Civil war had broken out in a certain African nation due to a political power struggle.
With the government forces and the opposition locked in combat, the people were living in misery.
Every move in that country was making international headlines, so my TV station decided to send war correspondents there.
Because the pay and hazard bonuses were massive, I volunteered.
This wasn’t an opportunity just anyone could grab; first, it was incredibly dangerous—even with UN peacekeepers for protection, you could catch a stray bullet or be blown up at any moment.
Second, it was a prime chance to make a name for yourself. Any reporter with a shred of ambition was willing to take the gamble.
Given my seniority and experience, I was the obvious choice.
Before I left, Yumi tried to talk me out of it for a long time. She was terrified for my safety, but this wasn’t the first time I’d put my life on the line.
I’ve always believed in fate: if you’re lucky, you’ll survive the worst disasters; if your time is up, death will find you even if you’re hiding at home.
Since my diagnosis, I’d actually become more carefree. I had no children… nothing to really worry about besides Yumi.
I eventually packed my bags and headed for that war-torn country.
It wasn’t until I arrived that I truly understood the reality of war.
Refugees lined the roads, the sound of artillery was constant like strings of firecrackers, and the cities were nothing but crumbling ruins.
Rescue organizations hauled away piles of bodies and the wounded.
The whole place felt like a living hell.
Every single day, Yumi called me on an international line to check if I was safe. She never missed a day, and those calls were the only sliver of warmth I had in that hellhole.
During the day, my cameraman partner and I would head out to film, dodging crossfire and brushing with death over and over again.
At night, sleep was impossible. The sounds of gunfire and shelling never stopped, and you never knew when a rocket might decide to visit your room.
After a few days of reporting, we accompanied a peacekeeping unit to film a UN field hospital.
We were there to interview the wounded and the civilians, capturing the carnage to wake up the world’s conscience and hopefully stop the madness.
The “hospital” was more like a makeshift refugee dormitory.
The stench of disinfectant, cheap medicine, and the foul odor of unwashed bodies and waste was overwhelming.
You could barely call it a hospital, but given the state of the country, it was as good as it got… at least it was a place where lives were being saved.
People with injuries of all sizes were packed into tents like a refugee camp. I moved from ward to ward with my camera, capturing the most graphic and horrific wounds.
I’d seen my share of gore before, car crash victims, charred remains, you name it… but seeing so much blood and misery all at once still made my stomach churn with pity.
When I reached one particular ward to film a patient, I froze in front of her bed.
She was Asian, and her face was hauntingly familiar.
Though she had changed significantly, I recognized her instantly.
She lay there alone, covered in blood, with nothing but basic emergency bandages. She was just another body in the queue waiting for surgery.
With limited facilities and staff, the wounded had to wait their turn; many died before they ever reached the operating table.
“Naomi? Is it you?” My voice trembled as I stepped toward her.
My camera nearly slipped from my hands. I couldn’t be 100% sure yet; meeting her here of all places felt like too much of a coincidence.
I set the camera down, walked to the bed, and took her hand, calling her name softly.
Her forehead and body were littered with wounds, all crudely dressed. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and weak.
As I called to her, my mind drifted back into the past…
Lee Naomi was my childhood sweetheart. We grew up together, elementary, middle school, high school, even college.
She was the quintessential “good girl,” gentle and beautiful. She was my first love, the first woman to ever truly own my heart.
We started dating in college, but when our relationship was exposed to her parents after graduation, things fell apart.
Her parents invited me over to “get to know me,” and I was honest about my family’s financial situation. I never expected that a girl as kind and understanding as Naomi would have such materialistic, status-obsessed parents.
After that visit, I basically never saw her again.
I tried to contact her constantly, but her phone was disconnected. When I went to her house, her mother would just snap, “She’s not home,” and slam the door in my face.
Later, I found out her parents had locked her in the house, forced her to break up with me, and confiscated her phone.
The reason was simple: my family was poor back then, and her parents thought they could use her beauty to snag someone with money.
A decade of love was shattered by their greed. That’s just the way the world works.
Later, I heard that one of our college classmates had won over her parents, and she ended up marrying him.
He was a mixed-race guy, half-Chinese, half-African.
His father was African, his mother Chinese. He was an international student whose family were wealthy merchants in Africa.
He had chased Naomi in college, but she had rejected him repeatedly because of me. But once her parents forced us apart, he swooped in.
He used his family’s wealth to bribe her parents, and they practically threw her at him. Being the “good girl” she was, Naomi followed her parents’ orders and married him.
