Baekhyun finds other ways to embed his emotions—a careful collection of film and polaroids, one too many pictures of forests and beaches and sunrises and stretches of the horizon. No, Baekhyun doesn’t string his thoughts with words or sentences, the occasional punch of full stops and pauses. Baekhyun is a photographer.

 

Baekhyun is a photographer, the world and sky at his very fingertips.

 

A dull room lined with polaroid rows of his life, pictures of the land far away—into the distant spread of translucency.

 

(number one: City Streets, Barcelona, Spain, 2008

number two: Eiffel Tower, Paris, France, 2008

number three: Aokigahara —the Sea of Trees, Honshu Island, Japan, 2008)

 

Each row is a year’s worth of memory, a distant cross that traces the path between the ceiling and the wainscot—a stretch from one end of the room to the other.

 

Baekhyun’s apartment is snug around his hunched shoulders; a lingering scent of pinewood and cinnamon hang thin in his surroundings—followed by the bitter stab of cigar smoke and black coffee.

 

A roll of bundled film and camera refills decorate the corners of Baekhyun’s apartment with a touchy edge—soft, smudged and crumbly under his clammy palms.

 

His cameras are a little more precious—junks of metal (bound together with too many buttons and flashes) stacked precariously on the top of his bookshelf—dust-collecting and cobweb-worthy.

 

Yes, they are precious to Baekhyun.

 

❖

 

The first time they meet, Baekhyun is a shivering mess—bundled layers of warmth and scarves, trembling knees and steady hands.

 

Chanyeol is quite the opposite—harrowingly tall slumped against the snow (disorganised limbs and dark sunglasses).

They don’t exchange glances, just the simple snap of Baekhyun’s 600AX and the wind tangled between clumps of Chanyeol’s hair.

 

“Who took that picture?”

“M-me?”

 

Baekhyun stutters against his chapped lips. And he catches Chanyeol’s grin under the shadow of his glasses.

 

“Oh, for a second, I thought you were the grim reaper or something.”

 

Baekhyun has to laugh at that (crescent eyes, crinkling skin and profound chortles) —the heavy air between them seems to vanish for a moment.

 

“I’m Chanyeol. And you are?”

 

“B-Baekhyun…”

 

The two shake hands, Baekhyun’s nimble fingers trapped within the tight grasp of Chanyeol’s overexcitement (dusty palms, burnt fingerprints).

 

And for the next few moments, Baekhyun loses his austere self in the hollows of the other’s Cheshire grin—pretense and bliss buried deep under their skin.

 

Although, they both pretend that the sign in front of Chanyeol doesn’t read:

 

Spare change for the blind kid, anybody?

 

 

(number five hundred and fifty six: Chanyeol, Seoul, South Korea, 2012)

 

❖

 

The second time they meet, Baekhyun is no longer a shivering mess—no bundled layers of warmth and scarves, no trembling knees, only what remains of steady hands.

 

Chanyeol is harrowingly tall, leaning forward with the support of an unusually long cane; his sunglasses are carefully perched on the bridge of his nose.

 

They don’t exchange glances, just the simple snap of Baekhyun’s 600AX and the wind tangled between clumps of Chanyeol’s damp hair.

 

“Who took that picture?”

 

Baekhyun smiles, “me.”

 

And the two eventually catch up on three months’ worth of missing time—with Baekhyun telling stories of his faraway adventures in Canada, and Chanyeol listening with the occasional response of “wow, you’ve been to so many places?” or “I can’t believe you’ve actually seen the Niagara Falls in person!”

 

And, if Baekhyun listens closely enough, he could hear the other mutter a quick, “oh, my life’s always been the same, you know?”

 

No, Baekhyun doesn’t know.

 

Because it’s never been just ‘the same’ from him.

 

 

(number five hundred and seventy-two: Chanyeol is still the same, Seoul, South Korea, 2012)

 

❖

 

Baekhyun drags himself down the familiar path of Seoul—souvenirs from the Middle East hanging from the zipper of his suitcase—comfortable in silence (and sheltered under the sincerity of lamplights, which punch the night darkness with alternating jolts of burning light).

 

His usual smile fades though—once he sees the hesitating spot of shadow from where Chanyeol’s glasses used to be.

