You will also not learn that her eyeliner is waterproof.

Blink – a tragic loss of nanoseconds. Days go by, you will find out that she does not come back. This might make you sad, like you’ve lost your favorite eraser to the flood of forgetfulness. Funny, you’ll think, the bus bumping along the streets, air conditioning broken (you may have forgotten to turn it on), how people can be here one moment, gone the next. It might remind you of death, cemeteries by the highway, gravestones grey and reaching for their respective souls. Rotting bodies, drawers and temples of ashes, butterflies and the burnt scent of incense. (people here one moment, gone the next.) The problem with humans, you’ll remember your English teacher telling you once, is that they cannot grasp the concept of their own humanity. We must all come to the terms that one day, we will be dead. This might make you sad, like you’ve just come to terms with it yourself. You may hit your head against the window as you wonder if you’d rather be buried or cremated.

You will blink four hundred eighty times before you get to your stop.

You might decide to tell your friend about her – dark eyeliner girl, three stories on the three o’clock bus. He may know what to say, judge her with normal-person-sense (as much as you trust his account of it, at least), may inform you of the fact that you must be in over your head if you’re still thinking about some girl with bloodshot eyes one hundred and ninety-two hours after you’ve seen her. You will only shift your position on the couch, psychology textbook tucked under your left arm, and tell him that’s bull. You’re full of it, he may retort. Upon the occasion that you do not respond to that, or his advice on asking her out the next time you see her, he will add on. Love’s bull, you will close your eyes and try to sleep, and so are you.

You might regret telling him about her, then.

It’ll be raining when you see her again. You may wonder if this is a sign, an omen, a coincidence. Raindrops do not fall alone – they collide, ricochet, combine. Sob, tears pounding against glass. You’ll almost spill the tray of coffee you are carrying all over her white blouse. Her eyeliner will seem darker around her eyes as you apologize. You may even notice the little smudge of imperfection on the outer corner of her right eye. You’ll like that little piece of intimacy. She’ll let you have it. She might crack a joke, if those are all yours, they better be decaf. You may ask her to repeat it (this will remind you of the time you failed your interview for a community service position) before answering, I’m more of a tea person. She’ll smile at this – curved lips like a secret, untouched eyes. This is a hospital, you’ll remember – somber and chemically clean, internship on the seventh floor. Nose crinkled, like she hates the smell. Untouched eyes – this is a hospital, somber and chemically clean, a stiff exchange of names, Jiyeon and Jaeseop, a pause in the scheme of life (and the lack of it) before the finger hovers above the go.

You will want to see her again (again).      

You are waiting again. For what, you might not realize you know. Weeks turn into months, months turn into half a year. Strangers, you’ll muse on the bus ride home. How fascinating, that we wonder what happens to them, where they are now, how they live their lives. You might look out the window then, spot a woman carrying an umbrella at a stop light. Your breath may hitch, you may close your eyes to hear the raindrops. They will not come. UV protection, you will think bitterly, disappointed. Then, you will think: why? The woman will be long gone, crossing the street in slow motion while you are a quarter of a mile away. You may wonder what is her reason – skin problem, vanity, bad eyesight – or her life – day off from work, unemployed, exercise. You may wonder if she wondered about you – passenger on the bus, anticipating something that does not exist.

You will disregard the fact that there was a glare.

She –

You will try to think of her objectively.

Her.

A year will pass. You will forget about her sometimes – in the midst of graduation, a trip to America, a new internship. Same hospital. You may be waiting in line at the coffee machine when you finally remember – dark eyeliner girl, three stories on the three o’clock bus, the concession of a slight smudge near the corner of her – you will have to pause. Think about it. Right eye. This might frighten you, how much you remember. Attraction is a dangerous thing, you will think as you plunk your styrofoam cup under the dispenser. It makes you remember things not worth remembering, notice things not worth noticing. But they somehow are worth it – worth in minute, selfish cents, the content in a collection of a thousand pennies.

You will overfill your cup.

