The blast of cold air that smacked her face was frigid, if a little unforgiving.

Gayoon shivered; the draft snuck its way down her spine, found refuge curled against her bare arm. She reached into the fridge anyway, pushing aside bowls of batters left to stand for the night, half-iced cakes as flat as slabs of rock and leftover buttercream from the cake she helped ice the night before. The one she was looking for was tucked at the far back, safe from touch or sight.

She withdrew it; the cake was far smaller than anything of her usual make, a delicate thing heavy and moist with chocolate, frosted with icing as fine as foam. The chocolate swirls she carved out curled and twirled against a backdrop of dusted cocoa. It was a creation as fine and as tedious as any, and she hoped that the heart, piped in red at the very centre, served to convey what words cannot.

Gently, she placed it in a box, sealing it with a pink ribbon patterned silver at the edges. As her hands worked on the knot, she wondered if this was right, if fate, for once, would be on her side and the cake would be reach his hands without fuss or fight. She faltered at the thought but forged on regardless. The cake was everything that was in her heart and more.

The sun had risen when she was done, wreathing the ribbon, her hair. An odd burst of courage coaxed her to pick up the box and tug on her jacket. Her footsteps echoed against the silence, and the click of the door had a note of finality to it, of strange foreboding.

He usually played at the park from eight to ten in weekends, a time when hearts are light and humanity finds itself prowling for a little glimpse of nature. It was when the sun still hadn’t found it in itself to glare, when tranquillity mastered that short snippet in the fabric of time.

He wasn’t hard to find; he usually stationed himself under the boughs of a large tree a little on the edges of the park. Today was no different, and she soon spotted him settled on the soft grass, cradling a guitar as gently as though he was holding a lover. Sunlight peppered his hair from the cracks of the leaves, gold melting into ebony. The notes he plucked were disjointed, raw before his fine fingers refined the strings to deliver the proper frequency. He was just getting started.

Her breath caught when he cocked his bright eyes and smiled.

He wasn’t looking at her of course; he never looked at one place when he dealt with an audience. His warm eyes somehow managed to extend its welcome to everyone he looked at, his smile encompassing every soul like arms stretched out for a hug. His voice when he spoke was husky; she wouldn’t lie and say it never haunted her dreams.

Byun Baekhyun was her dream come to life.

At first glance, he was nothing special. Average height, fair skin and friendly, slanted eyes. But the longer she looked, the more he appealed to her. His smile was always bright and sincere, his hair was endearing in the mornings when he left it tousled. He had the hands of a pianist, long and slender like a swan’s neck. And when she heard him sing, she swore the ground quaked below her.

He chose a faster number today, a cheery song for a beautiful new day. Many gathered to witness the vocals of Byun Baekhyun, and he didn’t disappoint. His voice floated over the lyrics, found small crevices in the melody to drip emotions into. He charmed as well as impressed, and for a moment Gayoon allowed herself to think that he was singing to her.

He soon might be, she thought, and her heart skipped.

Baekhyun’s guitar case was open at his feet; a few friendly coins found its way in, glittering at the base. A bill was tossed in after Baekhyun hit a particularly high note, and the smile that touched his lips was both a grateful twist and a flirtatious tease to the girl from whom it came.

She stayed at the fringes of the crowd. The box felt heavy in her hands. She tried to curve as much of her body over it, lest the cream melts. The fifteen minutes were agony. Her palms were sweaty, her legs heavy, but Baekhyun still shone. When he opened his mouth to introduce each consequent number, his voice was still a playful lilt that drew her a little bit closer.

“And that concludes today’s showcase!” he laughed as he strummed out the last note. He was grinning, his eyes curving, fluttering into winks that he threw easily into the crowd. Then his voice turned sincere; he doled out repeated thank yous, bent himself at the waist in bows too deep.

She watched the crowd dissipate. The fringes were the first to alight. Baekhyun’s form became easier to see with every hole and crack. She pushed herself further in, heart listless.

But then something made her stop short. The spring sun was rarely so harsh, but she felt it against her neck. It was easy to let her heart drop, her eyes to burn.

The girl that threw herself into Baekhyun’s arms was the same one that threw in his case the note. Baekhyun’s arms folded easily over her back, fingers resting fondly around her waist. His lips buried in her hair revealed a tender smile at the corners.

She didn’t realise that she was crying. She touched her cheek, felt the warmth slide over her fingers, and turned in her heel. She walked quickly; she was sure she left her heart crushed somewhere along the way.

They say it took time for the brain to process pain. When hers settled, she realised that she could walk no more.

