I 🌸

OVERTURE

 

 

The city hall station. Then Yongsan. Then Jeonju.

 

Junmyeon is floating, flying in a haze of white. Yet his feet are on the ground. He is paralyzed; he is moving. He was trapped yet again, only a mere observer as his “self” continues to move forwards, only forwards. He has to go somewhere.

 

City hall.

Yongsan.

Jeonju.

 

Happy birthday.

 

 

He is sitting.

There are people, but they are all mere blurs of movement. They have somewhere else to be. But Junmyeon has to stay here. Because… because why…?

Because city hall.

Yongsan.

Jeonju.

 

 

It’s a little cold. He is in his pajamas, the thin cloth barely fighting against the morning chill. His eyes lose focus and they start to close, but a flash of yellow pushes them open.

A man. Infront of him. Such yellow hair. Like a sunflower, but dimmed. Like it was basking in fading light. His face is a blur like everyone else’s.

The man takes his jacket off, and drapes it over Junmyeon. He only realizes then that he had been shivering.

“You are hurt,” the man enunciates, his voice breaking through the haze that is Junmyeon’s brain.. “Let’s get you home.”

His words trigger a flash of pain, reminding Junmyeon of the gash in his chest. Oh. He is hurt.

“Your brother is worried.”

Ah. Perhaps a friend of Minseok’s, then.

“Do I know you?”

The man shakes his head, lips struggling to lift into a smile.

“No. I don’t think you do.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

II 🌸

DRAFT

 

 

 

“Soo, I don’t think I can give you the drafts today.”

Junmyeon sighs into the phone. He brings up his other hand to massage his temple, a vain attempt to chase the growing headache away.

“Something wrong, Jun?” Kyungsoo’s voice had taken on the usual worried tone, and Junmyeon would feel bad about it, but all he can manage is another sigh. He’s really off this morning.

I dreamt of him again last night, he almost confesses. But Kyungsoo did not need another update on Junmyeon’s recurrent dream. It wasn’t like there was anything new to it anyway.

It was always the same:  Junmyeon, in a train station. Seated on a bench. For some reason he’s in his pajamas, but the people around never took notice of him. Except for one.

It’s a man, his head hardly more than a blur topped by a golden shock of hair. Junmyeon can never see his entire face, it was always just in parts. Sometimes he could make out lips, sometimes the tip of a sharp nose. What he never failed to see, however, were the man’s eyes. Junmyeon does not know how, but he is certain that the man’s eyes were brown, a dark mahogany softened by flecks of honey and sprinkled with hints of anguish and uncertainty.

He would have this dream from time to time, and it always left him feeling frustrated. He remembers some rare times where he can see the entirety of the man’s face, but like a picture in the sand it was washed away as he woke up. If he could just have two more seconds, if he could just see him…

Then what? Junmyeon didn’t know either. But he hated waking up knowing he was just on the verge of seeing that man’s face and never actually getting there. He hated how it left him feeling disconcerted, like he was a ten thousand-piece puzzle with one piece missing. It was such a small thing, a minuscule part of the picture. Not having it was a shame, but one could see what the whole picture was without it. Finding that piece, however, would leave one with a sense of accomplishment.

This recurrent dream was a hint to something, or someone. Junmyeon was sure of that. A piece of the puzzle—one of the many that’s missing. He knows that what’s done was done, and he should probably forget it, the way he’s forgotten more than five years’ worth of memories. But his stubborn brain won’t let it go, and he’s had to get used to waking up feeling lost.

He wonders, sometimes, if forgetting was a good thing.

When someone gets hanahaki, there are only three outcomes: one, a happy ending where their love is returned, nothing is lost and everything is gained; two, their love stays unrequited and they choose to die instead of forgetting the person they love, a situation where no one gains anything and only loses; and three, the patient chooses to live, but gets the flower removed—taking with it their feelings and memories of the person who cannot return their love.

Junmyeon belongs to the third category. He supposes it is a mix of a negative and a positive, canceling each other out so it becomes a true zero. And zero is where everything begins, the starting point, a clean slate. It’s not the most ideal outcome, but it gives the person a chance. Oftentimes, however, it feels less a clean slate and more of a blackboard haphazardly cleaned with an ineffective eraser: the pictures are gone, but marks are left everywhere. Bits and pieces and fragments scattered here and there that made one curious and then confused because none of them went anywhere; none of them made sense because the connections were gone.

It takes time, his doctor had told him. And it did get better for Junmyeon. But the feeling of being lost never really went away.

 

“It’s nothing. I think,” he tells Kyungsoo instead. “I guess I just feel kind of iffy.”

Maybe this was what people meant about waking up on the wrong side of the bed. But those weren’t the right words… it felt more like waking up in the wrong body. For as long as he could remember, he’s never felt like himself whenever he opened his eyes in the morning, whenever he stared up at the ceiling and tried to remember where he was. It felt like someone else giving commands to his body as he sat up and tried to collect his thoughts.

This morning was more trying than usual: he’d put on some water to boil, but found that he’d run out of green tea. Tried to cook himself breakfast but burned most of the bacon and eggs because his mind wandered off to thoughts of that blurry man again. He’d settled for some toast instead—he’d also run out of jam, apparently, so he had to eat the tasteless bread by itself.

