All My Firsts Are You (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 10

Audiovisual room in the library. The DVD player clearly displayed the opening scene of the film Jun had shot.

The camera lingered slightly longer on the shot of Jun, dressed in a school uniform missing its second button, tightly clutching that button resting on his right palm. Then, the screen quickly cut to the next scene.

Filling the rectangular frame now was a lush green forest path, with trees stretching their long bodies on either side. At the very beginning of that path stood my back view, tilting my head slightly as if tickled by sunlight carried on the breeze.

There was no sound at all in the film—perhaps intentionally edited that way from the start.

From behind, Jun called out to me; startled, my twenty-year-old self jerked her shoulders and turned around.

The camera slowly began zooming in on my face. My eyes rolled slightly to the left, and my lips moved restlessly, murmuring unconsciously like a baby babbling. The vibrant green freshness of summer resonated softly and clearly in the background, like a gentle, bright chime.

Immediately in the next scene, sunlight dyed in orange hues filtered thinly through a slightly open sliding door into a room. My back view appeared there, leaning against my beloved beige sofa, dozing off lightly.

Just then, as if Jun had called out to me again, I startled like a toy just switched on, half-closing my eyes and spinning around to look about anxiously.

Inside the room, gently bathed in sunset-colored sunlight, it felt as if a sweet, fragrant orange scent was quietly rising into the air.

The following cut.

A clock tower, a grassy field, and beyond them, the vast ocean embracing both within its enormous arms.

I wandered across the grass with light, excited steps—then, upon hearing Jun’s call, glided forward as if sliding, barely managing to slow down and stop.

With my small frame catching the sea breeze, my eyes spoke of a heart as tangled and fluttering as my windblown, messy hair.

The scent of the distant blue sea, carried by a somewhat strong wind, seemed to drift through the screen toward me.

Then, as the next scene began, a suddenly familiar voice rang sharply in my ears. Even after nine long years, my body still reacted sensitively to Jun’s voice. Goosebumps spread over my skin—I simply hadn’t been emotionally prepared.

“Lee Ha Ru.”

My back view appeared, walking forward in a footbath, wiggling my small toes without any intention of turning around.

“Yeah.”

My voice, faintly audible.

“Who are you going to have that love with?”

On-screen, I immediately froze in place the moment I heard Jun’s words. A few seconds of heavy silence passed, making the viewer tense with anticipation.

I turned around. My face was lit up as if gathering all the sunlight around me into a bright smile. Just at the moment I seemed about to say something, still holding that smile at the corners of my lips—

Right then, the screen cut away.

My reply never made it into the film. The scene returned to the very beginning: Jun in his school uniform, tightly clutching the missing button, gazing blankly out at the sea.

From behind, the voice of a man who seemed to be Jun’s friend was heard. Korean subtitles appeared beneath the footage in sync with his words:

[Hey, Jun. Let’s go already. What the hell are you doing? Waiting for someone?] […Spring (Ha Ru).] [Huh?] [I’m waiting for Spring (Ha Ru).] [Ha, seriously? What are you talking about? It’s dead winter right now. Spring’s still far off.]

But Jun didn’t say another word. He didn’t even look back. That was the final scene of the film.

Spring never came for him—because Spring, because Ha Ru, never came back to meet him again.

Jun held the button in his hand. Holding that button, he waited for Spring. And I, defying nature’s order, rewound the ending of his waiting—not back to Spring, but to Winter.

And now, nine years later, Jun introduced himself as a director who explores the bitter underside of first love. Hence, he claimed the season of first love was winter.

There is no spring in first love.

Even though the film had already ended, an inexplicable sorrow and heaviness ached through my whole body. I quickly wiped away a tear just sliding down my cheek. Even I didn’t understand what that tear meant.

In this moment, I knew only one thing for certain: that the guilt pressing down on me so heavily I couldn’t even straighten my back—only the exact weight of this tear I’d just shed might offer the slightest relief.

Pop, pop, fwoooooosh.

Oops. I’d absentmindedly inflated my cheeks with air and, lost in thought, blown into the straw stuck in my lemonade glass.

The unexpectedly loud bubbling sound snapped me back to reality. I hastily lifted my head, scanning the area to see if anyone had been annoyed by that rough noise. Fortunately, aside from a couple at a table a bit farther from my seat, no one else was around.

I was sitting in a quiet seaside village café, where the ocean filled the wide view before me. Beyond the café’s large windows, the boundary between the sky-blue sky and the similarly hued sea appeared as if someone had softly smeared it with their palm—the seascape shimmered in shades of sky blue.

But I’d deliberately sat with my back turned to the ocean. I didn’t want to look at it.

Because the sea flowing through this place at this very moment would surely make me think of someone.

“You’re a little late…”

I pushed my glass aside and rested my chin quietly in my hand, gazing not at the sea but at the café’s interior. A staff member caught my eye—he was just brewing a freshly ordered coffee. The already coffee-scented air in the café grew even richer.

Jung Eun and Hyun Su had left me here and gone alone to that old wooden house where I’d stayed during my homestay nine years ago.

Apparently, after watching that brief film Jun and I had made nine years ago, they must have clearly seen that I was in no good state.

