“I’ve read a story recently.”
 “Sooner or later, I think, you’ll be writing one,” the mischief in his eyes could not be hidden as he butted in.
“I think so, too.”
“You’re not serious are you?”
“I will be if you will not shut up and listen to the story.”

For a moment he sat still. After a while, he suddenly darted up and dashed to the nearby bathroom.

I sighed.

“You’re wrong. I am not tired of listening to you.” On that second he stood in front of me, hands behind him, smirking.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“But I am sure you thought anything.”
“Wrong.”
“The grammar, yes. The thought, no.” I grabbed a pillow to hide my voluntary happy grin.

“I am now ready to hear the story,” as he sat back on the sofa.
“What’s with the running to the bathroom?”
 “I thought you are going to tell me a story, not ask me a question.” I rolled my eyes at him.

“There was a sketch of an off-white ceramic bowl outlined with a thin sky-blue. Inside the sketch was a scribble: She eats a lot on this dish and I let it fall today. Sorry.
Then there was a sketch of a plain pale green handkerchief. Below it was another scribble: I shouldn’t have changed my mind about not using this. But what to do when it’s the only thing that stops..when they fall.
Then there was another sketch. This time it is a glass swan coin bank, half empty. Written along the contours of the swan was: If only saving you is as simple as saving coins. Yet you were more like this fragile coin bank, beautiful, fragile.”

“Here you go.” A roll of tissue landed on my lap.
“I am not crying.”
“Tell me, this person who writes these stories that you read, why does she, or he, write only sad stories?”
“Good question. I’ll ask.”
“You’re still going to go on with the story?”
I smiled and raised up the tissue.

++

“Okay, so this guy drew and wrote all those stuff about the woman he loves so much just so he could start forgetting about her?”
“That’s what the story tells so.”
“That is so frustrating!” And down went a gulp of Yakult on his throat.
“It makes sense, in a way.” I drank my second serving of the same drink.

He stared at me. Has the thought entered his mind?

“Can real people really do such a thing?” He asked, staring at me in the eye, as if my eyes would be the ones answering him directly.
“It is not impossible. Remember what I always tell you? If someone had thought about writing it, someone else must have thought about doing it.”
“What if I did the same thing?”
“What if you did the same thing?”
“Answer me.”
“You answer me.” Instead he stomped off, probably to get another bottle of that drink.

++

“Your question last time, I have the answer now,” I said after I deliberately bumped at him when I saw him waiting on a red light to cross the street.
“You went out to meet your friends?”
“Our friends.”
“Answer to what question?” We started crossing the street, my arm on his arm.
I put out my phone and read a saved note. “I can’t create happiness. Rather it comes from an unseen source then courses through you or me so that the world could experience it. When I try to create it, it only lasts for a moment. Good thing with the sadness I create, it’s the same; it also only lasts for a while.”

“Promise me one thing,” as we walked towards the alley leading to our houses.
“I will, but no pinkies.”
“Write happy stories.”
 I nodded. “But you know, even happy stories make people cry.”
“But they feel happy even after crying.”
“Crying makes you feel better when you feel bad.”
“Do you write when you feel bad?”
“No.”

++

“What’s with going out in the rain and with making sure your umbrella is red?” He tagged along, under a black umbrella.
“Want to hear the rest of the story?”
“The sketch story?” I nodded. He laughed. “Does the rain have to do something with it?” I nodded again. He laughed again.
“Her father welcomed me with punches when I first visited at their door. Her mother refused to cook that day. Her brother convinced himself that I don’t exist. My parents wouldn’t meet with her. My brother wouldn’t have to do anything about my relationship with her. My other brothers cannot do anything. They could only hold me back when I wanted to burst out in anger against the elders. They could only let me be when I try to escape for a while. They could only sit beside me when I break down and cry because of all the pain inflicted on me, on us.”

