^{He is eating a chocolate ice-cream when you first notice him, dark brown liquid pooling at the rim of the cone and glimmering under the dimly lit bus-stop.}

Thursday- The 7th Day


He is eating a chocolate ice-cream when you first notice him, dark brown liquid pooling at the rim of the cone and glimmering under the dimly lit bus-stop.


Your weak spot for chocolate and the accumulated fatigue these past weeks probably prolongs your random glimpse on the molten dessert just a bit more than expected. Anyway, when you lift your gaze, you find, with a little embarrassment, his dark eyes meeting yours.

Those huge orbs seems further exaggerated by his doe-eyed expression now twinkling with amity. Thick eyebrows and short black hair frame his chiseled features, clean and honest looking, innocent, even.

Like a child.

But when he speaks, his voice comes out sounding like the melted form he is holding in his hands- lusciously deep.

“Will you… like some?”

He is referring to the ice-cream.

“Ah… N-no, it’s ok.” You startle and wave your hands awkwardly, surprised at the invitation. Your longer than intended stare may have brought on this misunderstanding, but then again, who offers to share their ice-cream with complete strangers anyway?

Both of you smile for lack of better things to say and your eyes avert, only to find it wandering back to him seconds later. There is no one else at the bus-stop, which is not unusual because you’ve been working at the radio station long enough to know people don’t just turn up at this inaccessible and remote place unless they work around here or lost their way. You’ve never seen him around so it must be the latter.

He is wearing a plain black shirt over white tee, snug fitting black jeans and white sneakers, back straight with knees together, like a model student. Just when you are pondering how comfortable he is in that position, his eyes catches yours again.

“Late night?” He smiles casually as he gives his ice-cream another bite.

“It’s ok. I’m used to it.” You shrug, hoping your disheveled appearance and swollen eyes won’t give away too much personal information. You clocked more hours than usual today just to get away from the emptiness at home, but hasn’t gathered enough courage to visit your cancer-stricken mom at the hospice. Her morphine dosage has increased and every time you leave the ward, you felt a little part of you dying together with her.

You told her you’d be busy today, but the fact is, you need a break from the piled up emotions and planned on going somewhere… anywhere… but somehow felt more secure buried behind the computer dragging songs into playlists rather than meeting well-intentioned friends in the end.

“One month? Two weeks? You’ll have to be prepared.” Your heart stings even now as you recall the doctor’s words.

“It’s not so bad you know,” He is talking again. “Worrying won’t add another minute to our life.” For a moment, you wonder what he’s referring to.

You give him a musing glance.

He smiles. An innocent smile.

You smile back.

“And you?”

“I’m homeless.” He says it so naturally he may well have been talking about the weather or a dog or a cat and you search his face for other emotions but there isn’t any.

“Oh.” You aren’t sure how to continue. He may be a victim of recent circumstances because judging from the way he behaves and dresses, he sure doesn’t look like one in desperation.

“I’m looking for a place to stay.” His tone positive and sunshine-y as if he knows where he is going already.

“So, have you found it yet?” You ask, curious more than concerned.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“If I don’t get a place to stay, I’ll probably sleep here tonight.” He peers up at the sky and bites into the cone, a soft crunch resounding as he continues. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”

It may be his childlike demeanor, that obliterates possibilities of him being a mad serial killer roving the streets for his next victim, or the way he talks like he knows who holds tomorrow. It may be the loneliness that has been eating at your soul these seven months with your only kin wasting away at the hospice and the other with that woman miles from Seoul. Perhaps you are feeling extra benevolent today because of the temporary respite from the dreaded trip to the hospital or you think the extra room in the house can serve as rented income since your mother probably won’t be coming home anytime soon. Maybe never.

That thought tugs an emotion in you and your voice breaks out in a quiet, almost inaudible whisper,

“Do you want to… come to my house?”

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How is it? The next chp will be short, bcos I sorta split this into two~ makes for easier reading, I guess?