinking that if I cried, I’d lose. It’s pretty funny when I think about it now, but back then, even though I envied him and felt jealous, he was a source of strength for me.
That’s because whenever the older boys in the neighborhood played mean pranks on me, my older brother would come and scold them. To me, he was a greater superhero than any Superman.
Then, as I got a little older and my older brother enlisted in the military, we gradually saw each other less and less. After he was discharged and started working, we naturally became independent and lived our own lives. I, too, became a high school student, and although we grew physically distant as I led a busy life, my older brother remained a source of strength to me. Whenever I was struggling, he would come by and pat me on the back, and sometimes, without saying a word, he would show up with a whole chicken, asking if my studies were getting too hard. Deep down, I was grateful for him. And I felt he was a more reliable presence than any of my friends. When I got accepted to Seoul National University, my brother was the one who was happier for me than anyone else.
Upon hearing the news of my brother’s passing, I put all my assignments aside, hailed a taxi in front of the dormitory, and headed to Suwon Central Hospital. Perhaps the taxi driver sensed my urgency, as he drove in silence, looking anxious the whole way. My mind was in turmoil. I couldn’t believe what my mother had said. More than anything, the question “Why?” loomed large. A sense of numbness and emptiness weighed heavily on my chest. I desperately wished it weren’t true. The orange streetlights in the cold wind made me feel especially sad.
I don’t remember how long we drove. It felt like the longest time in the world. As soon as I arrived at the funeral home, I walked in as if in a trance. My brother’s name was written in three characters on the door: ‘Song ○○.’ I barely managed to swallow my tears, my throat tightening. Just as I had swallowed my tears about three times, afraid to open the door, it swung open. My eyes met those of my sisters, their eyes swollen, and in that moment, the tears I had been barely holding back poured out. I wept uncontrollably.
Five years have already passed. I, who was a freshman back then, have since served in the military and been discharged, and I’m now the same age my brother was when he passed away. It’s already November 2016. When I head out to school early in the morning, the scent of winter, shrouded in a deep, cold twilight, hits the tip of my nose. That’s right—it smelled just like this when my brother passed away. Was it from that year onward? Whenever the late autumn wind stung my nose, a corner of my heart would ache along with it. I remember sharing a drink with my brother just before he left. I can still see him looking at me as if it were a wonder that a young boy like me was drinking. When he said, “It’s reassuring to see you’ve grown up like this,” I waved my hands and protested, “You have to stay by my side forever. Where are you going?” But those words have become reality.
Back then, I had no way of knowing why my brother made that choice. There was no suicide note on his phone or in his room. But now that I’m his age, and having experienced that silent, creeping pressure myself, I think I understand a little why he made that choice. What’s clear is that he found the world too much to bear. And that I—who should have known that best of all—didn’t realize it.
“Why didn’t I notice the strange signs back then?”
“My brother, who grew up without our parents’ care and had to endure everything alone. Why couldn’t I be a source of warm comfort in his life?”
My first goodbye was harder than I expected. Would it be accurate to say I’m still in the midst of it? I still haven’t been able to let my brother go. Every time I unpack one of his belongings, a part of my heart aches, and I swallow a small sigh of longing. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to saying goodbye. If it still feels this heavy even as time passes, how could I ever get used to it?
I headed to the place where my brother is. It had been a long time since I’d seen him, but I was the only one who had changed. He was still the 26-year-old young man with short, curly hair, smiling brightly at me. That’s right—my time keeps flowing, but his time stopped in 2011. Now that five years have passed, that frozen moment feels even more vivid. And next year, I’ll be older than my brother. I wiped the tears streaming down my flushed cheeks and looked up at him again. It felt as though he were speaking to me with that smiling face.
“Hey, @@, you’re a really great big brother now.”
In that moment, when it sounded just like my brother’s voice, I found myself responding with a gentle smile. Now, I really must let him go. Just as he said in his final words before leaving, I must become a younger brother who is more reliable than anyone else—not one who is paralyzed by grief and unable to do anything. I must live as a younger brother who would not shame him, wherever he may be among the stars in the winter sky that seem ready to pour down upon me, and as a proud son to our parents. I will live my life with all my might, fulfilling my brother’s share as well, until the day I can tell him, “Brother, I really did my best. Now you can rest in peace.” Today, too, this reliable younger brother will once again start the day with vigor.
