The recipe to being Kwon Jiyong is easy. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is a tutorial by Jiyong himself.

      Half cups of talent and hard work, plus a cup of grumpiness. Add to that a pinch of tolerance and patience, or none of it. Mix it with a dash of good looks, because who doesn’t need that, really. And the secret ingredient? Two cups or two pins or two tonnes if you want of pure idiocy.

      Simple.

      I stare at the all-too-familiar café I’m parked in front of, the nth cigarette lit between my shaky fingers prove to be useless.

      Gulping also doesn’t work, it is as if my throat is constricted to essential breathing air. Frankly, I don’t think this moment is worth living for.

      What if she hates me after today?

      What if she doesn’t want anything to do with the past?

      So many things can go wrong. But Yongbae said I just have to do it like a man. Yes, face this like a mature person who isn’t ashamed of his feelings.

      I love her.

      I’m not ashamed.

      But I’m afraid.

      Even though I know her more than she might know herself right now, I’m just a stranger to her. A new friend if I may be optimistic.

      Inhaling a large intake of the tobacco left in the roll, I crush out the fire in the sticky coffee cup and get out of the car slowly, hoping the moment would postpone.

      I smile sadly when my eyes wander across the café’s name – Canary Café.

      Birds of love. The owner once said we were her most beloved Canaries.

      My heart palpitates, like a caged bird hoping to be set free. My right hand unconsciously goes up to my mouth, and I start chewing on my thumb nail as I make my way inside the dreadful place I had stored away in my memory.

      My eyes immediately go to the farthest corner, my legs following them without thinking much about it. I’m early, wanting to get used to the place where it can either bring my spirits down or crush them.

      When I sit down, a full view of the small vintage café greets me. From here, it looks different than when Dara had asked me to bring her a couple of weeks ago. It is as if I’m seeing the place from the eyes of a Kwon Jiyong in love, five to six years ago.

      Many things have changed since I’ve last been here. After the accident, I wouldn’t dare go anywhere I would have been reminded of her. It made things more real – like there is no chance in reunion.

      Funny how we’re meeting again, in the same place where it had all started.

      This is where we had our very first actual conversation.

      Yongbae and I’s first End of Semester performance had ended. The response had been great, the critics had loved his vocals. But they didn’t like my production as much – Thinking about it now, it had been too ambitious for a first love song.

      A love song inspired by a very pretty, a very elegant ballerina that goes by the anonymous name of Park Sandara.

      Sandara and I had had a fight on a staircase about some misunderstanding a week before the performance, it was never her or Choi Hye Yoon who had said anything to the dean. She hadn’t acknowledged my existence ever since. I had been too egoistic to say anything.

      A week after the performance, I was getting my normal morning coffee fix when I see her here. She was sitting at this exact table, a chocolate muffin ignored as she focuses on a book, adorable oversized glasses sliding down her nose.

      She was pouting, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

      So I had done what I wouldn’t have imagined doing; I joined her at the table.

      She hadn’t noticed me at first, softly wetting her finger tip to flip the page. Her other hand was blindly stabbing a fork around to reach the muffin. I had pushed the plate to where her fork was, a soft ‘thank you’ coming out.

      That is when she had noticed me.

      A normal person would have been annoyed to see someone they don’t like in such a position. They would demand them to leave, or yell in shock.

      She didn’t though.

      When she had looked up, the first thing she had said was: Don’t tell Coach I’m eating chocolate.

      From there, I had apologized for my behaviour, she hadn’t completely forgiven me but we did talk. I hadn’t liked chocolate, she was convincing me. She had liked my song from the performance, I was criticizing it.

      I sigh, remembering that isn’t the way things are now.

      Right at this moment, I see her passing by through the main road mirrors, and all the bile in my stomach are collided in knots, punching and bruising at my sanity.

      There is no going back now.

      Nothing bad is going to happen.

      We were bound to have this conversation someday.

      I have always loved her.

      She’s getting married.

      No big deal.

      .

      She looks around, and our eyes meet. Her face is red and it looks tattered. As if she hadn’t slept for ages. She probably hasn’t.

      Her smile comes out as a grimace, and I notice her hands tighten around the straps of her bag. She lowers her head, and sits across from me. I swear I can faint right here, my head dizzy.

      “Hello,” she mumbles, different from the witty tone she uses with me. “Thank you for coming.”

      “Of course,” I nod and straighten myself, my hoarse voice scratching the back of my throat. “Why wouldn’t I?”

      Maybe because I don’t want to face you after being a drunk idiot who confessed out of nowhere. But, really, why wouldn’t I?