Everyone wondered whether Irene was a lost angel. Whether she came from ethereal descent. They carried comparing over mystical existences because to them her appearance in their ordinary lives shook an earthquake in their minds. From her soft lilac whispers that tingled headaches, the velvet roll of words that escaped her candy lips and the moments they caught her sculpted side profile slightly tilted upwards to the view of the admirable blue skies. For beneath she lay and so she would sigh. Otherwise, for her beauty, they could not find lessens praises for. As if the blessing of being in her presence could simply slap them silly into giggles and mumbling, breathless stutterers. Later, they would go home, recall. If perhaps, question, how had they pulled out results for wondrously good fortune. Was that to all their lucks amount? Adding to that pondering, a hop to each of their steps. Granted, permanent to the fluttering of their hearts, they heave a breath held too long. Lastly wondering, if they had left any of an ounce an impression on this small figure of a human, being.

 

"She'll never notice you."

"Look at her, she's so detached to this world."

 

"I want to know why she sighs."

"Increase this fast pace of yours and you'll overlook the head of the curious cat."

 

"I cannot fathom that she is only filled of peace."

"But if she is human, why question this at all."

 

Irene negotiates the details of the joint statements to living and existing. She breathes 'eeny meeny miny moe'. But ends up lamenting over how there is nothing soft blocking her right now. Block. She cannot wave away from following the currently new thoughts streaming under her moonlit, closed eyes. It was a stupid, meaningless thought but it flowed in her head in white writing. Grey. Disappearing. Why, the blue of the sky runs like the ocean, sea blue it coloured her vision too. She wishes that her love could push her right back into the crumbling cracks of the ground. Swallow but not spit. Around her, it is like no one else contained the sensibility to accommodate her dim moods. She sings to her self in cloaking whispers, the veil of the melody. The ghost blankets warmth for her. Comfort. Yes to self-love. To warmth. Because she knows she is cherished by the air around her. She sighs into a tired smile because she knows.

 

But she was at a desperation. Irene, surrounded by the tarantula eyes and the thread of walls that tried to capture her in. Was she in the target position? No, but still she urged to fall and to wither into the wild. She could leave and wait by the propped stone. Silence, for time, waits on whether she could contain the bubble inside her chest. It chimes. The bubble, only theoretical because she herself, chooses, confuse thyself. So when, finally, her mind instead accepts the lost signals of its distraught body. A nerving twinge. But for what is being rekindled, connection. The nerve, information was felt. The bubble’s theory, the thought; for blinding and begs distract her. Irene's attempt to hug her heart even when her lungs were wailing, her environment heeds notice. But only hunches. She glances. Oh please, disinfect the tears for she was only ever so lovely.

 

"Release and realise. Do you not remember how to?"

"No matter, the ringing in my right ear deafens."

 

"Are you still in habit of searching these skies?"

"I have done nothing that you know of."

 

"The fantasy where you had been shot by an arrow at the back."

"It may have been an accident, but the dust in the galaxy meant for it."

 

She jumps. Swipes the hair in her way, out of sight. Then, like morse code, flashes shutter lids to the direction of the murmured voice. Did she hear wrong? Was it her? Was it not? She must have been mistaken. But that sound. The tone. That voice. Irene thought she heard her name being... She counts. She must. Count. Count. She exhales to these counts. She reaches zero. She reassures herself and pats her straining eyes. It's late, and the blinking of the street's flickering lamplights plus, double stacks, the steady footsteps of returning bodies wraps her reality in a tuck of her bed. She'll rest now and although the single, satin pillow will dampen a tad. She'll fall into the entrance of the place people say can be controlled by a small percent of the world population. Worldly she can reach anything. So a shame it is to be part of this select few, she spew. Anyway, she shakes her head. It is more of a mocking as she mocks her own unique capability. Be part. It's almost laughable she chuckles albeit tirelessly in the telling of the whistle-less room. She glooms.

 

It's being dismissed as always. She'll find that she returns to the same room, only to find that it has changed. Its colours have a different shade to it. Painted in a slightly faded hue, but it’s not new. Or does it just look dull to her now? She sees the four purple walls like she sees the sky, connected. But a loop, as she knows goes exactly right back to the start and again. Repeat. So, Irene's unsure whether she likes the first wall or the fourth wall's shade of purple better. She dismisses the fact, she has been told that they were all painted the same colour purple. Oh so. She exits the room.

 

"Remain in good hands."

"She has always taken the cold cases."

 

"Owner of this paper bag, does it belong to anyone."

