He appears like a ghost. "The name’s Luhan," he whips out a cigarette from his sleeve, lights it and breathes out white smoke. "Call me, Luhan."

                That moment replays in my head over and over again. Maybe it's because of how oddly he introduced himself, or maybe it was because meeting him terrified me. His mere presence chilled me to the core, made my blood form icicles and made me breathe out white fog, like his white smoke. They say you'll never forget the first encounter you have with a ghost. I've never forgotten any of them.

                ~

                "What's up with the baggy eyes?" asks Jongdae, "were you out looking for that ghost of yours again?"

                "No," I reply, "just couldn't sleep."

                "Ghost haunting you?"

                "Shut up, Jongdae. I'm tired of your ," I say as the metal legs of my chair squeak loudly against the oil-stained floor. I grab my pathetic excuse for a ham and cheese sandwich and fume off outside the garage and onto the sidewalk. My boss shouts, reminding me that my break finishes in ten minutes, but I don't care. Once I'm a good distance away from the garage, I try to stomach down my sandwich. How could something so simple, taste so bad? It's literally just ham, cheese and bread. I didn't put any butter on it. Maybe the cheese was off? Maybe the bread was mouldy? It doesn't really matter anymore. It's down in my stomach, burning away in that pit of acid, supplying me with whatever nutrients white bread, processed meat and cheese can excrete. My hands are covered in tar-black grease and my hair smells of petrol and smoke. The stains never come off no matter how many times I wash my hands. The smell never gets off no matter how many showers I take, or whatever cologne I drench myself in. When I go on dates, they always know that I'm some lowly mechanic just by looking at my hands while I take a sip of wine. I don't think they mind it, but hate it. It's like a stigmata, reminding me whenever I pick up a book to read, or play the piano, that I've gotten nowhere in my life. That all my hopes and dreams have amounted to this. It's that hopeless feeling that swells in your gut, seeding through your body like an infection.

                My phone rings. I can just tell it's him, just by the way the ringing.

                I'm counting 1…I'm counting 2…I'm counting 3…

                I answer: "Hello."

                He scoffs. "You sound particularly happy today."              

                "I always sound like this."

                "That's because you're always a happy person," he chirps without missing a beat.

                I huff, turning around to head back to the garage. "What do you want, Luhan?"

                "What I want, Jong-in, is to see you tonight. Are you free?”

                “No.”

                Luhan pauses. “What about now? Are you free, now?”

                I hesitate. Just what does he want? I’ve met him once, thought it he’d be a good and run. No strings attached, no emotions involved. Just pure physical satisfaction. But here he is, calling me on my mobile phone asking for company. “Yeah, I’m free now.”

                He tells me to meet him at a second-hand book store a few blocks away. “I need to find a book.”

                “Why second-hand? Are you broke?”

                “No, I’m not. I’m actually pretty well off.”

                “You have some inheritance, or something?”

                “I have a career,” Luhan seethes. “An author, to be exact.”

                “I’ve never heard of you.”

                “That’s because I never use my real name.”

                The name’s Luhan….Call me, Luhan.

                He says goodbye and hangs up.  I send a quick text to Jongdae saying that I won’t be coming back for the rest of the day. He replies telling me that he’s not my boss, and WuFan will fire me. I don’t reply.

~

                “Nice get-up. Kinda suits you.”

                “Shut up.”

                We enter the second-hand book store and the smell of aged paper and dust welcome me. It’s unearthly quiet, and there’s no one here. There’s an man at the counter, reading through a book he’s probably picked off a shelf. He gives us no attention as we walk in. Books pile the cramped spaces, walling off areas with endless book spines and papers. Luhan inhales deep with his nose.

                “The smell of books is great, don’t you think?”

                I hum a response, not knowing what to say.

                Luhan scans through a row of crinkled books, carefully eyeing each book spine with a complete focus I can’t even begin to explain. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even breathe. He’s just looking at the books. I ask him what he’s looking for so I can help, but he doesn’t respond.

                After a about a half hour of silence, Luhan jerks up, with a hardcover book in his hand.

                “Found it!” exasperates Luhan.

                I examine the spine. Of Limitless Possibilities. There’s no author.

                “What’s it about?” I ask.

                “Something interesting, I’m sure of it.”

                “So you just randomly found it?”

                “Yeah. I had no idea what book I was going to get today, or how long it would take to find one. But it didn’t take that long, right?”

