Some things withstand change more boldly; persistently. Amongst these are the evergreens, but the ones that easily falter can be deduced to be fainting petals and the whimsical sand dunes. They bend according to the slightest breath of air, and they are unable to shape their own future. It is sad to think of them that way, but it is not a ridiculous notion.

 

The young man in his early twenties catches himself staring outside the flimsy openings called windows of the freight train, the wind blowing furiously against his core. Its hinges creak, causing him to wince every now and then as the sound is one that seemingly shrieks. His broad hands instinctively clasp his belongings as he wonders the distance remaining regarding the place he calls home. Eyes travel aimlessly, watching the picturesque countryside go and the bumpy ride is the sole factor keeping him in such a trail of thought. The coming of another causes his standing profile to be interrupted. A rather wizened-looking lady – oh, he is not one to comment on people’s appearances but some things cannot be avoided – pokes his side with the walking stick, wearing an unpleasant frown.

 

“What are you doing here, wasting up supposedly free space like that?” she mutters disagreeably. His eyes fall shortly, blinking politely as he ruminates on the sharp remark. The bent woman speaks of him to be most inconsiderate for blocking the passageway. Even so, his respect for the elderly does not cause him to be a liar. “Ah,” is the reply expressed. “I’m not sure if you would understand, but I was just enjoying the scenery.” That answer did not bring forth satisfaction. In fact, the frown on the old woman’s countenance develops.

 

“You could do that by your own respective seat,” she muses, and because he accidentally permits a burst of good-hearted laughter, she accosts. “I must have your name, and make sure that the train conductor charges you extra for your impertinence.” Whether she is serious or not, he does not know. However, give the name he did. With a roguish smile that reaches his dark eyes, the twenty-three year old’s words permeate the morning atmosphere.

 

“Lee Howon at your service, madam. Call me Hoya if you may.”

 

The ride continues into the afternoon, and as the familiar specks of home begin to surface, trepidation fills the young man’s heart. Though the notion is first disregarded, the small packed lunch is utilized and he ambulates the narrow corridor consistently. It annoys the older passengers while the younger ones did not mind at all. By and by, having judged by the intensity of his gaze, a person of similar age poses a question for him. “Hey,” says the messy-haired stranger with an infectious grin, tucking hands into the pockets of a worn-out jeans jacket. “Got a girl waiting for you?” At that, Hoya smiles guardedly. A terse, “Mmh, maybe,” is pronounced and while that reply is scarce, the male in the jeans jacket is eager to relate his own set of tales. Since the gnawing feeling in his heart could not quell, the twenty-three year old keeps the random person company throughout the remaining part of the journey.

 

The male in the jeans jacket sighs exaggeratedly when Hoya mentions that his stop has arrived. “Who am I going to talk to now?” he exclaims, to which the twenty-three year old smiles awkwardly. He is certain that the stranger would do perfectly fine without him – and he does. After an impersonal farewell, the corner of his vision detects the male chatting up with another. Though unlike him, Hoya does wonder as to where this male lived, and of his reason for being on this particular transportation. There are many other forms of transport that would be quicker if they did not come from a very long way. It’s interesting that he never finds out why even though the aberrant companion speaks continuously.

 

Feet venture down the platform, not crowded at this point of time due to the sultry heat. Grey pavement blocks radiate heat waves and the random groups of people are gallantly hoisting their umbrellas, most complaining. It is enough to enervate anybody, including the anxious male. However, it is not the sweltering weather that gets to him. Dark eyes flicker without angled purpose, and its owner finally musters enough courage to raise the slim cellular telephone against his ear, listening to the haunting rhythm of the calling beat. The weight of the strapped backpack on his shoulders has never felt so heavy in his entire life.

 

The gentle lilt of a female’s voice undoes him. A terse and non-addressed greeting that pronounced the word, “Hello”. That is all that is required.

 

“Are you here?” he asks. The twenty-three year old intends a solemn tone regarding his verbal expression, but the individual embarrassingly finds it diminished to a whispered and meek query. Somehow, even though he has been acquainted with many, of all people, the one he calls is the one that has the power to render him speechless. It wouldn’t be fair to say that she must be of rough quality – for it is not so at all. She is like a dear flower.

 

A soft laugh. A quiet, “Don’t you see me?” expresses. The whipping around of the twenty-three year old’s head. A foolish flush of the face. “I’m by the lamp post, the one wearing a sundress,” is what she adds, and he is completely convinced that it was said with a growing smile. The inner groaning at how the ivory lamp post-filled street is the most congested with people.

 

And then he spots her. Or at least it is someone who looks like her. “Are you…?” he quietly breathes, and a yes is indicated by the slow raise of the hand, a merry laughter ringing in his ears. The twenty-three year old notes her astuteness too, having worn sunglasses in this sort of weather. “You make the street brighter by just being there,” he nearly articulates, and a betraying shade of rubescent colours his countenance. He ventures towards the charming figure, his heart a catalogue of jumbled emotions. Step by step, and then they are only a few feet apart.

 

The shuffle of brown shoes lifts the girl’s head slightly. “Howon,” she acknowledges in a simple mien. Feeling flustered, Hoya instinctively covers a portion of his face with his hand. “Hey,” replies the boy with the backpack. Inadequacy drifts in easily and so he tries to communicate again with the girl in the sundress. He nearly calls her by name, his hand reaching for hers when it halts. The twenty-three year old gazes at the companion meaningfully before retracting his hand, using it to lift her sunglasses instead. Dark eyes meet a pair that does not focus on anything. His hand is pushed away professionally by the female, allowing the sunglasses to fall.

 

“That wasn’t very nice of you, Howon.”

