one.

Whenever he hears breakup songs, he’s reminded of pretentious artist boyfriends. You know, the kind who’s more invested in their art than they are in you. The kind who’s sweet at first but then suddenly can’t be bothered one fine day and you never saw it coming, had no clue as to why. He never figured out why that happens until he realized it’s because they finally know enough about you to write something out of it – something to further their pretentious tortured soul in their art – but not enough to know you as the real person, no. After all, they’re probably really only dating you so they can wear a sad song about how they’re heartbroken when your relationship ends, except they are the one who asked to break up. You know, that kind.

***

15:24

If this was a page from a story, the man would be seated in a mostly empty café, earphones in while he jots something down on a notebook thoughtfully. As it is, Sunggyu spends five whole minutes scanning through the glass of the crowded café before he spots the man sitting in a cramped corner, earphones in with a leather-bound notebook open and a fountain pen in hand although he doesn’t appear to be writing anything. Sunggyu watches him for a minute more, before he pushes the door open. It’s time.

***

two.

He has both met and had a bunch of pretentious artist boyfriends before. It’s hard not to, when he used to attend an arts university. Maybe one day he’ll write a story about all of them – about each of them – but today, he’s just here to write about one.

The boy – let’s just call him a boy, shall we, because we cannot reveal his name, but he needs to be referred to as something, and a man is definitely not it – well, the boy dressed like a typical guy studying in an arts university. Skinny jeans faded with wash, frumpy jacket that could be brand new or thrifted and a random t-shirt underneath which could be either really funny or really ironic if it wasn’t already both. It was the kind of shabby artist chic that everyone seemed to be really into, except he actually looked good in it. Or maybe this is a really biased opinion. Anyway, moving on, the boy wasn’t necessarily physically striking, though he was, of course, beautiful in the way tortured artists are (even pretentious ones). No, captivating was a better word to describe him. It was the kind of captivating that makes you want to find out more about him once you start to get to know him, and before you know it, he’s all you ever want to know about.

The boy has always had that kind of effect on him. Still does.

***

15:30

The man looks up when Sunggyu’s at his table.

“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to be on time.”

Sunggyu looks at him. A million thoughts run through his mind, and he could say any of them, but instead he settles for giving him an amused look, casually saying, “Things change. I’m usually punctual nowadays.”

The man laughs. “Yeah, well, guess we’d all grow up, huh.”

Sunggyu takes a seat. The table is too small, and he has to scoot back so his knees don’t bump the man’s. It’ll be awkward, to say the least. When he finally settles down properly, he remembers he had a reply on his tongue – the reason for today’s meeting, really – and mumbles, “Well, maybe some of us didn’t.”

The man looks at him in the eye for a second – a second too long, if you ask Sunggyu – then turns away, humming, “Hmm. I guess not.”

***

three.

The boy always has a notebook with him.

“It’s so I can jot down whatever comes to mind,” the boy would say, whenever he had asked. “I don’t want to have a moment of inspiration only to lose it because I didn’t have somewhere to write it down.”

He didn’t mind the notebook, even if he sometimes felt like he had to compete for the boy’s attention with that inanimate object whenever inspiration struck. What he had minded was how the boy was always so protective of it.

“What do you write inside?” he had asked once, curious why the boy never let him flip the pages.

“Nothing, just… scraps of whatever comes to mind. Scattered phrases, little tunes. Small parts that don’t fit together to form a single picture, let alone a whole song.”

“Oh,” he had said, accepting the answer. He accepted the answer, because as a writer, he could understand the need to keep the half-formed sketches of an idea secret until something better – something art – is worked out of it. He accepted the answer because he knew the boy was trying to write a song – maybe more than one – and he would probably show it to him when he’s done. He accepted the answer, because maybe, he had always hoped that the song would be about him.

***

15:37

Sunggyu is collecting his coffee at the counter when a familiar tune plays over the speakers. He’s barely set his cup down on the table before the man mumbles, “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

Sunggyu blows on the rim of his cup to cool the coffee. It’s a love song playing in the café. A break up song. He slowly takes a sip of his too-hot coffee before he replies, “I guess. It’s been a long time though.”

The man nods. He keeps his head down for a long time, and Sunggyu drinks half his coffee in the meantime while the song reaches the bridge, the emotional of the song. There’s a short pause in the music – the drop after the emotional buildup, the lead up to the final chorus – and then the man’s suddenly saying, “I’m…sorry.”

Sunggyu blinks in surprise. He hadn’t expected that. He also doesn’t expect the next line.

“I’m sorry I wrote it. Wrote about us. …wrote about you.”

***

four.

The first song the boy composed for him was one he sang to him, on their hundredth day.

“Why are we celebrating our hundredth day?” he had asked, and the boy had given him an amused grin.

“Why not?”

He could have pointed out that the boy was not usually the cheesy sort, but when the boy started singing a sappy tune with sappier lyrics about how much he loves him… well, he forgot why he had asked. They made out the rest of the night, guitar half trapped between their bodies, pressing painful bruises into their hips, but neither of them had really cared then. After all, they were in love – so in love – and that was all that mattered in that moment.

If the next morning, the boy yelled at him when he noticed that the strings on his guitar were ruined and there were nicks in the wood of his beloved (secondhand cheap) instrument caused by his belt buckle, well, he hadn’t exactly minded.