Three months – two thousand one hundred eighty-four hours, two million or so blinks. Life will begin to blur, the days blend into the next and the next and the next. Life – as your parents have called it, synonymous with “the real world,” also known as getting a job – a tragic loss of minutes. You will think back to that bus ride, people here one moment, gone the next. You might allow yourself to think of her, Jiyeon, and you may try to taste the name on your tongue. It will be salted with regret (if you remember it, that is). You’ll wonder why, what were the circumstances, could we have known each other? Strangers, attraction – dangerous things. You will drown yourself in your work instead – being a therapist, talking patients through the distress of terminal illness.

You may still have an ounce of hope within you.

You might want to let reality crush it.   

One year and five months (not like you will be counting). You’ll be walking your last patient of the day out, opening the door to unlined bloodshot eyes – an account of sleeping late and waking up early. This is my daughter, your patient might say. You may recall her mentioning the fact in an earlier session now that it is before you. The rest will be a blur. You might have pretended not to know her. She may have pretended, too.

When your fingers linger after a courteous hand shake, she will know of your pretense.

And you of hers.

Lung cancer is messy, you’ll learn as the sessions go on. One day, Jiyeon’s father will accompany his wife to therapy. He’ll look old – tired lines and unhappy eyes. But what is cancer but unhappiness, you might conclude. The mortality of human beings, held right before your eyes and placed into your unwilling palms. He will say nearly nothing – irresponsive, eyes glassy – but he will hold onto his wife’s hand the whole hour through, fingers intertwined like vineyard vines, veins blue, and you might realize that is love, abandoning a halfway completed sentence. They may ask you to repeat it again.

This will remind you of her.

She’s one of those girls – dark eyeliner, lungs like oceans, philosophical thoughts, unfinished degree, taciturn. Like her father, her mother will tell you in between the chemo and long waiting period for test results. She’ll run away from things (from life, from love, from woe, from herself – you decide. she doesn’t provide an answer) to make it all hurt less. She’s never sat in a session with you, you will prod, swallowing the salt of her name. (jiyeon jiyeon jiyeon) Yeah, her mother will say, echo. She hasn’t.

(smudges, right eyes, outer corners, dark eyeliner, made-up stories, excuses, strangers, attraction, one year, five months, why what exactly, how, did this end up, waiting for you, hoping for miracles – miracles do not exist in this world but lung cancer does. lung cancer does. you will pale in comparison.)

All news will continue to bad news.

Her father’s eyes will be teary.

(and how fascinating, you will think, to be a complete stranger and know so much of their life now, yet know nothing at all. you may think a little harder, the air conditioning on the bus giving you a headache. you may think harder still and that sliver of inkling in the right ventricle of your heart may quiver – full of something. desire? longing? attraction? the salt of her name will tickle your throat unpleasantly. you will find yourself wanting to know more, find yourself thinking it is worth it, find yourself facing mortality – the terms that we will be here one day, gone the next.)

She’ll stand near your bus stop at seven o’clock. You might assume she has a complaint about your therapy sessions, you might assume she is running away (from the facts – you understand. the chemo has had little effect). You may begin to ask her this before replacing the words with her name. Jiyeon. Her sigh will be the ocean breeze, her lungs will be like oceans. Jaeseop. You will not say anything more. Neither will she. You may offer her your shoulder. She will decide to rest her head on it. You may cry with her, tears blur like life, capital L like your parents have always pronounced it as. She’s one of those girls, you will think as she leaves behind wet spots where her eyes have rested against your shirt – dark eyeliner, lungs like oceans, philosophical thoughts, deep meanings, simple pleasures. A runner, a stranger who’s not quite a stranger, a daughter. A sign, an omen, a coincidence.

You will learn that her eyeliner is waterproof, smudged a little on the outer corner of her right eye because she cannot keep a steady hand.

(you might associate her with three stories on the three o’clock bus, cemeteries near highways, humanity, life with a capital “L,” the passage of time, her mother and father’s vineyard fingers, reality, hope, passive salty regret – raindrops. raindrops do not fall alone.

yourself.)