The gravel crunched under the rushed pressure of your footsteps. You ran in panic –dirt stained puddles pricked your bare legs and despite the roaring downpour, all you could hear was the pounding of your frantic heart.

Slamming the car door shut, you fumbled for the locks and startled yourself when the car horn blared at the weight of your forearms. The rain splattered heavily against the roof and you were staring at distorted of green from the trees that lined the empty streets. Your vision through the windshield blurred and it could have been the tears that burned your eyes or the angry storm –you weren’t sure. You weren’t sure of anything.

Last day of March, the date flashed red, almost like it was taunting you across the dashboard of your car. It’s happening again, the thought continued to assault you and you were heaving for air, forehead pressed hard onto the steering wheel as you struggle to keep your composure.

You’re just seeing things, it’s not real.

It can’t be real.

Your failed reassurances stubbornly pushed aside the fact that it felt real, he looked so, so real.

Memories buried in the deepest parts of your mind, erupted like fireworks and you were shaking, choking back the aching tears at the remembrance. It felt like a sin to react this way because for the love of god, you’ve moved on –something you insist on every damn day for the last five years.

Five years since his smile brushed its way along your morning skin, and a sleepy hum escaped you when he whispered –I’ll be back, but he never did.

Breakfast in bed –an anniversary ritual he does, was long forgotten when a call, still crystal clear, reached home and you remember laughing in disbelief –“Aren’t you a little early for April fools?” The phone was no longer in your hands when regret filled the voice from the other end,

“No, ma’am. We’re afraid he’s in critical–”

You remember being the only family member carried out of the ICU, your cries persisting that you’re his fiancé did nothing, not until you calmed down to which you didn’t. At least not until his burial, you felt nothing then, convinced that this was what feeling numb was. A foreign concept when being with him was nothing but feelings. Minho had the ability to make you feel a million different things at once, and that was when you knew that he was it.

His family adored you and you wish you could say the same when it comes to yours. Being a well known successful business man, your father had his own set of values he wanted to uphold. It was as if expected of him to marry you off to someone just as accomplished, well looked upon and when it was Minho you brought home –an innocently handsome drummer of a local band with his own fair share of misfortunes, all hell broke loose.

It wouldn’t be wrong to assume that you rebelled through what was left of your teenage years. But having lived by book to be the perfect daughter, it was difficult to change your ways. Yet Minho persisted, and stayed with you anyway even if that means sneaking around backstage after his cafe gigs or mastering the art of walking on rooftops to throw pebbles at your bedroom window.

Of course word got around this small town, it wasn’t hard. You came home one night to your father seated in the living room and the thick atmosphere was already suffocating you by the front door. He didn’t need to say much, a flat order to stay in your room for as long as you lived in his house was all he thought you deserved. You were screaming inside, hoping that your mother would break her silence and look up from her lap for once, to stand up for you for once. Heated tears brimmed your quivering eyes, and your jaw clicked to hold it in, not wanting to give your father the satisfaction that he’d won this one sided argument.

“He makes me happy, dad.” Your voice cracked under the pressure of trying to keep it together.

“You won’t be saying that when you’re working three jobs to pay off his drug debts. You have no future with him, child.” He was merciless, bitter in his words. You loathed his clichéd judgements that were far from the truth.

“He’s not like that, Minho –he’s planning to get licensed to teach and–”You weren’t sure why you even tried to put up with a losing battle.

“Enough. I don’t need to hear his name in my house.”He raised his voice with a hand towards you.

“Dad–”

“Go to your room.”

Childish puppy love, he would say, thinking that sending you off to college would grow the two of you out of it.

But it didn’t.

“I’m going to marry you, you know that right?”You whisper through the night’s air, peeking at him from the side as the two of you sat on the swings of a park nearby.  

“I know.”He says quietly, barely nodding as he traces the sand below with his feet.   

“You’re a ty liar.”Minho looks at you like he’d been caught.

“It’s damn hard when your father wants to murder me.”He smiles apologetically with a light shrug.

“He’ll get over it. I won’t change my mind, I’ll marry you, Song Minho.” You could hear his amused scoff, turning to see the happy crinkle in his eyes.

“I know. You don’t always get a girl to ask you first –wait, did you even ask?”He lifts a thick brow in question.

“I don’t need to.”You look away, curling your toes in between the cold sand.

“Why are you so sure?”He asks, and as much as you wanted to swoon him over with a well thought response, there was only one thing you were sure of.

“Because it’s you.”