 

Under the hot glaze of the other’s intense stare (his glasses are broken in half—laying nimbly by his side), Baekhyun feels himself shrink further into the depths of the night—no strong glances or even the courage to take a photograph of the other.

 

Baekhyun can only see little sparks of fading hazelnut in Chanyeol’s bare eyes, merged with the worn-out grey and useless irises—a blandness that consumes an eternity’s worth of Chanyeol’s bright and innocent smiles.

 

“What happened?” Baekhyun’s voice is a quiet stutter that vibrates across the still air between them.

 

Chanyeol’s leaves a bitter ghost trail of a smile, “you’d be surprised how much people hate blind kids.” His voice is brash, almost real under the harsh blow of winter.

 

The simplicity in his answer leaves the other in a questionable trance—fascination, pity and anger mixed in a cocktail blend of bursting thoughts.

 

Baekhyun had never been the comforter, only bait between comfort and awkward seas. But words form, like habit, this time:

 

“I like you—that’s all that matters, right?”

 

Chanyeol turns his face away.

 

And Baekhyun hesitates for a long second, before cupping his hands softly on the other’s cheeks—their faces inches apart.

 

“I think you have very beautiful eyes.”

 

 

(number five hundred and eighty: Chanyeol’s beautiful eyes, Seoul, South Korea, 2012)

 

❖

 

“You smoke?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Oh, that’s unhealthy.”

 

“No kidding.”

 

Baekhyun lights a cigarette and hangs it between his thin lips, which are numb and blue from the cold.

 

The smoke lingers between them, with Chanyeol’s coughs and splutters frequently piercing through the picturesque tranquility. Baekhyun’s eyes burn—deep and focused—with fixed dexterity onto the other’s heaving lungs.

 

“Stop staring, you’re making me uncomfortable.”

 

“I wasn’t staring,” Baekhyun blushes in response.

 

“I’m blind, not stupid, you know. I can tell.”

 

 

(number five hundred and eighty-eight: Chanyeol’s senses, Seoul, South Korea, 2012)

 

❖

It doesn’t take long for the two to call what they have a friendship—short sentences, hacked words and a whole ing load of ignorance.

 

Today, Baekhyun brings a tuna sandwich, a packet of orange juice and two small apples for Chanyeol.

 

“What’s this for?” Chanyeol holds an apple up to his face and stares through it with delicate concentration.

“It’s a ‘see you later’ gift. I’m leaving tomorrow, for work.”

 

Chanyeol drops the apple, “where to?”

 

“Somalia, Africa.”

 

“You’re always travelling,” Chanyeol points bluntly, a trace of accusation woven through the seams of each spoken word and buried thought.

 

“Yeah, because, unlike you, some people actually have dreams, you know.”

 

And the words fall from Baekhyun’s lips a little too fast for him to catch himself. He hurries to slap his palm across his mouth, but the stunned silence between them is enough to burn through his fingers.

 

For a moment, Chanyeol is dumbfounded as well. His cheeks sink to a hollow frustration as he realises that Baekhyun is just the same as everyone else—a disrupt echo of stress-bitten and ignorant freaks.

 

“Take a picture of the sunset for me,” Chanyeol’s plain grin slashes across the other’s torso like a rusty blade.

 

Baekhyun nods his head, before realising that the latter could never really see his pictures—no matter how hard they both tried.

 

And just as he is about to turn around and leave, he catches the other’s chopped whispers—haunting words and eerie aftermath:

 

(It’s funny, how you’re always running after your dreams.”)

 

❖                           

 

(number five hundred and ninety: Sunset, Somalia, Africa, 2012)

 

❖                           

 

It takes Baekhyun exactly four and a half months to return.

 

And Chanyeol uses those four and a half months to gather spare change from too-sympathetic tourists, over-emotional mothers and unsuspecting visitors.

 

Snap.

 

“Who took that picture?”

 

“M-me?”

 

“Oh, hey.”

 

Chanyeol’s voice is soft—dulcet (like spring), melting along with pelts of snow—a welcoming carpet of spring.

 

And with that, the two hug in reunion—warmth and bundled layers of scarves, everything.

 

 

(number five hundred and ninety-six: Chanyeol again, Seoul, South Korea, 2013)

 

❖

If Baekhyun believed in fairy tales—faith, trust and pixie dust—it would be simple really to picture Chanyeol deep within each magical word and its meaning.

