Do you ever wonder how many times you've seen the same bird without realizing it? You don't recognize it among the others and it may never cross your mind that you've seen this bird several, maybe many, times.

   The first time I met my bird, he was six and I was eleven. I had gone to my best friend's house on a humid summer day and there I was introduced to his sister and her friend, my bird. They had recently learned how to use a magnifying glass to torture ants and spent most of their time perfecting the process. They only stopped for snack breaks, during which they would come and plead for us to play with them. We'd deny them with irritated sighs.
   That November, my friend's sister died, he stopped smiling, and we stopped talking.

   The second time, he was thirteen. We collided at the grocery store as I was turning a corner. Before I could even try, he muttered an apology and ran off.

   The third time, I was twenty-two and he was working as a waiter in a restaurant. I was embarrassingly drunk and it was a surprise I was coherent at all, even if barely. My bird kept fluttering around my friends and me, continuously asking if there was anyone I wanted him to call, even if just a cab. I briefly stopped to marvel at how genuinely concerned he was. 
   I was too drunk that night to remember it the next morning.

   The fourth time, he was nineteen, playing guitar and singing. His sweet, angelic voice was enough to win anyone over and pique even my interest. Yet, without a reason, I left the bar and it never crossed my mind again.

   The fifth time, he was twenty-two and I was twenty-six. I was lying in a hospital bed and he came in with a bright smile and informed me that he would be my nurse. I gave a half-attempted smile in return. He said he had to go but would return later. I didn't believe him until he showed up about an hour into the afternoon with a Poptart and a water bottle. He sat in the chair beside my bed and asked me a plethora of questions about my life. I gave as little information as possible, but became curious and began questioning him. He seemed somewhat taken aback. Telling me his lunch break was over, he left his Poptart lying on the bed next to me.
   That was how I spent his birthday.

   The sixth time, he didn't have to work and came to visit me. He brought snacks for me, saying he hated not having anything he wanted to eat while he was in the hospital. When I asked him why he had been in the hospital, he merely smiled and asked about my sister. We talked for hours and learned a great deal about each other. He could play guitar and piano, he used to be a waiter, he had a tendency to accidentally run into people, and he wondered what became of the girl he had played with as a child. I told him how I greatly admired anyone who could play an instrument, I used to drink too much alcohol for my own good, I ran into people all the time as well, and spending humid summer days with my childhood best friend. I learned of his hobbies and passions and dislikes and he learned of mine. I found myself taking quite a liking to the boy just in time for him to gasp, tell me he was late for something, and say a hurried goodbye as he ran out of the room.

   The seventh time, he told me his name: Jeongmin. Jeongmin, Jeongmin, Jeongmin. The name felt sweet on my lips. He spoke my name for the first time and I had to stop myself from begging him to repeat "Donghyun" because I loved the way he said it. He didn't bring any snacks that time. He sheepishly admitted that he really liked talking to me and he hoped that was alright. I assured him that I enjoyed his company, and we exchanged phone numbers.

   The eighth time, it was my twenty-seventh birthday. All of my friends and colleagues had already gone home, leaving just Jeongmin and me. He told me he had something to say and asked me to take a walk with him. As we had both been drinking, there was a possibility that he would confess something, so I was intrigued. I was not expecting him to kiss me. I was not expecting to kiss back without thinking. We skipped the confessions and went straight into an unspoken relationship.
   The counting stopped here.
   After this, everything seemed to come in flashes.

   He held my hand, lightly running his thumb over mine. We were watching a television show together and he fell asleep in my embrace. I placed light kisses on his face, silently claiming him as mine.

   The first time he cooked for me, I joked about marrying him just to have him cook for me everyday, which made him blush and laugh nervously.

   We sat on the bench at a park, exchanging stories, when he suddenly begged me to push him on the swings. I playfully mocked his childishness, but obliged. His laughter, which could be heard clearly in the warm spring air, immediately became one of my favorite sounds.

   I sat on the floor and he lay with his head in my lap, staring up at me with those eyes that disappeared when he smiled. I played with his hair and listened to him go on about his favorite band. I knew I'd never get sick of hearing his voice. 

   One day, he played piano for me and I knew I'd never forget the way he looked up at me when he was finished, searching my face for approval. I clapped, earning a smile and an exaggerated bow from him. I played piano for him, he sang along, making up lyrics, and we somehow ended up laughing. 

   He made dinner for me because he knew it had been a tough day. He went home early, saying he didn't feel well. I missed him the second he left.

   I planned to surprise him at work, but found he wasn't there. He had called in sick.

   The summer he was twenty-three and I was twenty-eight, I watched his pitiful form sleeping in a hospital bed. I tried to ignore all the machines, the tubes, the proof that he wasn't okay. I brought him Poptarts and all of his favorite snacks, just in case he was finally well enough to eat. One evening, the staff asked me to leave with somber expressions.
   My greatest regret in life is that I didn't stay the night.

   The last time I meet my bird, it will be a sunny, humid summer day, much like it was when we first met. I will bring him flowers. He won't say anything and I won't expect him to. I will probably cry, but he'll still remain silent. I'll trace the letters on the dark stone and memorize the way it feels. After some time, maybe seconds, maybe hours, I'll leave and I won't look back.
   I'll be thirty, but I know I'll spend eternity missing him.