I was devastated for a long time after hearing the news, but time eventually dulled the pain. I heard she hated her parents for what they did, losing the man she loved to marry someone she didn’t.
Eventually, she followed her husband back to his home country in Africa, leaving her home and her past far behind.
I never imagined I’d run into her here. I knew she was somewhere in Africa, but I never knew which country.
“Naomi, wake up! Someone! Help!”
As the memories flooded back, I realized with certainty that this dying woman was my first love.
I started shouting for the medical staff. Because I was with the Chinese peacekeepers and a member of the press, the medics rushed over to prioritize her.
But after a quick, thorough check, they just looked at me with a helpless, silent shake of their heads.
“I’m sorry. Your friend has three fatal wounds. There’s no hope. I’m so sorry… she has maybe a few dozen minutes left,” the doctor said in English as he pulled off his mask.
“Naomi, wake up. Look at me, it’s Kim Sanghoon… Naomi…”
I believed in the bond we once shared. I believed that somewhere in our hearts, we still held a place for each other.
Maybe she heard my name in her coma, or maybe it was just that final spark of life before the end.
After I called my name, Naomi’s eyes suddenly fluttered open. She looked at me with pure disbelief, blinking weakly.
“Kim… Sanghoon…” she whispered.
“Yes, it’s me. You…” I wanted to tell her to be strong, but there was no point. She was already gone; she only had minutes left.
“I… I know… I’m… not going to… make it… It’s so good… to see you… again…” A tiny, strained smile touched her lips.
“I never thought I’d find you here either… Why are you alone? Where’s your family?” I asked, heart breaking.
“I know this patient’s story,” a local staff member nearby explained, perhaps noticing how much she was struggling to speak.
“Her family were famous merchants. But she’s the only one left. A bomb hit their villa. Everyone else was killed instantly. No survivors.”
“Naomi, tell me. Do you have any last wishes? Tell me, and I promise I’ll do it for you…” Tears began to stream down my face. My heart was shattered, and every memory of us was playing on a loop in my head.
“I… have two… wishes… My… son… is in… China… studying. Take care of… him for me. I don’t… trust… my parents… with him. You know… what they’re like. My husband’s… family is gone… He’s all alone… in China… no one to… look after him… So I’m… giving him to you. Your… situation… I know about it… If you… don’t mind… let him… be your child… someone to… look after you… when you’re old.”
Naomi slowly explained that before the war got bad, she had sent her son to China to study and escape the violence.
He was actually in my city, being “watched over” by her parents while she sent money back every year.
But now her husband’s entire clan was dead. Only her greedy, aging parents were left.
They were useless spendthrifts who lived off her foreign remittances, and her brother was a deadbeat. She couldn’t trust them with her son.
In this final moment, she chose to trust me… a man she had no legal tie to. And the news of my infertility had clearly reached her through the grapevine of old classmates; she likely kept tabs on me just as I had on her.
I hesitated.
Should I really agree to raise her son? I wasn’t prepared for adoption, and the kid was the product of my first love and another man.
It was a massive decision, and it had been dropped on me out of nowhere.
“Pfft…” Naomi suddenly coughed up a spray of bright red blood. Her life was draining away.
“Can you… promise me?” she gasped, the blood likely clogging her lungs.
“I promise. I promise you…”
Seeing her like this, and remembering the depth of what we once had, how could I say no? Even if a part of me was terrified, I couldn’t let her die in agony.
“Good… this… is the money… I saved… over the years… Not a lot… but not a little… The PIN… is… my birthday. Do you… still… remember?”
Her hands shook as she pulled a bank card from her pocket and pressed it into my hand. I squeezed her hand back, nodding through my tears.
Her birthday—and every day I spent with her—was something I could never forget.
“That’s… good… use it… as your… payment… Give some… to my… parents… the rest… is yours…”
“And… one last… wish… Can you… hold me? I want to… die… in your arms…”
I couldn’t speak.
The words were choked off by my sobbing.
I gently lifted her upper body and cradled her against my chest. Naomi’s blood-stained hand rose weakly, using the last of her strength to stroke my cheek.
“I never… never… forgot you…” I felt her hand growing cold. The warmth was leaving her.
“Me neither. I never forgot you either…”
“To die… in your… arms… I have… no regrets…”
“Remember… Jiaying Middle School… his Chinese name… Lin… Lee Jihoon…” With one final breath, she forced out her son’s name.
Then, her hand slid from my face.
I looked down. Her eyes had closed forever, looking peaceful, almost happy.
“Naomi…” Sometimes, meeting again is worse than never meeting at all.
Now, I would be haunted by this memory forever.
