“Don’t think of anything
Don’t say anything, not even a word
Just give me a smile”

Namjoon's eyes feasted with undivided attention at how the various neon colors of the street lights casted over the head of the girl in front. The picture before him looked like a mirage; an illusion wherein the lamp posts somehow followed the girl and showered her vivid colors as she took deliberate steps on the slippery pavement beneath her feet. It somewhat depicted an oil painting. 

With intense eyes unswerving and committing each and every fragment to memory, he fixated on the details of the picture. The medium-length, raven hair in a low ponytail. The mole on topmost of her left shoulder. The long and slender limbs. The pointy elbows. The elegant arch of her back. The graceful movement of her feet.

Namjoon humored himself because who was he really kidding?

He would never forget. Could never.

Not in this lifetime.

Not even in the next one.

He then almost staggered to the left when the girl looked up to him from his right side, directly catching his eyes with her own. He was so obsessed over getting his fill that he didn’t see her pausing momentarily to let him match her pace.

The viewpoint offered him the natural curve of her eyebrows, long eyelashes fanning her flushed cheeks, the cute button nose, warm dark brown eyes. And as if his eyes had a mind on their own, they then landed on the thin pink lips formed in a shy, dainty smile.

Namjoon felt his heart ache at the beautiful sight.

Twelve years and it still took all of his breath to see something so ethereal. And that er-punched him right there and then, reminding him that this purity was embodied in a delicate girl. It reminded him of his promise twelve years ago that this was the very same girl in need of protection.

Hell, she did need one from the likes of him.

The understanding dawned to him like a thousand watts worth of LED flashlight on a blackout.

He wouldn’t dare make things complicated for her. He wouldn’t want her innocent mind befuddled with ugly thoughts. He wouldn’t dare extract words he wanted from her. He wouldn’t want stained words corrupting her saintly mouth.

It was that smile; he just needed that one. It humbled him as if to chide his thoughts and repress the unsaid words, keeping it all to him himself. It grounded his toes and lowered his proud head.

He decided.

The true beauty of a butterfly–the raw, gut-wrecking one–was not, could not be appreciated through preservation in frames nor through confinement in jars.

Rather, it was cherished through seeing it relish its freedom and flit from one place to another.

He would let her go.

He had to.