Samantha's Journal Entry #8

Today, while rummaging through Grandpa’s storage, I found something I hadn’t seen in years—one of my childhood drawings. The paper was yellowed, the edges curled, but the pencil lines were still there, faint but familiar. It was one of those drawings I used to make back when we’d visit Grandpa, my little hands gripping crayons too tightly as I scribbled pictures of mountains, trees, and stick-figure versions of my family.
I ran my fingers over the faded image, and just like that, a memory surfaced—not of my grandfather, but of Sydney.

I was in grade school when we first met. She was two grades ahead of me, already taller, more confident, while I was the quiet girl who barely spoke. My English wasn’t good yet. Mom and Dad always spoke Korean at home, and though I was learning, I struggled. Most kids ignored me or, worse, laughed at the way my words came out twisted, clumsy.

I got used to being alone.

Then one afternoon, I was sitting on a bench during recess, sketching quietly on my sketchpad—the only thing that made me feel like I belonged somewhere. I was so focused on my drawing that I didn’t even notice someone standing behind me.
“Hey, those are amazing drawings.”

I looked up, startled. A girl with messy blonde hair and bright, curious eyes stood there, smiling at me. Sydney.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded. But instead of leaving, she plopped down beside me and asked, “Wanna come play with us?”

And just like that, I wasn’t alone anymore.

From then on, Sydney and I were inseparable. We did everything together—played, ate lunch, laughed at stupid jokes. She never made fun of my crooked English. Instead, she helped me. She’d point out words, repeat things slowly, and even make me watch cartoons and TV shows with her to help me understand better.

I remember those days so clearly. The afternoons spent watching reruns of sitcoms, her voice chiming in with explanations whenever I looked confused. The way she stood up for me whenever other kids made fun of my accent. The late-night sleepovers where we whispered about our futures, making silly promises about where we’d live and who we’d marry.
She was my best friend.

Now, as I sit here, staring at this old drawing, I wonder where she is. If she’s safe. If her baby is safe. I never got the chance to tell her everything—to tell her how much she meant to me, to tell her that she was the reason I never gave up trying to fit into this world.
I hope she’s okay. I hope she’s alive.

And if she is… I hope she knows I haven’t forgotten her.

- Samantha

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