I don’t bother if he just orders jasmine tea over and over again. I don’t even care to whom those bouquets are for and I won’t even dare to ask. As long as he always comes here every week, that is enough. To see his beautiful face, his golden hair and to hear his voice is enough for me to endure my failing life. 


But he won’t miss a week. Every Saturday, he would come just the same, the books, the flowers, and the same jasmine tea. It’s like a routine that he only knows.


He would just read his book but every time someone would enter the door, he would glance up. Like he is waiting for someone, and that someone, I don’t know. After an hour when the clock strikes 10, he would stand up and leave quietly. And I would stare at his back feeling pained even though I don’t know why.