“For five years it was like this. I had enlisted in the army and went back out, and it was still like this. But time played its role in affecting people’s hearts. The next year, a miracle happened. Everyone consented our engagement, our future marriage. Next to our families, we have almost the whole world to ask for their blessings about us, not really out of necessity but simply because we honor their part in our lives. It was foretold to give a shock to millions of people. The day after that day, the headlines were all: TVXQ’s MICKY YOOCHUN ENGAGED, FIANCEE KILLED ON A CAR CRASH YESTERNIGHT.”

“Now, isn’t that a harsh story to tell? Did the writer wrote that fate just isn’t doting on them to be together?”
“Wouldn’t it be too common to write that they lived happily ever after?”
“People living happily ever after isn’t common. Because that “after” doesn’t often come. Everything moves on, as if there is no ending at all.”
I heaved a heavy sigh.

“I’ve always wondered how one gets on with life after losing a love won hard and long.”
“Oh. Now I get it.” He stopped walking and blocked my way, too.
“What?”
He stepped under my umbrella and closed his. His right arm came over my shoulders. “Dear Jara, your imagination should come up with ideas better than writing down things so the person could forget and move on.”
“I didn’t write this story.”
“Really? Maybe I wrote this story?” He playfully moved his eyebrows up and down to complete the delivery of the supposed joke.
“Yes, you did.” Then I left him to scramble opening his umbrella again so he won’t get drenched.

++

I always thought nothing could hurt me aside from bad things happening to my parents, to my younger brother, and to my members. Because no one else apart from them really comes deep in my heart.
You. You were a fan among 800 000 other fans. Then you were staff among many other staffs. Then you were a director, among the few who believed in us when everybody else thought we were fake. Then you were a friend. Then you were family, but you were treated a black sheep, because you became my beloved, because you chose to love me, too.
We’ve been through a lot that it is really unfair that we still end up without each other.
I cannot live on, unless I forget everything.
 I cannot forget, unless I somehow pretend to but make sure that in some way I will still remember everything.
So I write, so I drew, and I write. I’ll wander far.

When I get back, I’ll write a new song for you, for us.

Park Yoochun

++

“Have you ever tried writing your own song instead of playing the ones we just hear and find pleasing?” I sat beside him in front of his pearl white grand piano.
“My own song? What do you suggest it should be about?”
“Hmm. How about your memories?”
“Which ones, the one I have now or the ones I couldn’t remember?”
“How could memories you can’t remember be memories at all?”
“You’re right. Unless I remember them, only then can they be memories, and only then can I write a song about them.”

“Should I try harder to remember?”
“Honestly, I don’t think you ever tried to remember. Am I right?”

“A guy came by the other day,” he started, along with starting to play ‘Everyday Distant Memories.’
I started to sway my head along with the tune.
He chuckled, “I thought he was a woman.”
“He offered a handshake but I embraced him. Weird, huh? And I am sure I am not into guys.”
He continued, “I quickly apologized as I quickly let go of him. He said he thought I remembered.”

“Did you ask him what you were supposed to remember?”
“I only stared at him.”
“You had a crush on him?”

The playing on the piano was reduced to his humming. Because his hands were not on the piano anymore, but around me, embracing me.
“I have something to confess.”

“You’ve written a song already?” I hugged him back, I cannot not do so.
“The sketch story.”
“You really wrote it?” I chuckled, tense, inwardly.
“I’ve read it before.”
“And?”

He let go of me, reached for a blank music sheet, placed it on the sheet holder, grabbed the pencil and bit it in between his teeth as he fiddled on some keys.
I watched as he played, scribbled, played, scribbled.
After almost 50 minutes, he put a huge end mark on the music sheet. He then looked up. “I’ve already written the song.”
Then he turned to me and smiled. “Want to hear it?”
I only stared, confused.
“It’s almost the same as your the sketch story, but on this one, I remembered to point out that the “after” came.”

++

For the Yoochun images I used, credits to ereluna, who made "in the morning (or how the world learned to keep turning) - a yoochun mix," a wonderful list of songs plus the great images that came along with it. :)

"Everyday Distant Memories" is an OST track for the Japanese animation movie "5 Centimeters Per Second".  You can listen to it here.