They first met when they were both assigned to help their university professor, an eccentric man who taught them history. He had arranged for them to file papers in exchange for a low wage. They’d accepted. She stood in a dimly lit office, beside a boy who had yet to speak.

“I’m Dongho,” he said, rather stiffly.  He offered a firm handshake, which she returned. She gave him her name and that was the end of their conversation. They went to work, sorting through the various papers and files. It was tedious work that allowed the brain to wander while the hands were busy. She considered his profile, soft and smooth without any jagged edges. His voice had been deep, much deeper than his baby face suggested. After a few minutes of unabashed staring, he looked up at her. Caught, she returned to her filing without another glance at him.

“Thank you for your help,” their professor beamed, several hours later, “I appreciate it.” They both bowed slightly and turned to leave.

“Wait!” the professor called out, “Miss, do you have a ride home?” She shook her head.

“I’m walking,” she said, as politely as she could. “My apartment’s not too far from here.” Her professor gave her a stern look and turned to Dongho.

“I suppose,” he drawled, “that a real gentleman would walk the lady home.”

 “Of course,” Dongho said, not looking very happy with the arrangements. “I’ll make sure she gets home safely.”

Before she could protest, the professor ushered them out of his office. As soon as they were on the front steps of the university, she turned to him.

“You don’t need to walk me home,” she said quietly. “Thank you for your consideration.”

“Let’s just go,” he said impatiently. “The snow’s falling pretty heavily now.” She tilted her head up to the sky and took in the swirls of flakes.

“Thank you,” she said, hoping she sounded sincere. “It’s very kind of you.” He gave a noncommittal shrug. Without many words passing between the two of them, they made their way through the empty streets until they reached a park. This time, it was not she who stopped, but he.

“It’s pretty,” he said, and immediately cleared his throat. “Sorry, let’s keep going.” Gently, she tugged at his arm and pulled him into the park with her.

“This is my favorite place in winter,” she whispered, taking him to a small bench. “Sit down and you can see the fairy lights on the lamps.” He studied where she pointed, and she saw his eyes widen in surprise as the coordinated light show flashed on and off. He caught her staring at him, and he saw how swollen her lips were, like red petals of peonies, his favorite flower. She stared at his dry cracked lips. He noticed how much more beautiful she looked with the reddened cheeks. She noticed how he unconsciously grasped her hand in his.

He leaned down close to her, and hesitantly, he pressed his lips onto hers. It burned with the heat and they both knew the flame of first love.

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The last time she was his was a bleak day when the snow pounded against the windows and the only source of light in her apartment was the thin flames from the candles that lit her dining table. She waited impatiently for him, glancing at her watch every few minutes because he was very, very late. The days when dates were postponed or forgotten were becoming more and more frequent. She’d always forgiven his lateness before; she’d had some days when she had to cancel at the last moment too and so she understood. It was different this time though, because he had promised earlier he wouldn’t be late. He rarely made such promises, because his schedule was never fully set.

They were still university students, and learning how difficult it was to be in a relationship while working to support themselves separately. Just as she was about to wrap up the food and cuddle up on the sofa with a movie, the doorbell rang.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, his hair wet from the snow outside. “There were some issues with the file I’m about to present.”

“It’s fine, Dongho,” she said curtly, taking his coat from him. He made his way to the table and poured himself a glass of wine. She sat opposite him and studied him. Without a doubt, he was handsome, with the delicate features that she had only seen in cherubs and angels. His face was still round, but beginning to harden after the hardships of the last few months. Still, there was something different about the way he drank tonight, sloshing the contents of the glass until they nearly spilled over. He seemed distracted and reached for a cigarette, a newly acquired habit.

“Don’t smoke,” she said, reaching across for his hand. He ignored her and lit the cigarette. Absentmindedly, he blew a cloud of smoke into the air. She saw that he hadn’t touched his food.

“Eat,” she prodded gently. He nodded, but then pushed the plate away.

“I’m not really hungry,” he mumbled. “The company had pizza.”

“I made this,” she said sharply. “At least try some.”

“I don’t want to sound rude,” he said, sounding very rude, “but your cooking’s not the greatest.” The insolence in his tone grew with every word, and his voice dripped with sarcasm. He took another drag from his cigarette.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, standing up. “You agreed to have dinner with me tonight. We’ve missed the last couple of dates because you were held up at your office.”

