The clock chimes as it signals that another hour has gone by. I look up from the array of flowers scattered all around me, their scent drowning the room in its flowery essence as I spare a look at the time. 

3:05 a.m.

Damn, it's pretty late, and I had been up all night trying to finish off the last of my works before heading off to bed. You may be wondering why the heck am I even doing, but to make it simple: I'm a florist in charge of my own flower shop, and since Valentine's day coming along soon, orders had been coming in one after the other with a long dreadful list of messages addressed to their loved ones and how much they would live happily ever after and blablabla, the works. 

It's always the same, relentless cycle every year. Trust me, the messages get even worse, as horrible as it sounds. But as long as the shop is working and paying off the monthly rent, then it suits me just fine. 

It isn't like I planned becoming a florist, it just happened when I had been so desperate enough for a job that cutting off flower stems and watering plants had been a way to ensure my income. I had never enjoyed making bouquets, just like I had never enjoyed the art of cooking and could not in the world understand how people managed not to burn their eggs, but then again there had been so many things that I hadn't been aware about, back then.

3:05 a.m.

The time bounces back through my mind like a red light, an alert to signal that a memory is slowly crawling it's way into my brain, and I have no control over trying to escape it this time. 

So I close my eyes in defeat, letting myself get into the flashback as a whirl of emotions suddenly stir up through my stomach. Pain, tears, so many other sensations that take me by surprise, though I should have prepared myself mentally for this sudden overflow. 

Outside, the air is chilly, and the world is blanketed in white while small snowflakes make their way down like floating pieces of cotton fluff. 

It had been just as cold during that time, it had been snowing. 

Take me back.

---------

-3 years ago- 

It all started with a paper crane. 

Snipping off one last stem, I gather all of the flowers and tie them together before putting them into a glass vase filled with water. Teasing the different colored petals, I take a step back to squint at my latest composition. A small smile lingers on my lips as I take it in, and I must say, for a beginner, my bouquet does not look that bad. 

"Lara!" My boss-- going by the name of Claire-- comes rushing in with another bouquet in hand, hair ruffled and glasses askew on her face, "The new arrival's here! Get a move on!" 

"Right" I mumble under my breath. One thing I learnt from being around a florist for so long; is that they do not seem as calm and collected and relaxed as they look. To be honest, they're probably the worst kind of people to be around when the season of love and christmas starts kicking in and orders pile up. 

I step to the back where the truck has brought in the new orders, and catch sight of the filled bucket. As I screw open the lid, I come face to face with a new batch of beautiful, blossomed roses. Believe it or not, the sight of fresh flowers always brings a grin onto my face. It can be one of the only good things about this particular job, there's just something oddly satisfying knowing that such a simple thing can bring so much value to someone's life.

Taking a hold of the bucket handle, I take a deep breath, brace myself for the weight, and heave up the batch with a groan.

Damn. Heavier than I thought. 

I try again, this time wrapping my arms around the bucket and bending my knees for more support. I push upwards, but it doesn't budge an inch. How in the world can roses weigh so much?!

If I don't bring them in the next five minutes, I am risking getting a scolding from Claire, and that is not going to be pretty. 

I take a deep breath. Okay, concentrate, I think to myself before wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, practically folding my limbs around the load like a snake and using all my remaining strength to try and budge the damned thing. In vain.

Zap! 

I shriek when something whizzes past my ear.

I turn my head instinctively towards the suddenly flying object, and catch sight of a slightly crumpled paper crane on the floor by my feet. What the hell? I feel like swearing but instead settle for a groan. I look up towards the direction where it has come from, and my gaze lands on a pair of black converses. 

"Uhm. Hi" 

My eyes scan blue, white-washed jeans, a plain white v-neck shirt, a small gold chain, to finally land on a bizarrely handsome face framed with light blue locks. He isn't handsome in a way that will make you drop whatever you're holding, or that you'll gape at on the street from afar. But he has dainty, very fragile looking features that can be made out of glass, for they are so fine: small thin lips, a defined jawline with a hint of stubble, thin pointy nose and almond shaped eyes that are squinting against the midday sun. 

His hair screams out a rebel, but his face is gentle, and kind, and open. I blink, noting that the paper crane probably belongs to him, before plucking it from the floor. 

I hold it out to him, "that yours?" 