Breaking the news to your father was certainly no walk in the park, the sheer disgust and disappointment that raged his aging features was an image etched forever in the back of your mind. You moved out then, crashing at your sister’s for a few months before finding a means to feed yourself.

Minho had always been terrible with his memory, a goldfish would have beaten him to it and so it didn’t really bother you when he forgot birthdays and anniversaries. It was funny how it surely weren’t at all that difficult, they were both on the same day after all –on his birthday. He would always be a day early or a day late, but as if fate wanted you to know, Minho got it right that very day you lost him all together.

You thought loving him was the easiest and hardest thing you ever had to do, but to stand in a midst of black dresses and suits you wanted him to take you, convinced that you won’t survive long enough without him. The feeling of grief was unbearable and you swore that no one should feel the same way, which was why you held on. At least for the next nine months, the tiny, innocent soul of yours and him needed you to hold on.  

You like to think that everything fell back into place when your baby boy was born, and when you married the local deputy sheriff –someone your father approves of. There was an unspoken rule between you and him then, even when he finally got a round, there wasn’t much the two of you could talk about. Quiet hellos and short how are yous were the only words to be uttered whenever he came to visit. Your father adores his grandson, and this was probably the only thing you loved about him. How he chooses to push aside the visible fact that your son is the splitting image of his late father.

//

The door screen creaks open followed by a hurried slam when you enter the house, the keys rattling in your hands as you race up the stairs.

“Did they run out?”

 Your husband voices somewhere from the kitchen and you catch his footsteps closing in towards the flight of stairs. He stood by the end, looking up at you and you could tell he sensed something off with the way his brows curled up to a subtle frown.

“Run out…?”

“Eggs? You wanted me to help you bake those–”

“Oh. Yeah, they’re in the car.”

“You okay, babe?” He strides up a couple of steps, “Did you get caught in the rain or something?”

You followed his gaze to your drenched skirt and up to your damp, unruly hair, not realizing how the storm has wrecked you more than you already were.

A nod that was quicker than necessary was all you could offer in response, and his frown deepens as he leans in closer.

“Have you been crying?” His large palm slides underneath your jaw, you feel gentle fingers clasped around the back of your neck.

Tears betray the shake of your head, and you find yourself pressed against chest when he pulls you in for an embrace. For some reason, you couldn’t bring your clenched hands off the rail, holding on tighter as if you might fall.

“They came back.”

He tenses at your words, knowing exactly what you meant.

“When –where?” His voice strained, swallowing thickly as if to brace himself.

“At the store –he was by the exit.” You whisper raggedly into his shoulder, “They seemed so real, I just –I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

No, no –he was soothing, hands brushing the back of your head in hopes to comfort you which only made you feel a thousand times worse. Your gut rolled weak thinking of how much this man must love you to be this okay, this composed at the knowledge that his wife still sees her dead fiancé.

//

The next couple of days dragged slowly, you tried your best to hide the fact that you haven’t recovered from what had happened. It was a Monday morning, your husband had just left for work and you find yourself sitting by the porch, sinking in the sight of light drizzle the gloomy sky had offered.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad today, maybe it’ll be okay. And for a moment you believed the thought, drifting off to a brief nap with the earthy aftermath of rain being the last thing you remember. It was the chafing of quiet footsteps against the wooden deck that tug your lids awake.

And there he was, Minho standing idly by the stairs and you blink thinking that it might just be a dream. But he stayed, all sorts of visible and real, and you wonder how this could be, after all these years this is the most convincing your mind has been.

You run both hands, softening the front of your crinkled dress as you sat up. The way he stood there, unmoving, you thought for a second that maybe he would disappear if you looked away or closed your eyes. But then he smiled, they he always does when he looks at you. Something washes over you at the sight, a sense of longing that you didn’t know you had overwhelms you, convinced that you couldn’t stand without collapsing.

He had the same pale blue button up over that faded t-shirt he loves so much, dark fitted jeans and a hiccup of amusement escapes you, seeing how your husband would never think to wear anything ripped. “Pants are supposed to cover your knees, sweetheart.”

Guilt wells your being, how much do you actually miss this person to be seeing him this way? It was somewhat comforting to think of this as a punishment from the universe, for having your heart somewhere else, taking a loving husband and son for granted.

“I need to stop seeing you like this.” You finally say, voice barely above a whisper. Your knees trembled as you got to your feet, maybe standing up isn’t such a good idea.

It was stupid of you to expect a reply from him, realizing that he isn’t real, that he was just a projection from the darkest parts of your mind that you refuse to acknowledge.