                I ruffle the back of my head more out of habit than frustration.

                “Fine, whatever.”

                Luhan pushes me over to the counter. “Don’t sound so angry. It makes it seem like you don’t like me.”

                “And what if I don’t?”

                He shrugs. “So be it. I won’t push you. But you came with me here for some reason, whether you know it or not.”

                Luhan pays the old man at the counter. The poor boy tried to make conversation with the man, asking him how was business and other trivialities, but the old man doesn’t respond with anything substantial. But they know each other at least. Luhan must be a regular, a regular annoyance.

                I walk outside since I was getting sick of the waiting, and the old book smell got to my head.  Before Luhan leaves, I see him drop off a book with the old man.

                “He likes donations. I always give him a book every time I buy one. A kind of karmic recycling of literary food.”

                I nod in response, because it’s hard to keep track of what he’s thinking sometimes. If you just accept it, then it’s fine. It usually never concerns you anyway.

                Luhan offers to go to a café for coffee. He says he knows this really good place nearby. So I follow him, without hesitation, without doubt. I don’t know why I want to stay with Luhan. It’s almost as if there’s this inner magnet inside my chest, constantly gravitating me towards him. I’m not against hanging out with him, but I don’t enjoy it either. I’m like one of those devout religious people that blindly follow a faith, and for what reason? I don’t think anyone knows the answer to that.

                He orders a mocha and I get a skim latte. We sit down on some old couch with duct tape over its holes. The café thrives off its quaint appeal, trying to make the place feel homey and . If anything, the place looks outdated and in the brink of bankruptcy.

                “So what kind of books do you write?” I ask.

                “The normal kind. Fiction, sometimes semi-autobiographical. The run-of-the-mill type stuff.”

                I want to ask for the title of the novel, but I didn’t want to seem like I was prying. So instead, I opt out for even more vague questions that will probably get vague answers.

                “You’re like what, twenty? And you’ve already published a couple of books. Pretty successful for a kid.”

                “I’m twenty-two, actually.” I think he looks younger. “And I’ve just been lucky. I’ve had connections in the publishing industry, and managed to get a book deal from that. It all came down to dumb-luck, not really raw talent. Those with raw talent die before they get famous. And I haven’t died yet.”

                We sip our coffee and Luhan reads his new book, whilst I watch a couple of buskers dance in front of a modest crowd. The choreography is unpolished, but the moves are executed to perfection. It’s the type of chaotic order that makes you marvel at how some movements are possible. I thought of being a dancer when I was a kid. I had the drive, the physical capabilities and the support to be one. But things turned out for the worst. On the way to an audition for a company, the car I was in crashed. There were no casualties, just minor injuries that temporarily prevented me from moving my left leg. After that I didn’t bother going for another audition. I wonder what I’d be doing if I made it to that audition. I’d probably have debuted in some boy-band, gained moderate success as a main dancer, maybe even learned to rap. But at the age of nineteen, you have no room for thoughts like these. Thinking about empty possibilities layer over each other until you find yourself climbing a mountain of regret when you’re old.

                “I’m going to the toilet,” announces Luhan. He gets up and walks off, leaving his book face down on the page he’s up to.

                Curious, I lift it up and flick through it. It’s verbose, thick with text with barely any paragraphs and dialogue. Is this even a novel, or some textbook? I read the chapter Luhan’s up to.

                Of all the infinite worlds of infinite possibilities, I found that each reality had constants and variables. Things that would be a fixed, permanent characteristic to a world, and things that would change. One example is of a boy I met during my travels. For the sake of keeping annoynimity, I will name this boy, Kai.
                Kai was a dancer, his movements fluid like the wind and strong as the ocean. Kai was a journalist interested in the paranormal. Kai was a mercenary, doing life-threatening errands for money. Kai was a child I met in high school. Kai was a taxi driver that drove me home one night. All these Kai’s are the same person, the same soul, but exist in different worlds. Parallel realities that house different possibilities and different outcomes. The variables: what Kai was, what he did, what he looked like, where he was. The constants: who Kai was, what he represented to me, my absolute and transcendent love for him.

                Luhan sits down and forces out a cough. "That's my book. I paid for it, so I get to read it. I ain't a public library."

                I dutifully set it back down. "Sorry."