He nods and steps forward to retrieve it. It's when I'm passing it over to him that I take in all of its details; all the carefully folded places that give rise to it's shape. 

"You did this?" I blurt out stupidly. Of course he did, it is his isn't it?! 

How bloody brilliiant.

He nods again, thin fingers cradling it close to his chest as he nudges his head towards the bucket, "you need help with that?"

"Uh" I realize that I still have roses to be cut and freshened up before delivery, "Yeah. Could you?..." 

"Sure" without hesitation, he holds the paper crane in his mouth and lifts the bucket effortlessly, cocking his head as if to ask where should he bring them.

I show him the way inside, quickly muttering a string of apologies for making him do all the work and for bothering him at this hour, to which he replies with a firm shake of his head.

"There you are! Don't you know that--oh!" Claire stops in mid-sentence when she spots the stranger, "Yoongi!" 

Yoongi? My brain processes his name when the boy smiles back in greeting, words muffled by the paper crane as he says, "hey" 

I reach over to pluck out the origami from his mouth, and he nods at me gratefully. 

"It's been a long time!" She rushes over to him, not minding the fact that his hands are full before planting a kiss on his cheek, "where have you been?!" 

"Places" he replies, "where should I put these?" 

She shows him the rest of the way. They go down the hall chattering like old friends they are before they turned into the storeroom. I watch them go, paper crane in hand before turning it this way and that in my hands. It is such a beautiful piece of work, how did he even learn how to make these? 

I sigh. Well, there are more buckets to be unloaded, and Claire will be after me if I don't take them out in time. On the way back, I try to understand how Claire and the mysterious boy with blue hair know each other. Friends? Acquaintances? I have never seen him hanging around the flower shop, and it isn't like he has a face I would forget in the first place. 

Or maybe, ex-lovers? 

I push the thought away, tucking the paper crane in the back of my jeans and hoping that it isn't going to get crushed, before sorting out the buckets in half so that it will be a lighter load to carry. 

Another pair of arms reach out next to me, and with a jolt of surprise I realize it's Yoongi himself, taking another bucketful and carrying it away towards the storeroom. That is nice of him, I think to myself when a small smile grace my lips, so many people just pass by without giving me a sideward glance. 

When we are done, I take out the paper crane and hold it out to him, "Here, that's yours" 

But he shakes his head, "Keep it" 

"Huh?"

"You can keep it" he says and pushes his fringe from his forehead, out of habit I suppose. 

Before I can open my mouth to thank him, he turns and walks away as quickly as he had come. I stare at his back, and look down again at the paper crane carefully folded at the edges, with such precision and skill. 

Thank you, Yoongi.

---------

Each time he announces his presence, he uses a different colored paper crane. Sometimes he comes by the backdoor, surprising me with the origami as it flies past my ear and lands at the table, or sometimes by the front, the bell tingling softly in welcome when he deposits another onto my work desk. 

He writes small messages on each of them, sometimes a mere "Hello.", sometimes a longer sentence, like "how are you feeling today?", sometimes even lame jokes that I cannot help but chuckle at his childishness. I realize that he is more than what I can see on the surface. He is funny, outrageously crazy in his own way, caring at times, and sometimes heartwarming with concern, with care. 

The weeks go by, and it gets colder. Light shirts and flimsy skirts are ditched for warmer sweaters, toasty coats and scarves. The air is crisp with biting winds, chilly and frozen and stagnant. December is filled with Christmas lights and glistening wreaths, happy couples stomping their feet on the cold ground, delicate pieces of snow settling onto over the city in a beautiful land of crystal. Yoongi keeps on coming, helping out with the bouquets and even trying to make his own set of wreaths. 

He is not a big talker, but that suits me fine. I prefer his calming silence than Claire's constant buzz of gossip. She is my boss, so I cannot tell her to shut up, as much as I would love to sometimes. I don't dare to ask about their relationship, but it is an itch that has been bugging to get under my skin. Sometimes, I catch his lingering gaze upon her form, and though I seldom know things about love and relationships, his eyes speak more than any part of him. They're filled with tenderness, a calm fragility of desire sizzling through his brown irises every time he spares her a look. I want to tell him, ask him about it, say that it's okay to love someone as much as he loves Claire, but the words get stuck in my throat for god knows what reason. 

