[The First and the Last Time They Saw Each Other]

There was nothing special the first time I laid eyes on Sunggyu. Contrary to popular belief, it isn’t always sparks and fireworks when you meet that someone you’d want to spend your life with. Sometimes, it’s simply just the warm rays of the sun gleaming over his pale skin, the specs of dust you see falling over his head, or maybe the coffee you accidentally spill on your own shirt out of constant and absent-minded staring. These small things might lead to something bigger, though. Maybe he’d notice you, he’d approach you and offer you his handkerchief—a spare shirt, even. If you’re lucky, you’d see him still sitting on your table, waiting for you to get changed. You go back to your seat as casually as possible, trying hard not to let him see how flustered you are because of his presence. He’d then introduce himself. “I’m Sunggyu,” he’d say. ”I’m Howon,” you’d say in return. You’d learn he’s not a resident in the area, that he actually lives miles away and had just visited the city for some errands. You’d listen to him as he tells marvelous stories of the places he’d gone to, and you just nod and stay quiet for the farthest you’ve ever set foot on is the outskirts of the city. He’d ask for your number, which you willingly give. A few more stories and he tells you it’s time for him to leave, and he reminds you of the shirt he’d let you borrow, as if he used it as an excuse to see you again (he will later admit it’s true, though).

There was nothing special the first time I met Sunggyu, but each day that passed proved to be different. Each day with him was better than yesterday, and I always had the feeling tomorrow would be even better. Everyday with him would be the best, I’m telling you. But you should still look out for the worst.

It will be an ordinary Monday afternoon, he’d ask you to meet him in the same café where you first met. For some reason, you decide to bring the shirt he let you borrow. It’s not the first one, but one of the many pieces of clothing He lent you for spontaneous overnights. You arrive six minutes early, but you see him already there. You’d see him sitting with his legs crossed, a cup of white mocha in hand, a luggage beside him. You don’t ask him immediately as you sit across him, you’d wait for him to speak. And when he does, he’d tell you he needs to go. You‘d ask him when he’ll be back, but he tells you he’s not certain, it could take a few weeks, months, depending on his work, he adds. And that’s when you know it’s over. He’s never coming back. You then realize that the baby picture in his wallet is not his nephew, and the woman carrying it isn’t his sister. You’d simply nod and smile at him, you’d stare at him for a while as you tried your best not to cry. “He never told you he loves you,” you’d say to yourself. But no, he never mentioned because he told you through his kisses. He professed it whenever his hands roamed all over your thigh, your whole body. You know he loves you, but you know he has to leave. So you’d stand up. You’d decide you’ll leave him first before he does. You’d bid your last goodbye and hold his hand, tightly, before going out. You still have the paper bag with you—the shirt still inside it. You figured you’d just return it when he comes back—in a few weeks, months, maybe a year. Or maybe you’d keep it, in case he doesn’t.

That was the last time I ever heard of Sunggyu. I never tried keeping in touch, but I waited for him to do so. A call, maybe? He had my number, anyway.

The call never came, though, and neither did he.