It wasn’t that Jun had tried to hide the fact that he was Director Matsu. I’d only just learned it myself upon arriving here.

Besides, the whole journey here had been overwhelmed by emotions, as memories of Jun kept abruptly resurfacing. No matter how hard I tried to suppress those feelings, they only pushed back harder, mocking my efforts.

I’d given Jung Eun and Hyun Su a rough explanation of the situation. While listening, Hyun Su had even started to say, “Ah, so that’s why the director doesn’t believe in first love,” before quickly glancing at me and swallowing the rest of his sentence.

Jung Eun, who’d listened silently with her arms crossed, had spoken in a calm tone:

“Lee Ha Ru. Don’t come with us—just go relax at a nearby café. And I understand how you feel, but surely that man cherished you as his precious first love just as much as you cherished him. I saw and heard it myself back then. So stop blaming yourself after today. You made a mistake—that’s all. It’s unfortunate, but things just turned out that way.”

Jun was my precious first love too. Stop blaming myself after today. Just a mistake. An unfortunate mistake…

These words floated around in my head like alphabet cards. I shook my head. It felt selfish to use words that seemed to excuse my own mistake, unwittingly avoiding the pain I’d inflicted on Jun.

No matter how many layers of time had settled over those events from nine years ago, brushing them aside even slightly brought those vivid scenes instantly back to life. Moreover, as a filmmaker tackling the dark side of first love, Jun seemed to be finally healing his own heart through this work.

As if gently reassuring himself that it’s only natural for first love to hurt.

The crushing weight of guilt briefly lifted for just a moment—then returned to me in full force.

Just then, suddenly, two long shadows stretched out before me. I looked up to see Jung Eun and Hyun Su walking toward me, both clearly exhausted. Hyun Su plopped down in front of me and spoke.

“Unnie, are you estranged from the ocean? Why are you sitting with your back to it? Your coffee price probably includes ocean-view charges.”

“Kim Hyun Su. Is that really what you say right now? I feel like being estranged from you instead. Ugh, what’s the point of saying more here? I shouldn’t have spoken at all.”

“Unnie, even if I had ten mouths, I’d still have nothing to say—but ‘I shouldn’t have spoken at all’ is a bit much. You’ve been repeating that same thing the whole drive here. Anyway, it’s already obvious everyone knows your whole story by now.”

“Be quiet, Kim Hyun Su.”

“Yes, sir.”

It seemed Hyun Su had done something else worthy of scolding again.

“Seo Jung Eun, why are you prickly like a hedgehog right now? Did something happen? Tell me too.”

But Jung Eun’s stern expression showed no sign of softening. She just stared at me silently, her eyes full of unspoken stories.

“Ha Ru, about the house where you stayed during your homestay…”

“Oh, yeah. What happened with that? Did you meet the owner?”

That question naturally came out first—after all, the whole purpose of this trip to Japan was to meet the current owner of the house I’d stayed in nine years ago and request permission for filming.

In truth, although the project proposal had already been approved and overseas filming funds secured, we’d continually failed to contact the homeowner—the very centerpiece of this shoot.

If my memory served me right, Jun’s parents had said back then that they planned to sell the house soon.

Jun’s older sister would start working in the city the following year, and Jun himself was scheduled to study abroad in the U.S.—so they’d mentioned, looking rather regretful, that they’d likely stay in the house for only about another year at most.

Since then, the ownership had changed hands several times, and information we could gather from Korea about the current owner was extremely limited.

According to details quietly collected through the Kyushu Korean community, the current owner only used the house like a vacation home—typically between June and July, during the pleasant spring-to-summer weather.

But at my question about whether they’d actually met the owner, Jung Eun’s expression instantly darkened. I worried they’d ultimately failed to get filming permission.

“…Yeah. The owner—apparently just arrived here today from Tokyo.”

“Oh, that’s fortunate then—good timing. But why do you look so grim? Did they say absolutely no indoor shooting?”

Another silence followed, and the deep shadow cast over Jung Eun’s face made the situation clear even without an answer. The owner must have been unexpectedly stubborn.

As I stood quietly trying to sort through this mounting worry, Jung Eun asked,

“Ha Ru, do you remember? Before coming here, during our preliminary research—we heard that the owner doesn’t stay there permanently, right? That they only use it as a vacation home, staying there sometime between June and July each year.”

“Yeah, I remember. But why? Is the owner only available during that period?”

“Well, that’s part of it—but, um, about that owner…”

I don’t know why, but just moments ago, I’d only been thinking, “What if filming gets canceled? Everyone’s gone through so much trouble because of me—what do I do?” Yet now, without realizing it, I suddenly thought of him.

As if sensing my gaze growing hazy with thoughts of him, Jung Eun spoke—uttering the name of the person I’d just recalled.

“The owner was Kim Jun. We just came from meeting him—Hyun Su and I.”

In that instant, as if someone had flipped a switch, all background sounds—the ocean, the clinking of coffee cups, the occasional passing cars—vanished completely.

Jun was there. Very close by. At a place I could reach if I only willed it—the very spot where we’d first met.

My heart began pounding fiercely.

Faster, faster—terrifyingly fast…