I envy her, not because she has Yoongi's attention, but she's loved, in a way that she's the center of someone's world, that she is the focus, which he thinks about at every waking second. I bet it's a wonderful feeling, being in love. 

I'm snipping off the last stem of the bouquet before turning it this way and that. It looks pretty decent, and I'm satisfied with what I have done. Placing it in a nearby vase along with its order number, I check the clock and my eyes round in surprise at the time. 

3:05 a.m. 

"Yoongi, don't you think you should get going--" I stop in mid-sentence upon turning and catching sight of the boy, unconscious, sprawled out on the floor like a dead puppet. Panic surges through my veins and runs my blood stone cold. It takes me a few seconds to realize what the hell is happening, before I see the trickle of blood from his nose, dark wine red against his white, pale skin.

I'm not really sure whether I screamed. The next few minutes are a flurry of actions and terrified calls to the hospital. I can only remember vaguely, as if a film that had been taken away it's main pieces, but I know I heaved him up against the counter for support, grabbing onto a tissue and trying in vain to stop the blood flow, scrambling together the last pieces of first-aider knowledge I've learned back in college. 

A white van --an ambulance-- parks itself on the curb. A series of shouts, the blaring alarm horn whining in the background like a plea for death, a group of white clothed men, and then Yoongi is wrenched from my grasp and is brought out to the vehicle. 

I remember that there was blood everywhere I looked. I remember vaguely holding on his hand for dear life as we raced through the busy streets, and waiting for him with clasped hands in the form of a prayer as he is ushered into the ICU. 

I remember sitting all alone, feeling useless, gaze stuck to the red alarm sign beeping red. I remember hoping against hope, willing that red sign to turn green, to signal that Yoongi would be fine and out of danger as soon as possible. 

Warm hands envelope me in a blanket, and I look up to meet Claire's gaze. Soft and tender, filled with underlying worry. 

"Ae you okay?" She asks.

I shake my head. No, and I don't think I will be if Yoongi's condition does not get better. 

"I should've told you" Claire sinks down on the seat next to me. Her perfume is of rosemary and mint, I can't help but shy away from it's strong odor. 

She tells me everything. Yoongi is waiting for a heart. Yoongi has a fragile one. He is dying every day, not even sure when he's going to get another one in donation. Hearts are rare things to get these days, Claire says, they're the most difficult organs, especially when you're at this age. More than once, he's been put on the waiting list, only to find that the heart is not meant to be his, that he has to wait more, and the doctors have given him until the end of January next year if he's lucky.

They're ex-lovers, and broke up because he did not want any attachments when he died, he wanted to spare her the heartache and Claire totally understood that. It's his decision, but deep inside, he loves her still, or loved her until just recently. Claire glances at me then, and I have nothing to say back. I ask her if she has loved someone else ever since, and she nods. But I doubt that, I feel like she still harvests feelings for him, and yet is afraid that he'll pull back if she tells him. 

At the end, she's crying. I take her in my arms, rubbing her back in soothing circles and attempting to qualm her pain, her suffering. 

We wait together, and fall asleep without seeing that the red light has finally turned green. 

-------

I spend the next few days managing the shop alone, while Claire is busy with Yoongi, cooking him meals and keeping him company. Initially, I had thought of doing the same thing for I felt like he needed to be surrounded by good vibes, and yet when Claire jumped at the chance to be by his side, I retreated back in my shell. 

But I am taken by utmost surprise when I catch sight of a floating paper crane above my head. I look up, seeing it fall to the floor right next to my desk, and look back towards the entry way where Yoongi is standing, bundled up in his winter clothes and striking blue hair standing on one end. For a moment, my breath halts. Is it really he standing by the door and looking as healthy as I had first seen him? 

"What are you doing here?" 

He shrugs. 

I quickly walk up to him and pull him inside before shutting the door.  Outside, there's a snowstorm: rain of snowflakes pelting down and hammering onto the roof like tiny pieces of rocks being flung here and there. I look out and notice that no other car is parked outside, which means that either someone has dropped him off, or he has walked all the way to here on foot. 

"You're freezing," I say to him when I catch a hold of his arms. He's cold to the touch, ice-cold. 