                He went back to reading in silence, and I checked my phone. My boss sent a text to me after I refused to pick up his calls, telling me not to bother going into work anymore and to drop off my uniform, washed and ironed tomorrow morning. I should be feeling angry, or upset, but my nerves couldn't feel a thing. Apathy ran through my veins and I felt emptier than I have ever felt in years. Turning to look outside again, I stare at the dancing buskers like a solitary star staring at a cluster of galaxies. 

                "Do you have to go back to work soon?" asks Luhan without looking up.

                "No. I just got fired."

                Luhan keeps on reading and says only one thing. “That sounds about right.”

                I want to ask what he meant, but my mouth just wouldn’t open. There’s something odd in the way Luhan talks. It’s as though he knows something you don’t, but at the same time, he doesn’t know he knows it. An underlying meaning just waiting to be ripped apart.

                Time passes with no pace. I felt stagnant, suspended in water, just waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. Luhan kept reading his book, the dancing buskers kept dancing, the sun seemed to never move from its three-quarter position. Even the wind seems to have frozen solid. It's times like these where I feel invisible, transparent to the externalities, like anything and everything can phase through me. I feel empty, lacking of substance. And when I sit really still, I blend into the backdrop. I'm like an ornament in a room, a piece of furniture that's rarely used. Sitting there, waiting for something to happen, but knowing that nothing ever will.

                Luhan announces that he's ready to leave with a quiet whisper of inclination, and I nod. We walk outside, him leading the way. He asks where I want to go.

                "Nowhere in particular," I reply.

                "How about the train station?"

                "Do you need to go somewhere?"

                "No, not really. I'm happy where I am right now."

                I shrug and motion him to lead the way. I have no idea why he wants to go to the train station, but I don't question him further. I'd rather go nowhere than go back to my apartment. We mostly walk in silence. Periodically, Luhan asks obligatory questions on the happenings of my life, and I give honest and laconic replies. The scenery changes like the seasons, ignored by some people, taken for granted by the rest. Once we reach the train station, Luhan buys two tickets to a suburb nearby.

                "Do you want me to pay you back?" I ask.

                "My treat, Jong-In. I'm the one dragging you around."

                "Not really. I'm just following."

                We hop on the next train, and find ourselves in an empty carriage.

                "I've always loved catching the train," says Luhan, "there's something about the sound of the wheels on the rails, the ca-clunk, ca-clunk that makes me calm. The feeling is kind of like an echo. An echo from my past lives. Do you believe in soul mates, Jong-In?"

                "Depends on the definition."

                "Well, this isn't exactly scientific. But I like to believe soul mates are just two souls entwined with each other. They're born, they live, they die, they're born again, they live, they die again. The cycle goes on and on. They live countless lives."

                "So like reincarnation?"

                "Yeah, something like that. But each life they live, these two entwined souls meet time and time again, like ice skaters dancing in a figure eight. They're fates, destined by design, end up the same for every life. They can't escape the cycle. They could be friends, family, lovers, enemies. IT doesn't matter. The bond they have is constant and it lives on even through death itself."

                To me, what he said sounds ridiculous. "Doesn’t sound like it has any substance behind it."

                "Does anything have substance? I don’t have proof, or any leads, but I have this book," he pats the backpack on his lap and continues, "I know it's just fiction, but it feels real. Does something have to have a corporal form in order to be real?"

                I think hard about the question. "I guess not." Luhan spins the silver ring around his finger. "I never took you as the type to go into philosophy."

                "I'm not," he replies, "I'm just curious about why things are they way they are. Like, how is it possible that we met? Of all the billion people in the world, we met each other on some night out for a good one-night stand. But now here we are, buying books with each other, drinking coffee, riding on a train. Can you explain that?"

                "By random chance?"

                "No. There's no such thing as random, Jong-innie. Everything is lead by some string of fate, a false conception of coincidences."

                "So you're saying it was fate that we met?" I laughably question.

                Luhan stares outside the window and doesn't say a word. I shrug, getting used to his mysterious silences. I close my eyes. Ca-clunk, ca-clunk. The sound is oddly nostalgic. Vibrations hum throughout my body. A symphony of notes, with my veins as the strings and my blood as the air it vibrates.

                "You feel it don't you?" asks Luhan with his focus still on the scenery whipping past. "The train, the sound, the vibration. Do you remember now?"

                "Remember what?" I ask.

                Luhan turns his head to me. His eyes, punctuating his words:

                "Who you were before."