 

A numb sensation overtakes him. “You didn’t need to pretend,” says Hoya in a choked voice. “Not with me. Never with me.” A frown slices her expression sharply. turns downward. “I wasn’t pretending,” she responds shortly. “It was me trying to see if you would notice. And you did. Congratulations, Howon.” The appearance of a sweet smile twists his heart. What kind of skewed person would draw joy from such a discovery, painted by a compliment calling someone smart or observant? It’s definitely not one like him.

 

“When?” he asks softly, the noisy surrounding of the train station fading to a dull hum in comparison to this current revelation. Fingers tug at the backpack straps minutely. The smile continues to grace her features. “Eight months ago,” explains the demure companion. “I was tending to the flowers in the corner shop with my mother when I saw a child with a blue helium balloon. Somehow the balloon had gotten out of his grip and it floated across the road. I knew then and there that I had to do something.” The male’s heart shatters into schisms upon hearing the story unfold.

 

“You should ask my mom,” she giggles light-heartedly. “I think I probably overturned some pots by accident. I left the counter and ran after the kid who was already on the sparse street.” A haunting suspire shapes her voice, causing her lips to tremble. “Oh, Howon,” she enunciates vaguely. “Like all stories, you already know how this kind of thing ends.” Painfully, he listens as it is revealed that an oncoming truck driver does not step on the brakes in time. The deafening sound of a crash, fragments splattering everywhere on the pavement and the world that descends into darkness. The ghost of a mild grin moulds her charming face.

 

“The kid died, Howon.” That is the final touch that derails the boy. To have done so much in vain really kills, especially when it came to one like her. A partial expletive bleeds out of his mind and the twenty-three year old’s legs quiver. “I should have been here,” he mourns brokenly. A dismissive wave is what he earns. “The accident would have happened anyway,” she concludes, and he snaps. Not in a violent way, but in a style so crafted in grief and affliction that it causes a gasp to arise from the girl.

 

A distraught, dangerously handsome grin paints Hoya’s face. “Because I was always thinking of you,” he mentions without warning, and the burning heat on his cheeks no longer bother him. In spite of being in the afternoon sun, in spite of being on the street by the row of ivory street lamps, the boy had taken a large number of labelled plastic bags out of the backpack. The familiar grainy sound had dared the girl to think the impossible. Surely the twenty-three year old male hadn’t-

 

But he had.

 

He places a packet into her hands gingerly. Her fingers trace over the stapled label and the bumps of the handwriting sends shivers down her spine. If only she could see, it would have shown her the intricate details that Hoya had decidedly jot down. Matters like where the soil was taken from, what kind of plants had grown on it and other related items. “Howon,” she barely mentions.

 

After finishing high school, the both of them had taken up jobs because that is the only thing to envision at that point of time. She had always wanted to be a florist, so there is no harm done there when she helps her mother out at the shop but Hoya, who tried for a mechanic’s job scope didn’t like it at all. It dragged on for almost two years before he complains.

 

“Then take a holiday,” she had joked, but it was something he considered seriously. And so when he takes off about a year before this current meeting, the boy remembers teasing his companion. “Don’t miss me too much,” he warns lightly. “What would you like me to bring back for you from my future travels?” She had beamed back then.

 

“Just tell me the types of flowers that grew there.”

 

Hoya is certain that he has never met someone so simplistically wonderful before in his whole entire life. Here he is, a person who restlessly travelled for clarity while all she pined for is the sight of foreign fauna. And now he is standing in front of the girl whose face had begun to screw up uncontrollably. The packet is crumpled up in her hands.

 

“… I have gotten used to becoming blind, but I wish that I could just see your smile again,” she elaborates slowly, and tears begin rolling down pale cheeks. The twenty-three old feels like all the wind had been knocked out of him. A punch that jackknifes. The heart that is eventually suffocated with each veined pump. How dare the world not stop and grief as the girl who made logic smile and numbers laugh fall fractionally apart?

 

Hoya involuntarily flinches as her hand touches his cheek abruptly, hitching his breath. In the midst of things, he must have spaced out. “You’ve gotten taller,” she muses randomly, the tears no longer rolling down her cheeks at a furious pace. Hoya remains mute; stiff. Her hand kindly probes at the side of his jaw, the part that extremely near to his left ear. “The scar doesn’t hurt anymore, right?” is a query posed, and one that astonished. Why, when did she ever notice this? Finally, he is screaming internally when she touches the side of his mouth. Just because everything threw him out of proportion it did not mean that he has forgotten their public location! Even so, it does not deter her firm yet gentle act of lifting the corner of his mouth upwards. And she smiles, tear-stricken and all.

 

“It’s been forever since the last time you smiled like that,” she comments with a tone of finality. Memories resurface effortlessly regarding the smile he is so conscious of – the way people laughed at him for wearing a lopsided grin that he naturally has. He had perfected an equal grin throughout the years laboriously, and when his weird and odd-looking one slipped, he wanted to die. All that effort in the past would be wasted – but then the girl had not laughed. In fact, back then, her eyes shone. “Winsome,” she had exclaimed, before stuttering a red-blushed apology out of sensitivity.

 

At last, Hoya realizes the reason why the world didn’t stop and grief. It never would. But with all due respect, it had slowed in the way all good and bad things did. Voices becoming distant, footsteps sounding heavier, raindrops seeming more melancholic – it is just how things work. Laughing quietly, he stuffs the labelled packets back into his backpack, retrieving the last one by uncurling her fingers carefully. Removing the hand that touched his face, the boy looks at the girl softly.

 

Wrapping an arm around her small shoulder tightly, he whispers an endearing, “Let’s go home,” before turning in the supposed direction. And he knows that even as she tentatively grips the end of his shirt’s hemline that he would walk her home every day for always.