Do you ever wish you had a second chance to meet someone again for the first time?

I would. A million times over.

And sometimes, I wonder if she feels the same.

They say you remember your firsts: your first day of school, the first time you fell in love, your first heartbreak.

Chanyeol never forgot the first time he saw the girl who saved his life.

It was his father’s birthday, and he had snuck out of the hotel to buy a present for him. It was a huge risk, going out without Secretary Choi’s supervision, but it was a personal matter and he wanted to be old enough to make his own decisions.

He had refused to let the lady at the balloon stall tie the ribbons to his wrist. He said he was strong enough to hold all twenty of them in his hands, and he had promised to not let them go. He insisted he wouldn't.

Maybe, his eight-year-old mind thought back then, maybe if I buy some balloons, Abeoji might smile at me for once.

He wouldn’t have to tell me to leave him alone all the time.

But oh, if only he had known that the balloons wouldn’t have made a difference even if he had picked them out in his father’s favorite color.

It had been a bright day in busy Myeongdong, and the streets were filled with many people that day, mostly students and tourists and people out and about their late lunch hours.

He hadn’t meant to glance over at her.

But it was at that moment that he heard her laugh, and he turned around, seeing the girl standing not far away from where he was standing.

She was wearing her school uniform: an ironed blue pinafore dress, a white blouse underneath. Her bag was pink, with flower prints, and her socks were pulled up as far as they could go. Her hair was combed, down to her collar, and tucked behind her ears. She held onto her mother’s hand tightly, swinging it happily as they waited to could cross the same junction he was waiting to cross.

Chanyeol had swallowed at the sight, his lips pressed together as he watched both mother and daughter.

He couldn’t recall a time he had been with either one of his parents, smiling as brightly as the girl was.

In fact, he couldn’t recall his parents smiling back at him like the girl’s mother either.

He gazed longingly at the pair, his attentions now fully on them instead.

The girl was talking about a show-and-tell she had at school, and that the teacher had asked everyone to name one thing that they liked.

The girl’s mother was beaming at her. And what did you say, sweetheart?

He glanced from mother to child, anticipating the answer.

Flowers, the girl said, loud enough for him to hear the smile in her voice. He was listening to her so much he could remember that she specifically said lilies.

Chanyeol didn’t know what lilies looked like back then.

But he did know what they were now; that was why there were only strictly lilies in the hotel lobby, in the rooms, at the dining area, and every other place where flowers were to be displayed.

But on that day, in the sweltering heat of Myeongdeong, waiting at the intersection and not knowing what lilies were, Park Chanyeol stared at the girl with the brilliant smile and wondered what would have happened if things didn’t turn out the way they did.

Fifteen years ago, he was the boy who clutched the balloons tightly in his hands, peering up at them if only to ease the envy filling his small, sad heart.

The sound of the girl’s laughter made him turn back to her again, and this time, he realized she was pointing at his balloons.

Look, Eomma, she was saying. Aren’t those beautiful?

Their eyes met then, and she was smiling at him this time.

Chanyeol’s lips had parted; he hadn’t expected the girl to notice him staring at her. But then, before he could react, everyone around him began to move, and he felt himself being swept up in the crowd as people began to walk.

He lost sight of the girl and her mother as he crossed the junction, but he could hear her voice somewhere, and could only hope that he could wave a little when they reached the other side.

There was a timer above the green man, signalling five seconds until it turned red, and Chanyeol was almost at the other side when someone ran past, bumping into him in the process.

He stumbled and fell onto the sidewalk, his hands reaching out to brace his fall.

At that moment, the balloons slipped out from his fingers as his palms met the cold hard ground.

He gasped, scrabbling at empty air as the strings escaped his palms, and turned back only to stare at the balloons as they began to float away from him like forgotten dreams.

His eyes widened, and he didn’t remember crying, but he could feel the streaks of wetness on his cheeks and the sobs in his throat as he frantically got to his feet.