There is something about the boy sitting right opposite her that she can’t quite comprehend and can’t put her finger on no matter how hard she tries to think about it. Maybe it’s the way he sits with his back leaned against the seat with his hands rested idly on his lap, shoulders hunched down as if all the burdens on his load is exhausting him to the point that he can’t seem to carry them any second longer, mouth slightly open, eyes gazing at the night sky outside the window longingly. Maybe it’s the way he resembles a close friend of hers, not just look-wise, but also that somewhat alike soothing aura he gives off despite being just a stranger whom she just met for less than fifteen minutes. Maybe, just maybe, she just misses him too much.

The boy coughs once and clears his throat quickly afterwards, aware that he is in a public place where coughing openly may cause others to be uncomfortable even though the train is almost empty except for a 30-something woman in her working suit sitting three seats away from them, her fingers busy fiddling away on her smartphone, and an elderly man who fell asleep with his newspaper still dangling in his hands.

She realizes then, that everyone in the coach tonight ― her included ― is alone by themselves. She looks at the lady and wonders if there is darling someone patiently waiting for her back at home, then glances at the man, trying to guess where is it that he went for him to still be out this late, and marvels on the same question whether or not he would come home to an empty home. When she turns back to gaze at the boy across her, he’s already staring at her, and that causes her to blush.

But she can’t look away. Something about him ― the very something that has been bothering her mind for the past seventeen minutes ― keeps her eyes locked right there, straight into his dark brown orbs just like a strong magnet. Maybe, she thinks, he is the magnet, and he is the reason she can’t pull away from this stranger.

The boy shifts his gaze to the sky again, and with the same longing expression, he speaks. “Do you like the moon?”

His question startles her. Not because of how odd and random it was especially to mere strangers like the two of them, not because of how his voice differs from what she imagined it to be, but because it is the exact question he had asked her approximately 118 minutes before his troubled heart stopped functioning at once and his unsteady breathing came to an eternal halt.

She looks up at the bright full moon that is hanging low in the gloomy night sky which comprises not even a single star, and considers her answer. “Not really,” she finally replies with a sigh. “You?”

“I used to hate it, because someone told me once that the moon is a symbol of hope,” he says, shrugging. “But hope is the only thing it can offer. It doesn’t grant wishes,” he continues. “It didn’t grant my wish,”

“What was your wish?”

“For Alice to live,”

“Is she the one who told you that?”

He nods.

“Why did you stop hating the moon?”

“Because,” he begins in a soft and gentle voice, “it’s not the moon’s fault. I came to realize that long afterwards,”

Without a reply, she stares at him as he stares outside the window. She can see the delicate moonbeam reflected on his face, and her mind floats back to the past time when she was still her old self, when she was much happier ― when he was still alive.

“Do you hate the moon then?” he asks, breaking the silence, pulling her back from her memory, before returning his gaze at her.

She shakes her head lightly. “Not really,” she answers. “Not anymore,”

“Why so?”

“Because,” she says, “you remind me of Woohyun, and he loved the moon,”

“Is he somewhere far away at the moment?”

“Probably he’s in the same place as your Alice,”

He nods, understanding what she means by that, and a faint smile appears on his face. He doesn’t ask any further, not because he isn’t interested to know, but rather, he knows all too well that he doesn’t have to ask.

The train arrives at a stop, and soon the door opens, letting in the crisp air of early winter. The office woman stops typing, shoves her phone into her beige leather handbag, gets up from her seat, adjusts her skirt a little and walks down the aisle with much poise to exit the train, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor echoing inside the coach. The elderly man wakes up from his nap, folds his newspaper and tucks it under his right arm, gets up, and follows the woman to the door.

She turns to the boy and notices that he, too, is getting off at this stop and currently preparing himself. He gives the moon one more glance, lets out another cough, and rises from his seat. Knowing that she may never see him again, her heart swells a bit as she watches him shouldering his backpack.

“So, see you, I guess?”

“Yeah, someday, perhaps,” she shrugs, and gives him a knowing look. “And who knows when you meet me again, I’ve gone back to being a moon lover,”

“A moon lover,” Minhyuk repeats, as if liking the way it sounds. “That’d be nice,” he then adds, smiling, this time more genuinely than before that it makes her feel warmed inside. His eyes are still bearing that longing look despite his kind smile, but she knows that someday ― one day ― it will be there no more.

As Chorong watches him being the last one to exit the train, leaving her alone in the empty coach with only her thoughts and old memories to keep her company, she realizes that someday ― one day ― she, too, will find her own happiness once more.