For a while, I wondered whether we might still make things work.
I suppose what hurts most is that I've been faithful to you all these years. I've tolerated your moods, your expenses, the constant renovations. I've defended you when people said you were becoming impossible.
Yet after all this time, I still have no security. Every two years I have to prove I can afford to remain in your life. And if I can't, there are apparently fourteen other people interested in taking my place.
I used to think we were saving up for a future together. It turns out I was saving up for the privilege of continuing to see you.
Sometimes I wonder whether you would be happier with someone wealthier.
I've lived in apartments where the shower soaked the toilet paper, the neighbors' alarm woke me before my own, and the landlord expected me to be grateful for having a roof over my head.
I told myself these were temporary arrangements. I was young. Things would get better.
Yet every time I think I've adjusted to your expectations, you raise them again.
There are other things I've been meaning to bring up.
I don't mind that you've made new friends. But I do find it disturbing that every single one of them seems to own an espresso machine.
There was a man who repaired shoes on our street for thirty years. I don't know what happened to him. His shop now sells twelve-thousand-won French toast, and someone has kept the original sign as decoration.
I understand that your tastes have changed. I even share some of them. But lately, whenever I go looking for something practical, I end up somewhere selling artisanal soap.
And I miss the children. I know you say you want more of them. You've been talking about it for years. The last apartment I saw advertised as ideal for newlyweds barely had enough floor space for a drying rack. I don't know where you expect the baby to go.
There are still days when I remember why I wanted to be with you. I love being able to walk into a museum on a Tuesday morning, find a tiny bookshop down an unpromising alley, or spend an entire afternoon wandering around without needing a car. You still surprise me, even after all these years.
But I've begun to understand that whatever I earn, whatever I save, there will always be someone who can offer you more. I've spent years behaving as though our long history together might count for something.
I've begun looking at places outside Seoul. I haven't told many people. When someone asks, I say I want a different pace of life. It's true. Still, I dislike how much leaving you feels like admitting defeat. I spent so many years trying to make it here that I hadn't considered how difficult it would be to decide I'd had enough.
I've been spending quite a lot of time looking at Jeju. I don't know whether anything will come of it. Jeju has its own complications, and I'm trying not to rush into another relationship simply because this one has become difficult. I've been researching old houses, damp walls, and bus timetables. Even my fantasies have become rather practical. The other night I found a little house with a stone wall, then spent an hour checking how far it was from the nearest supermarket.
I think I've finally understood that I can love you very much and still want to leave.
I think I need some space.
Unfortunately, I can't afford any.