Work Text:
[BREAKING NEWS] POST MORTEM UNCOVERED SECRET LOVERS CORRESPONDENCE
Last week took place the grand renovation of Seoul National Cemetery leading to the uncovering and relocating of many graves belonging to notable figures. Amongst those, under maintenance went the grave of Jeong Yunho, one of the most recognisable and remarkable actors of the 1940-50s scene. Ever since his career kicked off at the very young age of 17, Jeong Yunho quickly climbed the top as one of the youngest and most talented actors in the industry, known for starring in nearly all the most noteworthy productions of the two decades. Unfortunately, the star’s career was cut short on the stormy night of 17th July 1958, through his premature death in a fatal car accident at only 32 years old. The most widely recognised photograph from the time of his death was one portraying a fellow co-star and Jeong’s close personal friend Song Mingi, right as he got the news of his friend’s passing. The valuable friendship of Jeong Yunho and Song Mingi was one widely known, as the two actors were of the same age and debuted in the industry around the same time, starring by each other’s side in a range of productions. It’s been said that Jeong’s death put a stop to the production of the last movie they worked side by side in, “Youth”. The production never got to be finished, not only due to the loss of one of the lead actors, but two - after his friend’s passing, Song Mingi immediately retired from his acting career, never setting foot on a movie plan or gala again. The actor also never got married, much to the public’s surprise, unlike his friend who in passing left behind his wife and at the time eight year old daughter. Since the year 1958, the world has been deprived of two most known and appreciated heartthrobs of the time. Song Mingi stayed indirectly involved in the industry, namely through giving life to the “Love Song” foundation that till this day supports young people in their dream of pursuing acting careers. The renovation of the cemetery and relocating of Jeong Yunho’s grave lead to a breakthrough discovery of a letter correspondence between him and Song Mingi from 1958 that shed an entirely new light on the relationship of the two. The letter the actor was buried with indicates the existence of previous correspondence, however none other letters were found at the site nor revealed by the living relatives. The only remaining evidence of their love was buried with Jeong Yunho, almost lost to the world if not for the renovations. Since the letter’s author was Song Mingi himself, its publication was authorised by the head of “Love Song” foundation, who also is Song Mingi’s last living relative, from his brother’s side. She added that, quoting: “In between the lines there is something equally tender and beautiful as heartbreaking, that the world should’ve known about at the time being. The least we could do for them today is to loudly announce it, to try and make up for the lost years, as a sign of respect.” The full contents of the letter Jeong Yunho was buried with can be found below.
“ 17th July 1958
Dear ,
My hands tremble, leaving the pen pitifully hanging above the paper as I try to address the letter to you, my love, in a way I usually do, but I can’t. I don’t think I can write your name anymore. In fact, I can’t say it either because trying to roll it off my tongue is equally excruciating. When I say your name, I always expect to hear back from you. A chuckle, a laughter, a sweet hum of acknowledgement, a question. Your name is and always has been a call. From soul to soul. Of love, belonging and tenderness. A call that you may not answer again and I can’t take the chance. I’m not ready to call out for you and face silence so painful, it would seep into my body like poison and leave me slowly disintegrating to nothing, in a whisper of your name. I write this letter as a man crazy, lost, devoid of sanity, man starved, suffocated, deprived of senses. Shaking, soaked so thoroughly, to the point of no longer being able to distinguish between my tears and the sky’s rumbling cries. A man ripped to shreds, covered in scratches, bruises and blood, a man fighting against time and reality and a man losing, as they laugh and spit in my face. A man in love, dying of love, through love and at the very hands of love. A man stupid, naive and ridiculous, a man that holds onto a string of hope that once I do call out your name, an answer will come as sweetly as mere hours ago. That you will once again look into my eyes with a look of pure devotion, the one that heavens were so envious of, for never having felt the warmth of your love and adoration like I have.