She had walked a good length of the park; already her legs had taken her towards the far edge. When she found them giving way, the bench became a welcome sight. She sat down heavily. She felt it odd how she managed to hold herself up to walk that far when now, her legs felt too weak to bear her weight.

She was tear-stained, but her cheeks were dry, her skin tight. If she smiled, it would be insincere. She stared at the box on her lap. The ribbon was loose now, so she threaded it back into a knot. She wondered if her heart could be wrapped up just as easily, if the pain can be dulled if she made it empty.

The whistle of a sigh was almost surprising if she hadn’t remembered that this was a park.

She turned. At the far edge of her stone bench sat another boy. He faced away from her, towards the foliage of greenery that teemed and brimmed with too many leaves. His back was curved; the hair that crawled down his nape was a shocking platinum. She noticed the fingers carding through them though. They were lovely and long, all ten nails perfect crescents.

I suppose we’re on the same boat, she thought. The hunch in the boy’s shoulders could only be shaped by devastation.

Perhaps, after experiencing a disappointment so raw, it was easy to nurse for him the same sympathy.

“Pretty flowers,” she called out to him. “Are they yours?”

The boy whirled around, surprised to be addressed. Gayoon gestured at the bouquet perched behind him with a smile. The petals were drooping, weeping onto the cold stone bench.

“Yes,” he replied. His voice was deep, musical like echoes in a well. “Technically speaking they are mine.”

“Why technically?”

“Because I’m not supposed to have them right now.” His smile was tight. “They’re supposed to belong to someone else.” He picked it up from the unforgiving stone, swinging it around as though he couldn’t care less.

He jerked a chin towards the box in her lap. “Like yours. It’s supposed to be someone else’s right?”

“Technically,” she said, making no effort to hide her wince.

“Was it a gift for a special day? Or is it your first, meant to accompany a confession?”

“Confession,” she admitted. “But it’s not my first. I’ve given him many gifts throughout many years, but then again, so did a lot of girls.”

The boy laughed softly. “I see. Unrequited love then.”

“What about yours?”

“Once mutual, but now no more.” He paused to stare at the bouquet, his expression despondent. “I suppose it’s one form of unrequited love. The only difference between yours and mine is that I didn’t know that it was one-sided until today. A breakup on your first anniversary. Talk about a low blow.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that.

“What about you?” he asked. From the way he spoke, she knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. “Was he nice about it, the rejection?”

“Actually, I didn’t get to say anything,” she said. It was easy to fall into the boy’s comfortable manner of speaking. She thought she might have sounded just a tad amused. “I found out he already had a girlfriend when she practically threw herself against him.”

This time, he winced. “Not the best way to find out, I imagine.”

“The worst.”

“So my flowers and your pretty gift box. I suppose they’re meant to be ours now, right?”

“I’d rather not keep mine,” she mourned.

“Neither do I,” he agreed. He held the bouquet away gingerly. “Far too many bad memories.” He glanced at her, and then dropped his eyes to her box. “How about a suggestion?”

She looked up, intrigued. “Go on.”

“I warn you it’s crazy.”

“I feel crazy right now.”

The smirk was a tug at his lips. “How about we exchange?”

She blinked at him.

“I take your pretty gift box, you take my flowers.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “It sounds like a good idea.”

They stood up at the same time. It was easy to get her legs to stand, to walk and to meet him in the middle. He was taller than her and had eyes like liquid obsidian.

“They were pretty once,” he said sheepishly, passing her the bouquet. “My hands were never good preservers of beauty.

“They must be, if they had been your choice of a gift.” She held out hers. “Here you go.”

“What’s in it?” He eyed it curiously.

“Don’t shake it,” she said jokingly. “It’s a cake, actually.”

“Great! I love cakes.”

“It’s chocolate.”

His grin was wide and infectious. “All the better. I almost feel sorry for the guy for not getting this.”

She laughed then. The feeling was light and easy.

Something beeped. He fished out his cell phone from his pocket. “Time to go our own separate ways, I guess,” he said, eyes scanning the screen. “I have a friend to meet.”

“It’s a pleasure exchanging gifts with you.”

“I’m all for free deserts,” he joked. He flicked a concerned gaze at the flowers drooping in her arms. “I won’t blame you if you throw those away, you know.”

“Nothing a little bit of water can’t cure.”

He was backing away by now. “Some miracle, it’d be. Bye! I’d stay longer, but I really do have to take off.”

She raised her hand in a wave, but he was already sprinting down the nearest path. She watched him go, the boy with hair like sunshine and eyes as dark as midnight. A construction of contradictions.

She turned and walked slowly away. Perhaps two broken hearts wouldn’t make a whole, but they were easier to mend when you knew you weren’t the only one.