 

He is the distant route between Neverland and here, the biggest star hanging on thin lines of the universe (darkness), the cracks between “mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”

 

Baekhyun is the poison apple, a curse under the sleeve of a witch—he would call himself—a mere dwarf in comparison to the endless oceans and the salty tang between Chanyeol’s fingers (the bright grandeur that is his smile).

 

(And Baekhyun doesn’t notice, but the pictures on his apartment walls now illuminate with vibrant frames of the simple man he met on the streets.)

 

❖

 

“There’s so much beauty in the rain.”

 

“How do you know?” Baekhyun questions, his hands fiddling with the strap of his camera.

 

“Because of the sound it makes when it hits the ground.” Chanyeol skims his fingers along the side of the pathway he is sitting on. They carelessly tap along the pitter-patter pattern of raindrops. And Baekhyun watches with curiosity, at the way Chanyeol notices even the slightest of changes in the drizzle—his fingernails scraping against the concrete in pure defiance.

 

“Baekhyun…”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“How does the rain look like?”

 

“I-I… uhm…”

 

For a moment, the other is at a loss for words, biting his lip and trying desperately to come up with a decent answer—it’s his first time having to describe something; it’s always been precise photographs, carefully-angled film and nothing more (lights, camera, action—and then a simple push of the button).

 

After two more quiet “uhm”s and the continuous tap of Chanyeol’s fingers, Baekhyun finally speaks.

 

“Rain is clear. It falls in tiny droplets—“ but after hearing Chanyeol sigh, the photographer realises that his answer isn’t what the other needed to hear.

 

So he cautiously folds his arms together and tries again, “rain falls smoothly—beautifully—a straight line that cuts through the air with precise decision. And when light hits it at just the right angle, the tiny droplets glisten and sparkle like a million rows of fine diamond. But I think the best part comes right after the rain, when the dark clouds move away and the sun strikes again, to create a perfect rainbow—seven colours perfectly blended into a curved stream that carves into the atmosphere, just as the birds start to fly again.  Now that,” Baekhyun breathes, “that is truly magical.”

 

Almost like you, he thinks.

 

Chanyeol pauses for a moment, taking it all in. Then he laughs, “sometimes, I dream of light. To see. To actually form pictures in my head, instead of mere voices and fading touch. But I can’t really go anywhere to find light, can I? Not like you… You can go anywhere—everywhere. You can fly above the ocean if you wanted to see the seawater and the sky. Me,” Chanyeol looks up, “I don’t even know what light looks like. All I can see is darkness—everywhere. And sometimes, it gets kind of scary—how much darkness I see, I feel.”

 

“Chanyeol, I-I….” Baekhyun’s lips tremble in hesitation, “I don’t know what to say…”

 

Because Baekhyun never knew what to day. He himself began to wonder if it was scary—how much light he could see, could feel.

 

❖     

The last time they meet, Baekhyun is a mess entirely—chattering teeth, trembling limbs and frightening thoughts.

 

Chanyeol goes still—sensing the strange shift in atmosphere and anticipating the worst.

 

They don’t exchange glances, just the simple snap of Baekhyun 600AX and the wind tangled between clumps of Chanyeol’s damp hair.

 

“Baekhyun….”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“What’s going on?”

 

And Baekhyun knows not to lie to Chanyeol—there is no point in even trying. “I’m leaving tomorrow, for another trip.”

 

“Where to?”

 

“China. I’ll be touring the whole country.”

 

“Oh. When will you be back?”

 

“That’s the thing. China is so big—I don’t know when I’ll be back. It could take a year, or more.” Baekhyun fiddles with his fingers.

 

“Why are you always traveling?”

 

Silence.

 

Baekhyun realises that he could actually try to explain, but his desperate sentences would sound weak even to his own ears. So he leaves the silence hanging between them (silence would speak for them both).

“Have a safe trip then. I guess I’ll see you….one day?”

 

“One day,” Baekhyun repeats.

 

And again, he catches Chanyeol’s chopped whispers—the same haunting words and eerie aftermath.

 

❖     

 

(number six hundred: ?)

 

Baekhyun loses polaroid number six hundred in the depths of Chanyeol’s chopped whispers—the same haunting words and eerie aftermath:

(“It’s funny, how you’re always running after your dreams.”)

 

❖