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You stood there, under the yellow gradient light from the lamp post on Silver Street, when the sky suddenly decided to pour the rain. You were wearing your favorite brown leather jacket from The Row, a simple black tee inside, with your hair down. I walked to you, slowly at first—when I noticed you started to get wet from the rain. I took you by the hand, and we ran towards the dry corner under the bridge. It was clear in my memory that we laughed; I could hear that laughter of yours always coming to snatch my soul, decorating my hollow chest, filling it with the remnants of you standing before me now, looking like a drenched puppy.
I was so deeply in love, but also so terrified to let you know. People say there isn't another life, that you should just do things in this one. I believed it, somehow. There is no other life where I have you, with those goddamn mesmerizing eyes of yours, your blonde hair with the freshly re-dyed roots. I think I would die if you ever dyed your hair differently. Not that it mattered because you looked happier these days. That’s why you took me out for coffee. For me, coffee was never just coffee; it meant so much more, always so much more. For you, coffee was just coffee, it meant so little to nothing at all.
I stared deeply into your dark brown eyes with a slight smile on my face. I made sure you knew I adored your existence, it was almost like a warning, or a constant reminder that no other woman could rearrange my world like you do. You knew what I wanted to do, and deep down, you wanted it as much as I did. One gesture that couldn’t be undone, one little thing we avoided that would cause earthquakes and raging waves, something we were both dying for.
But you’re my best friend.
You’ve been my best friend since the moment you bumped into me, running through the school hallway, rushing because you didn’t want to be late on your first day of school. You blurted out an apology, caught your breath, then ran to class. I saw you sitting by yourself during lunch, so I sat next to you. It wasn’t hard to get to know you because you’re like an open book—you still are. Each chapter drew me in even closer than the previous ones. Sometimes I wonder am I a footnote in the story of your life or am I not deserving of your pen at all?
Those little details you put carefully when you did your things. You made waves when you made moves. Your words commanded my world in ways you would never acknowledged. They still do. I fell in love, fell real hard for you, like it’s the only thing I know how to do right.
And by that time, you had a ring on your left hand. That made you someone else’s. So I didn’t, I didn’t kiss you. Instead, I took you by the hand and intertwined your delicate fingers with mine then slipped it inside the pocket of my sweater.
I didn't kiss you because we’re best friends, and you’re going to be someone else’s wife in three days. I’ve never wanted to stop time so desperately as I did right then. I’ve never wanted to see myself just melt to the ground, struck by lightning, or turned into your favorite brown leather jacket from The Row if it meant I could always cling to you.
The way you looked at me made me want to die. But I was indeed dying. So, I steadied my breath, but you took it away every time I tried to inhale. You’ve always told me that you wished you had more years in your twenties, so you could make your life your own, not steered in a boat someone else sails. I admired your persistence, your head-turning charm, your way of thinking, and the way you memorized every line from your favorite movie just to recite it to me.
Under that bridge, I wanted to capture your lips with mine, as if there were no consequences. As if there would just be giggles and laughter afterward, not confusing, complicated feelings that had to be deconstructed and discussed. Why this burning feeling when there is no way to kill it? What are the chances that, even in the open emptiness of another universe, we will look into one other's eyes?
Then entered this fucking stupid illness. I couldn’t live a life haunted by the countdown of my own death. Years turned to months, months to days, and days to minutes that would eventually turn into seconds. To be dead at 37 sounded ridiculous to me. It wasn’t up to me at all, however. You wouldn’t have any idea, you wouldn’t expect more or less. You were not the one to blame that we are not one. After all, I was given the privilege to bear witness of your divine beauty, my tender flower.
You look beautiful now that you’re in your thirties. It’s still such a shame that we’re not meant for each other, though we had 20 years to figure it out. So under that bridge, you tried your best to untangle me, while I tried my best to let you go.
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Vanity Fair.
June 16.
In the Colliding Worlds of Cinema and Fashion, Jennie Ruby Jane Stood in Between, but Now It’s Time to Let Go
June 16.
….but shortly after her wedding, Roseanne Park had to lose her beloved best friend that she cherished her whole life. The passing took a toll on her, and she was very devastated. Earlier that year...
British Vogue
June 18
A Tribute to Contemporary Fashion Icon, Jennie Ruby Jane
June 18.
….Ruby and Anne, began their venture in the industry back when they were teens, and they were never separated ever since….
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Pitchfork
June 8
Deep dive into Roseanne Park’s emotionally wrenching latest album
Five years after the passing of her best friend, Rosé starts to pick up the pieces and reminds us that her muse has always been reserved for Ruby Jane. The primary source of inspiration in the back of her head for her most recent record...
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Five years later, Rosie still weeps and wails reading those headlines, knowing that she lost not only her best friend but also the love of her life.