 “I’ve said my goodbyes, Minho-ah.” Your mouth felt dry, and it hurts to swallow the increasingly tight lump in your throat.

“Goodbyes?”

The lazy baritone of his voice thundered the air that hung around you, the familiarity of the sound stuns your senses. All you could do was stare at him, trying to find something to convince yourself that your mind is just playing some sort of sickening game.

“Why didn’t you tell me you moved?” He takes a step forward and you were frozen in place, unable to digest any of this, “I had to ask around–”   

“No.” Your palm shook in midair and you must be staring at him like a deer in headlights, “You need to leave –now.”

“Baby, I–”

“Please!” The shrill scream startles you, but you didn’t care as you continue the same tirade, “I’m begging you, leave!”

“Why are you being this way?” Minho was closer now, the knot in his brows signals his concern. Tears coursed down your heated skin and you were in no control.

“Because you’re not real! None of this–”

“What are you on about? Baby, please –come here.” He was left dumbfounded the way you yanked your wrist away from him angrily, refusing his efforts to comfort you.

“Is this some kind of a sick joke?” You hiss and Minho still as stubborn as he was, reaches out to brush your damp cheeks. A painful smack of your hand to his was all it took so silence him, and your heart was close to erupting out of your chest.

“Why are you so angry? Is this about breakfast? I told you I left to–”

It was all starting to sound so absurd, it was as if he never left. Appearing from god knows where and resuming the last day he was here. How could breakfast be the only thing of concern, how could it be the only thing he remembers?

“You died! Minho, you left me, you–” You cry, vision disappearing to a blur when you squeeze your eyes shut, praying to yourself that this might just go away. That it was just a morbid dream.

He looks at you like he’d seen a ghost, the irony devastates you and find yourself bolting towards the door.

“What the hell is going on? I died? What–”

Minho grabs your arm sternly and you fail to free yourself from his strong grip,

“Minho, let me go.”

“What do you mean I died?” He narrows his eyes in excruciating confusion, and you wish you could explain this to him but the bizarre nature of all this was too much for your sanity.

“Let me go or I’ll ing scream, you know I will.” You snap, glaring at him and it pains you to treat him this way. You could physically feel him, and hear him, just as if he was here and he was. Yet every fibre within you rejected the idea of him in one piece, alive and breathing.

“Mommy, that’s a bad word.” The childish chirp followed by quick, tiny steps fleeting from behind stilled the tense atmosphere and you feel your son wrapped around your leg.

You had your eyes fixed to Minho, and he was staring right back at you, thrown at the sudden intrusion. His eyes wavered reluctantly from yours and down to the little boy clinging onto your numb legs.

It wasn’t difficult to catch the faint widening of his eyes as he soaks in the four year old that was Song Minho in the flesh, your son was a carbon copy of a younger him.

“Why don’t you go back inside, sweetie?” You stoop down to peel his small fingers off your knees, only to have him grab onto you tighter.

“Why are you crying, mommy? Is this man hurting you?” He takes after Minho’s sense of curiosity, always ready with his own set of questions. But these were ones that you couldn’t answer.

The two of you remained silent, and Minho had not once taken his eyes off your son –and his.

“Did you hurt mommy? My daddy’s a policeman, so you shouldn’t.” He brushes his soft cheeks against your skin, twirling his short legs around yours as he looks up at Minho.

The line of Minho’s jaw tenses briefly, and a tongue runs across his lip before he lets out a gentle smile. The sight was painful, you rasped a quiet breath in efforts to stop yourself from crying out loud. He was just as confused, and it broke whatever was left of your heart seeing him hold himself back at the mention of another man.

Minho knew that this was his son and that he definitely was not a policeman.

“Hi there,” He says quietly, bending down to meet his child’s eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Mommy says I can’t to talk to strangers.” He shakes his head quickly and Minho beams, almost like he was proud.

“Well, your mommy’s right, you shouldn’t.” He lets out a shaky laugh, and you couldn’t hold back your tears hearing your son call his own father a stranger.

“Mommy, who’s this?” You wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand briskly, looking down to your child’s wide eyes.

“You can talk to him, he’s not a stranger, honey.” He grins that boyish smile, the same one his father has, at your permission. “But in a while, okay? I need you to go in first.”

“Mhmm. You hear that, mister? We can be friends.” He whispers excitedly to Minho, and his dad nods a wistful yes before he sprints back into the house.

“He’s mine, isn’t he?” Minho asks, shutting his eyes as if in pain before he straightens up to face you.

“Ours.”

 

//