"I don't have much time" he says, "I wanted to see you" 

I frown, "what?" And then I ask, "aren't you supposed to be in hospital, taking care of yourself?"

He shrugs again, "it's hopeless" 

"That's--" I frown, "that's not a way to talk, Yoongi" 

"Walk with me" he ignores my sentence and directs himself towards the door. I throw him a "are you ing crazy" look as I run after him, "what the-- Yoongi wait!" 

He's already outside, trudging through the snow like he's done this numerous times before, and that this was just ground he's walking on. I quickly shrug on my coat, grab the keys and a beanie, and lock the place before running after him. He doesn't walk fast, and I believe it is because of his heart. I catch up easily and plop the beanie on his head, "here" 

He looks at me in surprise. 

"What?" I ask, "You can't fall sick again, not now" 

"I want to show you something" he looks away, in the distance. I squint, but it's dark outside, and the roads are only alighted with golden lampposts that aren't making it easier either. My eyes find his brown orbs, glinting with a mysterious light I have seldom seen before. They look alive with life, and for once, I let him take my hand and drag me along with him. 

"Can you at least tell me when we're going?" 

He stays silent. I try to follow his lead, but I stumble here and there after him, the snow tripping my feet. The air is colder, thicker, and more stagnant. It fills my nose and clams up my cheeks, hurting so much that I have to cower my face inside my scarf; in vain to hide from it's biting terror. 

We finally stop at the entrance of a park. He lets go of my hand and digs inside a rucksack I failed to notice at first, and like a magician that produces a work of his own, Yoongi pulls out a paper crane, followed by another, and another, and another. 

A kite.

A kite of paper cranes.

My mouth drops in surprise, "You did this?!" 

He nods, a shy smile dancing on his lips, "I had time to kill at the hospital" 

"Wow" I'm speechless. It's amazing, how skilled he is, how he can produce such art with mere hands. 

"As a child, I always wanted to fly my own kite" he explains when he passes one of them to me. He has made two, and I grab onto the object with shaky hands, "But I never got the chance, not when I was always so weak" 

"But--" I start to protest and he cuts me off, "I don't want to hear what I've been hearing all my life" he shakes his head, "Tell me something else" 

He throws his huge paper crane into the sky, letting the wind carry it forth and watching as it soars upwards into the darkness. I send mine up as well, gently letting the rope go one paper crane per one paper crane. It's a beautiful bird flying through the air, shimmering through the clouds and evoking the sense of freedom I've never felt before. Yoongi chuckles beside me, and when I turn to look at his own lips stretched into a grin, I feel my gaze soften. He'll be missed, that I am sure of. 

"What are you staring at?" He catches me off guard with his question. 

I cough, "uhm-- you have beautiful hair" 

He laughs, "thanks, I guess." 

After the wind has ceased and the paper cranes float down to the ground, we pick them up and start trudging back towards the shop. Suddenly, it occurs to me that he has left the hospital. Alone. Meaning that Claire is probably waiting, all furious and twisted with worry about Yoongi's safety and well-being. 

I whip around to face the said boy, "You left Claire all alone?!" 

He frowns, "what?" 

"She's been waiting for you in hospital" I say, "she's probably worried sick! You should get back" 

I grab his arm to pull him forward, but instead, find myself gravitating towards the boy. He shuffles backwards as I fall against his chest, looking up at him with surprised eyes. 

"What is it?" I ask, trying not to get caught up in the tenderness flashing across his face. 

He sighs and pulls me closer, breath fanning over my face. I feel quite intimidated and self-conscious with him being so close and seeing all my imperfections. 

"I don't have much time," he repeats. I frown, hating the words that are coming out of his mouth. Does he have to be so pessimistic? 

"Shut up" I shoot back, "you're not dead yet"

"I will soon" out chests touch now, he's gazing down at me with an unreadable expression etched across his face. An undeniable silence falls as I search his eyes for any indication of what he's thinking about. His gaze pierces through me like a knife, so intense and hard that I slide my gaze away after a moment for I am unable to take in the soft fire that starts bubbling within me. 

"They don't have a heart for me" His face is a mask of coldness, but his fear gives way in the tight line of his mouth, the strain of his pale lips against his even paler skin. 

