This is the city that never sleeps. Everyone is busy. In the streets, us humans are always busy, always in a rush to go somewhere, for there are no moments during our day to stop and ponder about anything. Out of the billions you pass by and glance at in the daylight... how many faces to you remember in the night? Why do we pass by these strangers... when all of us are just the same? The same humans, struggling through the same journey called life, with the same basic necessities...

The weather outside was perfect. For Kim Jonghyun, anyway. It was only three in the afternoon, yet outside, it seemed as if it was already nine because of the darkness. The clouds had concealed the sun's brilliance away from reaching the cemented streets of the city, while the people quickly scattered around, keeping their fingers crossed that it would not rain. The lovely season of autumn had just bloomed, it was the first of October, meaning at Starbucks, they now sold pumpkin spiced lattes again. The leaves were slowly fading their bright greens to go under the transformation to lifeless hues, while the fall breeze started to roll in, casually lifting up too-short-skirts of women, and newspapers of old men outside on benches, awaiting for their buses.

The unreasonably short figure found this day to be perfect to lounge in his almost-second-home, Starbucks, enjoying his second cup of a mocha latte, typing out his thoughts on the keyboard of his mac. When he had first arrived to the city, he had wondered why New Yorkers were so fixated on this picture perfect routine of relaxing alone in a small cafe, with a cup of coffee and a laptop. But, after living in the city, alone for a couple of years, he was simply now another one of them, just another New Yorker. Dressed like one, walked like one, ate like one, breathed like one.

"Kim Jonghyun of the New York Times, speaking."

"You done with that first draft yet?"

Moment of pause. Don't freak out Kim Jonghyun, it's only your fourth time handing in a draft late, it's all good. Okay, maybe the fifth time. Okay, the eighth. . He cleared his throat, pulling up the blank and wide canvas of the Word document he had been working weeks on. So far? Nothing. Nada. "Weren't we pushing my article back to the issue during Columbus weekend?" Act cool, just don't panic, don't panic, Kim Jonghyun...

"This is Columbus weekend." A groan filtered into Jonghyun's ear from the other end, as his breaths stopped in panic. "I told you to have this article written by today, you idiot! The boss is seriously going to trample all over you if you make another mistake... you realize he's still got that grudge on you for throwing up on him when you got drunk at the holiday party last Christmas..."

"I know -- I haven't exactly forgotten." A hiss left his own lips this time, as Jonghyun swept a hand over his eyes tiredly. Sometimes, he wondered why he was a journalist... he hated due dates, hated sitting at desks for hours in an office job... but he loved writing, loved expressing his thoughts on the world, giving his points of views to reach out to people who had the same and different ideals, because to him, that was the true fun of discovering life. "Can you just try to put in a good word for me? Tell him I'm out with my family -- I don't know, make up something, you're good at BS-ing. Plus, it's kind of a universal fact that the boss stares at your ..."

His best friend sneered at him from the other end of the line. "It's kind of a universal fact that you hate your family and that they hate you just as much, if not more. But, alright, alright. I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks MinHoe, you're the best hoe around."

", hang up before I come slash your throat with a knife."

Jonghyun laughed briskly, hanging up while setting his phone down. His eyes returned to the screen before him, staring at the small, vertical line on the white space just blinking, waiting for it's command to move. Although there were plenty of ideas, objects and people to write about in the world, the topic of essay Jonghyun had been assigned with was the boomerang. Yes, you read correctly, the boomerang. The hell right? Even with the big presidential race coming up... somehow, the New York Times had a small column open for an article about the history and deep, deep meanings behind a boomerang. Woopee. 

Boomerangs: Entertainment? Or weapon?

He quickly slammed the backspace button on his keyboard, staring at the empty, white space again. His head was now getting support from his palm, trying to focus on the work he had been supposed to hand in a couple of weeks ago. After just a few minutes of searching things about the boomerang on Google, his fingers had clicked toward eBay, where he scrolled through antiques. Half of the things on eBay proved to be wacky, funky or just plain lanky. After the first couple of mistakes he had made with purchasing items through the internet, his eyes were now keen, looking for every little detail written in the seller's descriptions about the item.

Ever since his first find of an old, worn away pendant in his garage at the age of sixteen, he had always been a collector of antique jewelry. He was no woman interested in the prettiness of things, but it was rather the amounts of history, age these items had with them. Each piece of jewelry had it's own story, whether it was the Disney Anastasia's necklace that brought her back to her royal status, or just a chain that meant a lot to a jock of the 80's.

His index finger constantly scrolled, not seeing too much interesting things today. Usually there was a couple that stood out, yet this afternoon, all the jewelry listed seemed too shattered and worn out, or just insignificant. After five minutes of dedicated searching going on, his eyes finally found something to settle on: a charm bracelet with some strange words inscribed into them that he could not decipher. It was obviously the bracelet had once been a part with something... as if a set, yet it was alone here, being sold. His fingers clicked over the "Buy Now" button without a moment of hesitation. Something... from the moment he laid eyes onto the item, he felt something there, compelling him toward the intangible object.

"Hey, watch out -- !"

Jonghyun had a few seconds to react, far too slow with his body's movements to dodge the incoming, unpredicted weather climate of sizzling, hot coffee rain pouring down on him. He immediately hissed and reacted to the burning sensation where the liquid had scorched -- his skin from the base of his neck to his upper stomach. "Jeez -- do you have eyes?" His words were growled at the employee, lips bitten at the pain.

"I'm so sorry, sir -- let me he -- "

He shook his head, coldly shoving things into his bag, getting out of the coffee shop. Well, that was certainly a way to start the day. He pushed away at the people blocking his way toward the door, meeting the chilly breeze as his jacket flew with the pace of his walks. His fingers creeped into his own pockets, grabbing his smartphone so he could be able to call Minho back, only to see his phone was now, dead.

"Great." He hissed the word with the same attitude, staring up at the big clock on one of the buildings. His eyes then came down to see a little phone booth, walking toward it while he scrummaged his pockets for change in quarters, finding some with a relief of breath.