Maybe you will brush your fingers softly against my skin, leaving a warm remnant of affection that burns and tingles so deliciously. Maybe you’ll say my name back, so fondly and tenderly that it calls to a core far beyond my human identity, as if you had spoken to the beginning of dawn and the astral chaos my very soul was made of. Maybe you’ll kiss me, my hand, my cheek, my nose, my forehead, my lips, maybe you’ll leave your trace and mark me all over in a fashion you love to indulge in. Maybe you’ll wrap your arms around me, embracing me wholly and completely in a way that makes it impossible to distinguish where I end and where you begin. Like we are unbreakable, whole, divine, imperishable, resplendent and eternal. Like we are one. Maybe today was a joke, a sick and brutal one, but one nonetheless or a movie scene, secretive so that I have not yet received the script for. Maybe this is your showcase of brilliant abilities the world has loved you for and a display of that adorable dorkiness that you captured my heart with, so I will have no choice but to forgive you. Maybe as the clock strikes midnight you will still come home to me and devour me with the mix of love and greed, worthy of a god insatiable, but I am nothing if not your worshiper who’s willing to fall apart in your hands, knowing you’re the only one to mend me whole again. Maybe today wasn’t real, but a dream, illusion, perhaps mirage of sorts. A gruesome nightmare I will wake up from to the warmth of your embrace and to the smell of your skin. Maybe nothing is real, not even you and the solipsists were right that the only thing sure to exist is one’s mind. If so, you are mine’s greatest and most divine creation. Truest, most completing and nearly sacrilegious fantasy.
I’m getting lost in my own head, banging against the walls of my confinement as thoughts spin around, making me dizzy. I feel myself slipping away, losing my grip and sense of reality trying to search for you. The uneasiness is spreading like a disease and it’s making me sick in a way I have never before even gotten close to experience. The brute force responsible for the relentless shaking of my hands and the quiver of my lips is taking hold of me whole and I can nearly hear the rattle of my bones as I tremble. My sight is blurring over and I’m so, so cold. Every inhale feels like swallowing daggers, exposing the inside of my flesh and every exhale feels like coughing up the blood collecting in my throat.
I can’t breathe and I can’t think and I can’t live and I yearn for you. I want you, I desire you, I demand you, I wish for you. I require you like a necessity and I just pathetically and entirely need you.
Yunho, Yunho, Yunho. I look for you in the shadows of my periphery, in the refraction of light, even in my own reflection. I see merciless exhaustion gnawing at my eyes and excruciating pain chewing on my grey skin. Yunho, Yunho, Yunho. I hear for you in the way air quivers under the name’s weight, in the frantic pounding of my jagged heart, hoping the murmurs resemble your loving hum and even breathing. They don’t. Yunho, Yunho, Yunho. I taste for you in the way your name grazes my lips, rolls off my tongue, in the way it echoes from my teeth and settles in my throat, swollen, bleeding and bitter. Yunho, Yunho, Yunho. I feel for you in the way my ribs contract my very being tighter and tighter, caging me painfully around grief’s sharp, protruding thorns, piercing through what’s left of my sense of identity. Without you I am nothing. Yunho, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho. Yunho, I can’t see you, I can’t hear you, I can’t taste you, I can’t feel you.
Yunho, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho.
I mumble over and over again, your name on my lips like a prayer, a plea for salvation.
Yunho, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho.
I hold your name like a breath I can’t exhale, knowing I’d rather suffocate with you on my tongue than lose what’s left of you.
Yunho, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho.
In your name I break, as it spills out of me like an exorcism.
Yunho, Yunho, Yunho.
I shout, I scream, I cry and I howl.
Yunho, Yunho.
I whisper, I beg, I write and I spell.
Yunho.
I trace on paper, with my tongue and in the air. The letters stare back at me, changing faces and curves. They relentlessly dance and shapeshift, start looking odd and foreign, sounding like a language I once knew by heart, but can’t even read anymore. I’m out of breath and I still can’t find you. Not even a fraction, not a slither. Even still, it is not proof enough as I hope that it’s not you who’s gone, but me. That it’s me who’s lost to the world, cold, unresponsive, without a breath on my lips and a flatline for a heartbeat. That’s how I feel. Death did not knock on my door, but barged in without a warning and shoved its grimy hands down my throat, ripping at the seams of my mouth to get a grip on my weak heart and have it come up like bitter, toxic bile. Even as it’s not mine anymore but stolen, squashed, ripped apart with the claws of eternal suffering, I know that it splits, spills and bleeds in your holy name. Forever. My Yunho, we will see each other in a blink for without you I’m already dead and in what’s left of my blood I sign off, not as a goodbye, but a see you. See you as soon as death gains the confidence to finish what it started.
Love,
Song.”