Forget me not

It’s been a year but he still feels the raw pain beating against his chest, the missing parts of his life, those moments that will never come back, just as the colours that faded away when she did, at the same time they told him that she was dead.

In the loss of his wife he also lost his sight; the joy of painting her, the sparkles of blue dancing on her bright hair, her beautiful smile, the way she smell like painting, like watercolours, like art in movement. She was his all, his everything, his muse but, beyond it all, she was his love, his heart. If he was an artist with a name and a label now was only for her; she inspired him in unimaginable ways. For him she was the greatest person he would ever meet and, even now, after losing her forever, irremediably, he still thanks the heaven for giving him the chance to meet her, to share a deep bound and connection.

His heart has been empty since then; his brushes dried, his canvas still white, no more sketches filling the room and the walls. He still cries every night before closing his eyes, because without her the night is scared, without her kisses the world is just cruel. But he is alive, he breathes in, and out and even if the earth has stopped under his feet, he knows that he will go through it, he has faith; he has her living in him.

Today it’s been a year, and he should go to grieve her, to bring flowers to her. He has never done that, since everything is just dull and black on his eyes, without tones, and he doesn’t have the strength to explain it to others, it’s bad enough having it, having lost the ability to see the blue of the sky melting on the navy of the ocean, the green of the leaves that the wind cradles, the fresh pink and yellow of a spring coming. But he should, he really should do it, fight his gosh.

When he passes by a little girl, suddenly there is light on his view, an abrupt explosion of something he can’t explain. He turns around at the sight, looking for it, but there is only a shop, a flower shop that draws him like a magnet. Maybe is because of the strange incident with the girl, but he enters the place and all around him, like fireflies, like fireworks, shades and hues start to illuminate his exhausted eyes, ink that falls over an infinity of flowers and that dye a beautiful smile.

In front of him stands a gorgeous man. He looks so pretty and delicate, like the flowers he sells, ethereal, ephemeral. And he feels a prickle throwing his heart, relieved for a reason he doesn’t know.

“What can I do to help you?” he asks and his voice is sweet and his eyes are round and bright, with stars that waves at his little universe that lives there in his dark orbs that look at him with innocent, candidly.

“Ah – I want to buy a bouquet of flowers” he explains, voice quivering, all of sudden nervously.

“Of course” he says, smiling wide “are they for any special occasion?”

“They are for my wife… For her grave” he finds himself telling him. And this beautiful man who’s eyes holds constellations look at him with a sadness that he knows well, because it belongs to him.

“I’m sorry to hear it. My deeply condolence” he says, softly, staring at him until Mino thinks he can graze his soul, take it away. But then he leaves, just to come back carrying a bunch of little blue flowers. They look lovely inside his arms, in Mino’s opinion, and he is amaze of how through those little navy petals he can see the colour of his T-shirt, a pale pink that match with his blonde hair. “They are myositis” he says, and the word sounds just precious on his lips. “Their meaning is to not forget those who you love. They are commonly known as Forget Me Not” he keeps saying and Mino nods in agreement. They are lovely and perfect and so he buys them, a bunch of dark blue that now is painting her grave. And is now, when he is silently praying for her when his mind gets filled with images, pictures he wants to draw here, now, in the grass.

He rushes back home and, during hours, his hands are busy again, holding pencils that slide over paper, one after another, but all the same in the end. A face with no name, and cerulean flowers decorating blonde flocks of hair.

The critics says it’s beautiful, that his art has come back after his break, that this boy seems so real, eyes that follows you around, a smile that melts hearts and a pale skin that gleams like pearls. Seunghoon says its love, but he dismisses his words because they aren’t true. He has only come back to the shop because of the colours that lives in there, not because the owner is beautiful and charming and undeniable nice. He has come back because he has found there inspiration, the force to pain again, to heal the wounds and mend his heart, to make it beats again, full of excitement, of energy, of something that feels like peace.

Jinwoo smiles at him even before he enters, and rushes to greet him with an enthusiasm that lingers over his skin, stealing a beat and a sight. Today he looks as alluring as usual, but something in his smile doesn’t feel right.

“Did something happen?” Mino asks with curiosity, wanting for nothing but to help. Jinwoo’s eyes saddened, empty, no stars shining on them today. But even then, with all the sorrows showing in his face, he looks captivating, incontrovertibly perfect.

“Today it’s that kind of day where you miss someone the most” he murmurs, gently, tears threatening to fall, and Mino gets ready for it to happen, for him to be here for Jinwoo, as he has been at his side all those past months, subtly but stable, healing his soul with tender smiles and soft stares, delivering him, unquestionably, those colours that he can only see when he is next to him. Now his house smell like him, pastel tones spreading in vases over coffee tables, on his bed-side-locker, turning his empty kitchen in a place he wants to stay.

So this is it, today is the day Seungyoon, Jinwoo’s best friend, died. Three years ago, leaving his flower shop and his daughter to him.

“You shouldn’t be working in a day like today. Close it and let’s go somewhere where you can remember him and cry for his lost” he tells him, grabbing his hands and pushing him outside. Mino lets go of him just for a moment, just so he can close the shop and, when he finishes it, he takes his hand on his, fingers intertwined, running across the city, laughing lightly at the sky when they reach the sea. And the ocean waves him in blue and the sun bright in a cream tone, and his eyes are brown and his heart beats again, loud, in a fearless rhythm.

And he kisses him and everything feels alright again, falling into place, all the colours that since now he was only able to see with him, pours into his world like water, cleaning his eyes from this dull blackness. Jinwoo holds him, kissing him back, slowly and tempting, carefully, the breeze gently blowing on his skin, salt and sand and feelings them both thought forgotten but that are birthing again, new born and new and precious. And his lips taste like acrylics, painting his life in bright colours again.  

Author's Notes: Thank you very much for reading.

To Mai: sorry for the short story and for not using exactly what you send to me, but, anyway, I tried my best and I hope you will like it.

Also, please don't forget to check my pretty eunnies works they both have wonderful stories - HotGee and Chivisale  ~ spread them with lots of love!

Also if you like Jinhoon, don't forget to read Lenxkpop story and send her lots of cheers, since it's her first time writing and she is doing it amazingly great!