Blood. Screams. Terror. It all filled Jessica’s head in that long duration of another nightmare that always finds a way in her brain to leave her breathless the moment she wakes up. She tries to blink her sleepless deep eyes to confirm that she’s back in reality. A sigh of relief escapes her lips and she tries to sneak out from Donghae’s hospital room where he remains confined for the last month to grasp some fresh air. The garden is only a few walks away. She sits on a bench and looks up to the clear blue cloudless sky, and smiles faintly. Please wake up, Donghae. She pleads to whomever she thinks could hear her. Her feet were urging her to get back to the room and wait again for another 24 hours for Donghae to wake up.

The minute she stepped in, her eyes find a young man in his 20’s sitting upright on the bed looking through the window while the sun’s rays penetrated through it, emphasizing his strong side profile; the sharp nose, the equal-length eyelashes, and even the proportions. Only that the bandages and scars on his face ruin the beauty Jessica thought she could never see alive again.

He was trying to move his hands, still looking outside and not noticing her presence, and lets out a wince of pain when she blurts out the name of this lad. “Donghae!” She runs towards him, having the need to hug him so tight for waking up but his words interrupt her about-to-do actions.

“Who are you?”

More of confusion and a pang hit me so badly. What was he asking? Who am I?

Who am I? What’s my name? My profile. I am Jessica Jung, 20 years old and a year aging during the 18^th of April, and working hard as a waitress to keep my family alive after being refugees from America. After having my parents killed by some lunatic killer, we find only one escape from the torture of the past I lived there with my so-called aunts and uncles. I sought Korea. I try to keep her alive, to keep her happy. Krystal, my sister. And my only family.

Or perhaps the question isWho am I to him?

Now that’s the question. I don’t know. Friend, lover, stranger. The first time I met him was at streets five years ago. He’s a painter, but more of a sketcher. I always pass by that street where a line of artists get their canvases ready and begin doing their leisure. Always at six in the morning, artists wave me their morning greetings and that’s when I noticed a new comer. A new artist. He was young, age 18 perhaps. He takes out his blank dirty white canvas and places them perfectly on the stand. He starts his work. And I do to. Selling flowers at a nearby shelter to everybody at the young age of 15. He was the guy with the brush and I was the girl with flowers. One snowy day when the shop closed because of lacking supplies, I decided to take Krystal a walk around the same street. There were only a few artists around this time; perhaps I could count them on my fingers. Then, it was a pencil that flew to my sister’s foot. The lad that I always notice everyday stood up to pick it up. “Hey, little girl. Sorry if my pencil flew.” He patted my sister’s head and smiled at me. When he turned his back, Krystal ran away from my grip and ran to where he was doing his hobby. He carried her to sit on his lap while sketching something magnificent; it’s a beautiful meadow with one tree at the right side. Its trunk is somehow thin but you can see the sturdiness it has. The grass filled with small beautiful flowers, and the sky – it was sunset. With bird migrating from east to west. Even if it has no color, I could just determine how the sketch feels. Then I came up with something, one day…I’ll find that place. Every day I always go to him and watch how one blank canvas be filled with a work of skillful hands. We sometimes talk, but sometimes it’s just filled with mute presence. He offers me some food when I starve and even for my sister. She is very fond of him, too. He always buys flowers from me; some kind of a ritual everyday for him, and he sketches them well.

“We are silent friends. I am Jessica Jung.” I answer. He just nods and asks another question. Who am I?

I’m dumbfounded. Who is he? What can a silent friend say to other silent friend? And it struck me. I did remember one time when he told me something about himself.

Who is he?

I learned his name is Lee Donghae. And after months, years of watching him put a canvas to life, I realized I only know him by his name, and that he is an artist. Nothing more, nothing less. It was one afternoon and no sunset was seen from where I sell flowers because of the gray clouds that covered the sky. Still, he came but rain did as well. He sought for a shelter nearby and all he knows that could keep him safe is the small shelter I have. He knocked on the wooden door and I found him soaking wet. The room’s not too big you know, just about the size that could put 16 people inside but like sardines in a can. I offered him some spare cloth that I could still put up as curtains and there we sat doing nothing until he broke the silence. “Hey, we’ve been like this for years. I think you’re my friend but I don’t know your name.” I stayed quiet for a while. Yes, he’s got a point. I introduced myself as Jessica Jung, 17 years old that time, with a sister five years younger than me – Krystal. “So tell me about you,” he added. I went on and on how our so-called aunts and uncles tortured us under their ‘care’ back in America, about our daring trip back to Korea, and how I’m struggling to fend my sister and let her get a decent education by selling these flowers. He laughs but for himself. “I thought my life is the worst here on the planet.” And he went on. “My mother runs a business of paint materials. Guess where I get my materials.” He laughs. “I barely see her. In fact, I only see her on pictures and all. After my father died, she became more isolated, forgetting that she has a son. And now she wants me to marry someone for me to take over the business. And she only told me that through telephone!” He exclaimed. Lucky him he still gets to eat three times a day. But he says he loves to paint, and draw sketches of life while it’s there. Because if one day the beauty will be gone, he says, at least his paintings can relive it and make the others remember it. I smile at his cause. And then he goes on about his favorites. I remember him staring blankly at the canvas one day when his favorite pencil was lost. And how he tugged my shirt when he saw me carrying a basket full of apples that I freshly picked up from their trees. And now he feels sorry that he took some that was meant for my sister’s appetite and nutrition. I only vividly remember him painting an ocean with different shades of blue as he says to me “My favorite color is blue, but not just blue, ocean blue.” The time came when rain stopped and it was 10 in the evening. He got his bag, and was fetched by one of their cars. The next morning, he wasn’t on his spot and he confirmed to me the next day that he got sick and his proof is his bad cough and colds. “Promise, I’ll be here every day like the usual so you won’t worry.” And he pats my head. I was touched. That’s when I started to think I think I’m falling for him. But I know I shouldn’t. He’s destined to own a business and live his life with his arranged wife and children with her. So I tried to remain his friend. We did our usual stuffs that day but every lunch, he offers me to eat with him. I even wonder if he goes to school. Some said he’s home schooling at night because teachers seemed to be intimidated by how intelligent he is. Wow, handsome, rich, kind, and smart? World is so unfair isn’t it? As here I am, beauty-less, poor, not-so-kind and ignorant, and what do I know about education? Sure I was in school until I stopped at 15. That doesn’t count.

So I answer, “You are Lee Donghae, age 23 and…” My voice trails off, doubting whether I should tell him about how miserable his life is. Should I? And I did.

“Why are you my silent friend, Miss Jessica?” And that’s when I started explaining. This continued until a knock on the door interrupted us; it was the food. I started feeding him until he finished them all. He even asked for more which doesn’t surprise me. Beef stew is his favorite.

“I should better be going. My sister’s waiting for me.” When I clutched my bag, there was a grip on my wrist.

“Be here tomorrow and tell me more.” I nodded. Outside, the nurse informed me that the doctor would be there to check on him tomorrow morning.