one.
And he always wonders if this is what he is made for. Namjoon isn’t sure if the road is what drew his future on a thin paper as if the colours blurred by the edges, not letting him see the end because there are cars passing far too fast to catch their outlines in the rearview mirror. He travels in a new city, a new world every day and he’s not sure if that’s what his map is painted for. All he knows is that it feels so right, never stopping for there never is anything to settle down for, there isn’t anything anywhere that makes him want to stay and never turn back, it seems he’s just been on the road forever and that’s all he knows, not remembering where he came from because he left so long ago. Street signs pass him by every day and he doesn’t know if the world would’ve changed overnight because every time it’s different. He never has the time to get used to it anyway. All he knows is that when he rolls down the window and breathes in he feels nothing else than freedom that almost settles on the tip of his tongue and if he tries to say anything it would fall right out. But then again, there’s nobody to listen to what he says. He drives too fast to get to know anyone. He never stays long enough to stop being alone. It doesn’t bother him or so he says.

two.
It’s strange, the way you met, almost as a joke, a story that has been told, a comedy that has been watched. It’s strange, the way you met, he said something in a language you didn’t understand but you didn’t really care, he was beautiful, for that moment it was all that mattered. You found each other in a single click of the clock hands, when his time had stopped only for a second and you somehow matched right in that single eternity made out of so many short units of time, infinities breaking down and washing down your throats as he bought you a drink and inside of it there was the reflection of clouds that swam. You drank them too.
It’s strange, the way he met you and in a split second he decided you probably were something that was worth staying for, something to settle down for, something that plays his favourite song, something that helps him understand that maybe his map wasn’t drawn for this after all and he doesn’t mind. He gets used to not driving his car on darks roads and the scent of freedom. He can still feel it from the passenger seat when you drive him home.

three.
Hands intertwined, a shower, rain of sparks and short lasting breaths, a finger tracing the outlines of your face, your nose, your lips, the spark in your eyes, drinking them all in until he can take no more, and when he breathes out the moon settles on his mouth, he, who swallowed the moonlight. He squints his eyes trying to make the difference between shooting stars and satellites. He hardly can. He thinks he has found what left the place next to him empty all those years and he thinks that maybe if he could name the brightest star he would call it by your name so every time you climb the steps to your roof to watch as the sky cries with tears that shine so bright, the times that the stars fall as if gravity has finally pulled them down after leaving them hanging on invisible strings for so long, then he can point his finger to the sky and say “I can see you at night, even when you’re not by my side.” He wonders sometimes. He wonders what would he be doing now if he hadn’t met you. He wonders.

“Do they collide?”
“Do you mean shooting stars?”
He only nods while his eyes stay ever fixed on the sky.
“I think yes. I think we, you and me, are maybe shooting stars too, more or less.”