"The breeze snatched it off her head, did you see?"

 

"Don't feed the container with more than you can handle."

"But it's purpose is to hold. I won't empty it."

 

Binding the charger to her phone, Irene walks on the paved path. She loses her step. The phone drops out of her hand and she sees the wire's plug separate from her phone. Irene kneels down and with the other hand slotted with a caffeine drink, her notebook, one pen and her earphones - a tangle. It was easy to hold all of these, possession. In her hands, small and delicate palms. She's always had the ability to uncomfortably clutch. Tight hold. Her precious things. She sees people gather around her and wonder on anxiously of her situation; if what she could, could she. It was much different from the could she, she could. Confidence somehow lost points that day. But she regained it when the occurrence slipped out of her mind. Maybe, if they could look out their own window and learn for their own selves. Why do they peer into hers? Even more, they print. The machine stamps words, stamps pictures, stamps history of hers. Onto their memories. They hand these out, they hand it to her as she passes by. They share it with their groups, in pairs. They'll later have it on hardware, scanned. Modern. Goes the long way. This is intangible, data-turned. Where is the liability in that? She holds it off.

 

However, furiously, could they just back her up with the understanding that she was not ready. That she appeared only for the sun to dawn on her and for attendance to mark her skin necessary of photosynthesis which she was exactly rooted with need for. Dark rooms she seeks for. Closed off from. Can the glances that only penetrate as far as her surface shell turn around, walk away and mine for the other similar shiny rocks in the ridged, man-made caves. Diamond, rough. And elsewhere. She would run and search. Run and search some more. She needed to run and run. Exorcise the oxygen from inside her organs, let roam the same air she believes holds more substance than that cannot be seen. to the fruit bowl. Mix and match. Mix and lost. She's not perfect, she doesn't play it. It only gets heavier as she gains level, older. Irene wishes she could pray for those ears. If only, she could call for -----. Irene's voice goes meek in a shout to the world. She knows calling ----- won’t strum the familiar guitar chords she knows of. It won't. It won't. Wound. It wouldn't unless she strummed the strings herself. Moved it herself. With her own strum, chords stiff. Beginner and soft like silk. She'll hum instead. But please, Guitar, even if only once... couldn’t you play your tune? If not to destiny, but to me, your one and only? She would ask.

 

"It is safe."

"Only your needs should be sheltered first."

 

"Look for the voice that shakes."

"And for that which is true?"

 

"Collide into irregular shapes."

"Crowd in the touch you understand fits you."

 

Irene sealed her eyes once again. Opening, a ray of light peeked through the curtain's gap. She can tread the skies in her memories for as long as she breathed. Let her growth source height, project the fresh clean and clear. Restart. No, take back. Go, backtrack. Save. She had to realise that the sky's fragrance that she loved fades. The wind moves the essence until it strikes an undefined line. Gasp for the horizon. She accepts the vision of the materials in her grind. Let appear, fan. The Polaroid photos hold dreams she can’t remember. They are both there. She will stand for the square frame. A different enrapture. She will remember.

 

Moving thrill, she rejoices activity but stops from time to time in reminder. She looks at the blue sky. Blue. She had stopped once more in the middle of that day. Now, grey. A speck of rain drops. It was one. But it drops on her face. She doesn’t rub it off. Don’t smudge. She absorbs it. Still, it rains. She remembers when she had been in this downpour of a mood. Her memory grapples back. She knows nature only does as it does. So she hurries undercover. Different kind of cover. Underneath anywhere to shield her from nature's uncontrollable, sometimes selfish actor. She'll still watch. Because now she can see small orbs of light within the waterdrops. The light reflects the liquid, the fires from the moon's eyes. In a pan of her stand, it had darkened. Irene was light and in a state of daze. Drowzy by the sitting. Nodding against heavy lights, her own bright orbs glistened. Her body shivers. A spur of energy suddenly lifts her. Raises her. Chin up. She goes. Because she realises it is time to go. Ready to stand, to elaborate home. However, of course, she doesn't forget to stop and look once again. Admire her sky. Universal. Fateful. She blows a candle, replace the bubble.

 

It is her gaze rightly there, to the blue from beyond these clouds. Beyond these clouds that reiterated the tears she had countless shed. Beyond the sky and further. She remembers.

Wendy. Seungwan is happy. Maybe she could bear the responsibilities Irene has had to face. Her everything but- In another alternative universe.

Juhyun has shed her tears. Seungwan has collected them all. To hold. Did she hold? Or let it go when she had to go. Downpour...