I hate the way he looks so petrified of death. My heart goes out to him, because although I cannot understand his pain or his terror, I sympathize. I can't imagine not seeing him again. I always took my lingering affections for him as a crush that would surely go away with time, but as I keep on looking at him and taking every single detail of his features, I realize that I've grown to like this guy, to see him more than a friend. 

My heart starts to beat at an alarming pace. It sends me into a whirl of panic and I pull away frantically only to have his grip tighten on my forearms, "I'm too late to say this, but I like you. I've liked you for some time" 

At his words, I freeze in place. 

"Thank you" he murmurs before pulling me closer. I feel his erratic heartbeat against my own. As his head lands on my shoulder and as his arms lace around my waist, I take in the scent of his skin for the first time, and probably the last. 

I murmur out a jumble of words at last, after having scrambled my mind back into place, "for what?" I ask in surprise.

"For making me feel" he pulls away with eyes dancing with a bright light, "I thought I wouldn't, not after Claire" with a swift gesture he leans closer, "but you did. So thank you" 

We keep staring at each other in the dim light of the street. Our gazes clash, fire building like a burdening heat between our bodies. 

And then he kisses me.

The first, and the last. 

I savor it, knowing at the back of my mind that it will be over all too soon, before it even started. I want to grab on every single second of emotion, every spark exploding through the tightness of my chest as my hands grip tightly onto his jacket. I think he feels my frustration, for he pulls me even closer if that's possible.

He accompanies me back home although I tell him off about not taking care of himself first, and was he stupid enough to forget his scarf and mittens in such cold weather? But he only mumbles something about it being worth it, which causes my face to flame. 

My eyes follow his figure disappear through the night. Will this be the last time I'll see him walking on his own two feet? 

My eyes catch sight of the clock at the end of the hallway as I close the door.

3:05 a.m. 

As my hands clench into fists, I feel the paper kite crumble beneath my fingers. 

-------

"Hello?" 

"Why the hell didn't you reply back?!" Claire bellows through the phone the next morning, voice shrill with anxiety as I shrink back and glare at the small rectangular device as if it has been infected.

"You called me?" I inquire with a frown falling over my face.

"Yeah" her voice suddenly sounds subdued, brittle, "It's Yoongi" 

What? "What about him?"

"He's--" her voice is muffled with tears, so thick with the grief and sorrow, "Lara, he's gone" 

--------

Yoongi's pale features. Yoongi's white cheeks. Yoongi's thin lips that curled in wicked grins and gentle smiles, his eyes shining with so much happiness, now closed peacefully as if he were in a deep sleep. 

His heart has stopped suddenly and hadn't started again even when they tried reviving it by electric impulse, the doctor reasons, he believes that Yoongi had made his time, that it has been planned since before, it hasn't come as a surprise that he's now gone. 

Lies, I want to shout back, all a bunch of lies. Every time I saw him, he had seemed at peace, content, hadn't shown any indication of wanting to end his life. And Yoongi isn't-- wasn't one to give up so easily either. 

I hate how they try to deduce everything, trying to point fingers and give a reason to his death, like it's merely just an accident, a failure in a test trial. 

Claire puts her arm around me and sobs into my shoulder, while I stand there gazing at Yoongi's beautiful face one last time. One of his paper cranes-- the last one he gave me had been cyan blue, my favorite color-- has been shoved in my pocket this morning as I had flown out of the door in haste to arrive to the hospital. The paper crinkles softly between my fingers and I hold on to it so tightly my palms start to soak with sweat and my knuckles turn white. 

I want to cry, but one of us has to be strong, has to take care of everything. And I promised myself that no matter what happened to Yoongi, I'd reason out everything and not be rash; I'd respect his death and proceed to grieve him in the most respectable way possible. 

Because he deserves it, and not any less than what he's worth. 

"He told me the truth, in the end" she sniffles into my shoulder, "he liked you very much" 

I press my lips together. It hurts to think about it. 

"At what time did he...die?" I ask, my own voice sounding foreign to my ears. 

"A little bit later after eight last night" she replies with a sniffle. 

I frown. Wait, what?

"You mean-- this morning?" I reply.

She looks over at me like I have gone mad, "Lara, his heart gave out last night, and that's why ever since I've tried calling your cell" 

What? Okay this is getting creepy. Yoongi had been there with me last night, he'd brought me over to the park and we flew kites of paper cranes together. It's impossible; there must be a mistake. 