“I didn’t agree to anything. You just left me a message assuming I would come,” he argued, slamming his wine glass on the table. “Is it too much to ask for a bit of time for myself, without you butting in?”

“I haven’t seen you in a month,” she said. “I’ve missed you.” He didn’t reply, but hastily took another drink.

“I’ve been busy,” he said, avoiding eye contact. She interpreted it as guilt.

“I know you have,” she said, sitting back down. “At least we’re together for the first snowfall.” Dongho made no reply, but she expected that from someone who was uncomfortable with expressing love. She didn’t expect him to curse softly under his breath, and stand up.

“I need to go,” he said, abruptly after consulting his watch. Shocked, she stared at him in disbelief.

“You’ve only been here half an hour,” she said, pulling at his sleeve. “At least stay for some ice cream.” He wavered over the promise of dessert.

“Fine,” he conceded. “I need to use the washroom.” Jerking away from her, he stumbled into the washroom.

As she was getting out the ice cream, Dongho’s cellphone began to ring. She knew he didn’t like her going through his private things, but she didn’t want him getting called back to the office. Furtively, she cast a quick glance towards the bathroom. Quickly, she tapped the phone and saw that he’d received a text.

“Oppa, you’re late! You’d better treat me to hot chocolate after this! Hurry up, okay?”

She wasn’t surprised, because deep down, she knew something was off. She still felt numb, all the same. He’d changed, but she was so enamoured with what he had been like when they first met, that she was willing to forgive him so many times. A slam from the bathroom caused her to drop his phone.

“What are you doing with that?” he asked roughly, grabbing it from the floor. She didn’t reply. He scrolled through his texts, and she watched him carefully as his eyes lit up at the one text she knew he was expecting.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, turning to leave. “Forget about the ice cream. Maybe next time.”

When he was almost at the door, she lost her voice.

When his hand was on the knob, she found it, weak and shaky.

When he was turning the knob, she spoke.

“You’ve changed so much. I think I hate you,” she whispered, loud enough for him to hear. He froze and turned back to face her, but she ran past him. He shouted after her, and she heard his footsteps close behind. The shock of cold air burned her face as she weaved her way through a crowd of people to a nearby park.

She sat, like a mannequin, on a cold bench, ignoring the fine layer of white powder that settled on her, seeping into her clothes and staining her face with wetness.   tightened, but she wouldn’t let the tears flow, because he didn’t deserve her tears. For a moment, she gazed over the white field that looked so perfect with the fairy lights hanging from the streetlamps. She could hear him behind her, his footsteps hesitant for someone who was normally confident, arrogant even.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unsure of himself as he sat down beside her. She didn’t look at him, and instead peered down at the ground.

“We aren’t good for each other,” he continued, trying to lessen the blow. “You cling to me and I can’t breathe.”

“I thought you loved me,” she said, proud of her voice for not shaking. She remembered that time, cherished it even, because that was the one time he had told her.

“I was stupid,” he sighed. “I didn’t know what love was then, and I don’t know what it is now.”

“Is she nice?” she asked bluntly, angrily wiping at a few tears that blurred her vision.

“She’s different,” he said, honestly. “She’s so different from you.” At this, she turned at him, and he reached out and grasped her hand with his cold fingers. She didn’t fight him, but looked at their linked hands. It mocked their relationship that was never more than guesswork and rescheduling. His mouth moved slightly as if he couldn’t quite figure out what he wanted to say.

Instead, he kissed her. She tasted the winter air in his breath, cold and unforgiving. She tasted the red wine that was sour and bitter. She tasted snow, gentle and distant. Then, it was over. He cast her one last look and walked away. All she did was watch the snow fall over his footsteps, covering them slightly.

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Now, they meet again, years later, at a crowded crosswalk. He’s directly across from her and his eyes avert their gaze as soon as they meet hers. He’s got a girl on his arm and red lipstick on his cheek. It’s snowing lightly, enough to make one shiver, but not quite enough to make one freeze.

She looks at him, and she wonders what he sees. Because when she looks at him, she remembers the cold fingers that somehow made hers warm, and the cracked pale lips that moved but made no sound.

When he looks at her, he remembers the cheeks made rosy by the frost, and the swollen red lips that resembled peonies under the harsh streetlights.

He remembers the coldness of his first love too. He feels the pang of guilt that he knows he deserves.

Their first love wasn’t perfect, but because it was their first, they’re willing to remember.