Autumn, my favorite season. I love the smell of rain finally hitting the dry soil after the bright, sunny days of summer when the sun has kissed my skin, I love the colour of the leaves changing from the lively green to the maple brown and I love sitting idly in a cafe with a good book and all cozy accompanied with a mug of hot chocolate. Here I am again, at the very same corner, the very same table as I have been sitting for the past years. I don't really know what I'm doing but all the waiters and waitresses are much familiarised with myself without even having to bring a note pad or the menu to know what I'd be asking for.

I heard she's only here for the guy.

People said she is a little, you know, insane but I think that's not it.

Maybe she just like the muffin and hot chocolate here.

Those are some of the whispers and murmurs they would share behind their backs, wondering why would I have them reserve the same spot again and again every year. My eyes wander, looking around the little cafe situated at a corner of a busy street. The ceiling is low, walls are painted a shade of light grey and decorated with multiple photo frames that showcased paintings from a famous artist, an artist that I know very well or should I say, have known. . . Atop of the frames are dangled string lights, which aren't during the day but when at night, the light alternately changes as the minute goes by.

Few years back, I wouldn't even be occupying myself in a cafe, sitting idly like I had all the time in the world – I would be behind a desk, in an office, with paperworks piling and as the day went, it only felt like the paperwork doubled instead of actually decreasing. I figured I would be married by the age of 27, having three kids and maybe, my husband would have been a rough house though I never would have thought that I would like the taste of hot chocolate as I was too accustomed with the bitter liquid of coffee, I would have never thought that I would be travelling from an art exhibit to another on a Sunday when I knew I had church going on the very morning; all because of this particular painter.

I remember his name like how I remember the codes when filing papers, Kai, the sound of his name rolling off my tongue always sent a shiver to my spine but at the same time, I feel a lump in my throat, a pang of pain in my chest and a wrench in my gut.

And that was only his pseudonym, I only learned his real name after he left, or as media had published; after he went missing. My train of thoughts are distracted when I feel a tap on my shoulder, I look up and weakly flash a simper towards the lassie, Luna or Mina, as I last recalled it. She is hugging a tray, I assume she had just served a customer to which I usher her towards the empty seat across of me that she gladly takes.

I await for her to see if she happened to have anything to say but as she did not utter a word, I gladly offer her a starter, "What was your name again? I have a very bad memory." Lies, I thought. I could perfectly remember Kai, I could perfectly remember his face and what cigarette he smokes without a second guess. I could perfectly remember the smell of his cologne and how it'd linger around me the next morning after we've spent cuddling the night before and most importantly, I could perfectly remember that I'm his muse. The girl, donning a long, straight brown hair with elliptical eyes and a high-bridged nose replies, "Luna, you can call me Luna."

I nod my head and inquire, "Is there something that you'd like to talk about to me?" For a moment, I could feel her hesitating, seeing her troubled self, I reassure her, "It's okay, whatever it is – you can talk to me." Luna relaxes as she places the tray that she has been hugging for the past minute on her lap before she slowly opens , "I. . . I was wondering," she stutters, "You've been here for the past years and I never quite learned why. . . And I just noticed, a couple of days ago that in this very cafe that there is a portrait of you."

I feel my lips quiver, the same gut wrenching feeling returns and I could hear my heart shatter again, on repeat. She seems to notice my tensed body, she continues, "Maybe I looked wrongly, s-sorry." I shake my head, holding out a hand to inform her to sit back and she obliges to the gesture, I reply, "You are right." A flabbergasted expression paints her features, she inquires, "What?" The sound of disbelief cracking in her voice and I could hear the rest of the workers gasping softly at the background, I nod my head and continue, "It's true," my forefinger points to a photo frame situated by the counter, next to the basket filled with daily cookies that is offered as two packs for five dollars.

"That's me, Jung Soojung," I tell her and she seems perplexed by the statement, eyes trailing to said portrait that I had pointed to. I did not let her interrupt but instead continued, "I knew the owner of this cafe, the artist that you all are a fan of, I'm a fan of him too. I was never a fan of art but he made me fell in love with art and later with him, but I soon learn that he was red and he liked me because I was blue. He touched me and suddenly I was a lilac sky and he decided that purple just wasn't for him."