Believe in Love (1/2)

Believe in Love iamforgotten     You flipped to the last page of your manuscript. You were doing the final reading to it before you had to have it forwarded to your deadline-obsessed editor. Your manuscript was due for tomorrow and she had nagged you since day one of the current month. You read the very last line and thanked the god in heaven for helping you survive such an offending read. You placed the stack of paper on your desk, stood from your chair, and proceeded to your little kitchen for a drink.

Kim Junsu. You were one of the youngest, most renowned novelists in the city. Your books sold like hotcakes in the morning, most of the time having to reprint to meet the demands of your readers. You wrote modern thrillers, stories of betrayal and, at rare occasions, of friendship and what you had learned in your years of existence. You were famous for your excellent and vivid descriptions of your settings. Imagery was your strength, it was your sword against all the other writers in the world. You could portray a place in a way that lets your readers walk on a path through a dark woodland but see everything as if in broad daylight. They'd be able to see every twig and flower and grass that littered the ground. They would even be able to hear an eerie howl in the background. That was you. It spelled your name in every word you wrote. That was Kim Junsu.

You pushed the refrigerator door closed, twisted the beer bottle cap off, then gulped down half the content. You felt the offending liquid go down your throat, searing, burning the hollow passage. You took another swig, almost downing the rest that remained, as you heard your home phone ring. You let it be, waiting for the answering machine do whatever it was that it was made for and you heard your editor's voice.

Byeon Chunmi was nagging you again. She called you every night – at 8 – since the first of the month, to remind you of your deadline. There was no way you'd miss it. Your editor made sure of that, well, plus the fact that you wouldn't have forgotten it. Chunmi could be a monster if you didn't give her anything to work on at the time you were supposed to. You wouldn't want that, because as much as you loved working with her, her nagging voice bothered you as much as it bothered her that you loved to wait for the last minute to write. But you were never really late. You liked to mock Chunmi by giving her the manuscript at exactly the date it is due, not earlier - never earlier - just on time.

Your phone rang again after Chunmi gave up in trying to make you pick up. This time it was Nae, a friend you met online, asking where you had been for the past two weeks. You hadn't gone online for that long and they seemed to grow worried over you. Nae created Paradise, an online forum dedicated to literature and fiction, fanfiction and poetry. The forum had existed for twelve years now, and you were one of the earliest members. Nae, together with Soojin, became a really close friend to you. She sometimes would be the one who gives you ideas for your novels, and be the first to read parts of your draft – which always made Chunmi furious, of course.

Ironic it was that a professional novelist like you retreated to an online community for amateur writers. But Paradise became your Garden of Eden. Or your Secret Garden. Either way, it was your heaven, because there, your works were read not because they were written by you, but because they were worthy. And it was where you could write and post anything without anyone else telling you that it's inappropriate for you to write something like that. You wrote fanfiction, too. Those that were referred to as oneshots – read and, most probably, written in one sitting – and long stories that were mostly like novelettes, posted chapter by chapter. It was as if your novels were your home while your fanfics were your home away from home. Because writing was your life, always been, and always will be. It was your truth.

You were initially thetraveller there, back when you were yet to become the Kim Junsu that you are now. You were thetraveller as well as Xiah.

Thetraveller wrote exciting stories. They were mostly of the underground, murder and drugs, and violence. He wrote about the society and the cruelty of the world to those who didn't know how to fight and those who were too naive to know that they were being used. He portrayed unwanted children – bastards – who grew in hatred. He wrote sex that was void of love and without heart. He wrote of monsters, greedy and gluttonous, that wouldn't think twice of devouring innocents alive.

But Xiah came from a different realm. He wrote stories of love and heartbreak. Those that would make even the manliest of men tear up. He wrote dates, proposals, weddings, as if they were the best experiences that man could have. He portrayed bed scenes as if he, too, were in love, detailed and graphic, but never disgusting. Xiah wrote perfect romantic fanfiction like nobody's business.

They were both you. And they made you Paradise's best – you just never admitted it.

You went back to your room and sat in front of the computer. You didn't log on to Paradise these past couple of weeks because you didn't want to face your fear.

Everything ended way before anything could begin.

That tiny flicker of hope in your heart died almost the same instant it ignited.

Because she turned her back at you.

For years, you believed that writing was your life. It wasn't your love, just that one thing you knew how to do. And you never believed in anything else. Not even love. You never had it and you never gave it to anyone either. But writing those fanfics that Xiah posted made you think that, maybe, you were entitled to those feelings, as well.

You were about to click on the bookmark, hesitating still, feeling as if you were the most foolish person in the world for wishing that you weren't you; or that you met her before she met Xiah; or, more importantly, for falling in love with her when you knew virtually nothing about her.

You groaned aloud, standing up again, turning your back on the bright computer screen that seemed to mock you even more. You walked to the window, pushed the panels open to feel the cold night's air envelope your being. You gripped at the metal bar tightly, as if it could be a source of comfort. Closing your eyes, grip tightening still, you made your choice.

You made your way back to your room, straight towards the bedside table, and picked up the telephone receiver. Without looking at the keys, you dialed a set of numbers then pressed the device to your ear. The moment someone answered from the other line, you whispered the person's name so as to let her know that it was you calling.

"Soojin-ah, do you know where Liyin-sshi lives?"

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You brought your hand up to knock on the door but realized hat it was open. You pulled it wider so you could fit through and slid inside Zhang Liyin's apartment. You called out for her several times, asking her if she was actually there and why her door was open. You didn't get any response, however, so you moved further in.

The place was clean and tidy, much like how you imagined it to be. You noticed a shoe cabinet by the door with a little orchid plant placed on top. Then you passed by a narrow hallway which branched to both the kitchen and, what you guessed was, the laundry area. There were frames, artworks and pictures, which ornamented both walls, making the journey a little more interesting than it could have been if they weren't there.

Everything you saw made you smile as you ambled towards the heart of Liyin's world.

The living room was quite different from the rest that you saw. Doubling as a study and library, it was cluttered. There were pieces of paper that littered the floor and the coffee table in the middle. You made to pick up a leather-bound book that you almost stepped on but your body stiffened halfway.

Your name was printed on it, bold letters in gold ink. It was your latest publish – the one you finished only four weeks ago.

With a trembling hand, you reached for it, not really knowing whether to read through it or what. You were surprised to find out that she read your other works.