"But--" I falter. Something tells me that she, nor anyone else for that matter, won’t believe me even if I showed them the crumpled paper crane he gave me last night. But the thought haunts me continuously as the doctor blunders through the normal procedure after a patient's death. 

I let Claire reply to all the questions as I think back again to that night. He had been there, with me, had even kissed me. I had felt his warmth, and I can still feel the warmth of his lips against mine. Something's not right, and it bugs me that I think his death has been otherwise. 

"Yoongi had called for you, you know" Claire whispers when the doctor is busy jotting down data, "before he died, he wanted you to be here" 

I bow my head in silence. But he had seen me, had visited me, it hadn't been a dream but I don't know how to explain this to her without sounding like a maniac. 

When it's time to say goodbye, I stay back while watching Claire blunder forward and crumble before Yoongi's form, sobbing violently. Deep, guttural cries that shake her shoulders like she's being shaken up by an earthquake. I can't look, bowing my head to the floor, as if asking for mercy of the pain. Having Yoongi lie there so peacefully, so at ease makes it even harder to say goodbye, because at any moment I wish I could see him open his eyes and give me another breathtaking smile. 

I touch his cheek gently when it's my turn, eyes already welling up with fresh tears as my hands find his, fingers twining around his cold ones for the first and last time. I feel stupid to talk to him in front of Claire and the doctors, who are uncomfortably hanging by the door in an awkward, subdued silence. 

So I lean forward and press a chaste kiss to his forehead, putting the paper crane inside the front pocket of his jacket-- the worn he had been wearing when he came to visit me-- before I realize something's odd. 

Wait a minute, he came over to see me last night with this jacket on. When he had been hospitalized, he'd been wearing the standard hospital gown... 

So how the hell is he wearing his jacket when he supposedly died before having even visited me? 

That doesn't make sense.

-------

I blink the tear away and the clock strikes one more time, as if making a fool out of me and mocking me with that memory. 

It's been such a long time ever since it happened that sometimes I forget about it, allowing myself the ability to smile. But Yoongi's face will always be a part of me. I see him in traces of everywhere I go; his smile in the face of a gentle cashier when I go get my morning coffee, his talent through one of the street vendors selling cheap caricatures, his milky skin through the children that happily play on the playground. It's like he never left sometimes.

I catch sight of a lingering paper crane on the top of a random flower shelf, half hidden from view due to the potted plants hindering it from my sight.

Yoongi.

I loved him. I really did. I never solved the mystery of how Yoongi had managed to be with me when he was supposedly dead, and all the scenarios of possibilities I had built up in my head all seem as insensible and as crazy as the last. 

But there are things that can't be explained, and though it still drives me to frustration, I'm grateful. Whatever happened, I got the chance to meet Yoongi and share with him his lasting wish, his parting will. He had wanted to fly a kite as a child, and hadn’t been given any opportunity. The fact that I had been the one sharing that memory brings me some kind of honor, for I am touched that I had been the Chosen one at that time, when his life had been hanging on the line.

I learnt a lot from his apparition, that we shouldn’t take for granted whatever we have now, that we shouldn’t brush off simple things as a gentle kiss of a mother, or a loving hug of a father, even a touch from a lover. So many of us manage to cage our hearts in because we’re too afraid to feel, for fear that once we let our hearts roam free to the wild, they might not come back as clean as they once were. But that’s part of life I guess, and that’s how you grow up. You have to experience and feel and learn from whatever you’re doing right now. I’m not saying that what you’re doing is wrong; to limit yourself to the skies when there’s a whole galaxy out there waiting for you to discover it’s mysteries, because I know that you probably feel like it’s not worth it, because you’ll fall down harder than you ever had and probably will regret it later.

But so what?

Isn’t that what life’s all about?

What’s the point of living if you’re only here to breathe?

Sometimes, you have to let go and free yourself.

Yoongi didn’t have to chance at life, didn’t have the strength to plough through that battle, but I’d gladly do it in his stead, because he deserves that much at least.

Just like his paper cranes, he wanted to fly, to feel, to be able to feel the wind trickle through his hair and tickle his cheeks.

Just like his paper cranes, he was fragile. Too fragile. For a paper crane could easily be torn off or bent or broken—and so could he.