Working had proven to be difficult, as well. As a children’s books illustrator, it wasn’t that hard for Junmyeon to get inspired. He loved drawing the characters that the writers described, making them come to life with scratches of his pencil and of his paintbrush. Most of what he drew these days were scenes with animals and farms and abridged fairytales.

His goal for the day had been to finish the final scenes for that unicorn story, but his pen would just not move. He couldn’t even color in his sketches—which was his favorite part of all. None of the colors felt right. Whatever he splattered on looked bland and unsatisfying.

A tiny voice at the back of his head kept urging him to stand up, and go. He had to be somewhere else, do something else. He should not be here right now.

But where was Junmyeon supposed to go?

No answer ever came, and he’d gritted his teeth to try and shut the voice out. He had no time for some random trips—he had work to do.

He’d struggled like that for an hour, before he finally sighed in frustration and decided to call his editor.

 

 “Oh. Well, that’s fine. You still have more than a week for it, anyway,” Kyungsoo assures him. “Why don’t you take the day off? Take Byul for a walk or something.”

Junmyeon suppresses the urge to tell his friend that walking Byul takes place right after Junmyeon’s afternoon nap, because the walk had the dual function of being an exercise and a way to wake Junmyeon up for his remaining work hours. It was part of a perfectly crafted schedule—which was essential to anyone who worked from home. But Junmyeon did not have the energy to tell Kyungsoo all that.

“Yes, thank you Kyungsoo. I’ll call you later, okay?”

Junmyeon ends the call and looks around at his cluttered bedroom—sweaters hanging off of various pieces of furniture including his unmade bed, socks lying on the floor, remnants of bubble wrap from his online purchases strewn about.

A tinkle of a bell, and Byul appears at his doorway. The tan terrier greets him with a sharp yap before she strolls toward him and clambers on his lap.

Junmyeon smiles at her as he scratches behind her ears. “Guess we’re going on that walk much earlier today, Byulie.”

 

 

🌱

 

Though it was a Saturday, the park is almost empty save for a few people. Junmyeon supposed it was to be expected, as it was still quite early in the morning. The wind still carried some chill, even though it was May and the summer heat should be creeping in instead. Junmyeon is only glad he decided to wear that sweater. He never did like the cold.

It was also quite too early in the day for the children to come play in the park, which was a bit of a bummer, since Junmyeon enjoyed watching them play. Some of them would ask to play with Byul, some would even ask to play with Junmyeon himself—which he always found flattering.

Byul seems content in their slow stroll around the park—she takes her time sniffing around curiously at the grass as her owner mulled over his dream for the umpteenth time.

Maybe it was someone he used to know? But then why was that his only memory of them? Or maybe it was the person who caused Junmyeon to have hanahaki? That was a scarier thought. But that didn’t make sense, either. If the man by the train was the person that Junmyeon fell in love with then Junmyeon should not remember him at all.

Junmyeon sighs. People thought that life after hanahaki was easy—get the plant out, forget everything and get on with your life with a fresh start. It wasn’t that simple, though. When a person falls in love with someone, that someone becomes so ingrained in their being. And when that someone is forcibly removed, the person’s mind is thrown into chaos—suddenly there are gaps to fill, a whole personality to repair because integral parts are missing. You can’t cut off the legs on a table and expect it to still be a table.

Most people who have recovered after having their surgery report that their mind coped by creating false memories, mostly by replacing the loved one with someone else’s face. Encouraging words that made them apply for a job? It was a cousin who said it. A letter that made them blush? Written by a long-forgotten face from high school.

Some get completely new memories, perhaps from their minds not being able to logically replace the loved one. Like exceptionally memorable kisses, for example. Of course those couldn’t be replaced with a relative or a friend. So their mind invents new memories, new people with blurry faces and unremarkable personalities—all for the sake of keeping the person sane.

Junmyeon supposed that that could be the case of the man he keeps on dreaming about. A false memory. But then, why did it make him feel so agitated? Wasn’t his mind supposed to protect him from those kinds of things?

The thought of the man makes Junmyeon’s heart clench, and he stops walking to make it calm down.

Sometimes, Junmyeon thinks he can still feel his heart hurt. He doesn’t have memories of when he got sick, but he can imagine it, almost too clearly. And every so often, he would feel a sharp pain, like a thorn stabbing into his heart. He’d called his older brother Minseok the first time it happened, scared to death at the possibility that maybe the doctors hadn’t gotten all the flowers out.

Phantom pains, his brother had told him. Apparently the doctor had informed him of the possibility. No one really knew much about them, just that they were similar to pain some people got from an amputated limb. The body thinks that the limb—or in this case, the flower—is still there, and convinces the person that it hurts.

It was the reason why Junmyeon stopped drinking coffee, even stopped doing anything close to exercising. He was scared of anything that would excite his heart too much. Minseok told him that he was overreacting, and maybe he was. But then again it wasn’t Minseok who felt pain so sharp it took his breath away.

He absently touches the scar at his chest, thinking of that person he’s forgotten.

 

I must have loved you very much…

 

 

 

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Omission 1-7: the year before

 

Junmyeon examines himself in the mirror.

Gaunt cheeks. Sunken eyes. Limp hair. There’s a bloodstain on his lip that he can’t seem to wipe off.

He sighs.

A hot shower, it is.

 

Ten minutes later and he comes out of the bathroom looking better but not by much. The familiar itch in his throat is gone for now, and he thanks his lucky stars. He can only do so much to hide his coughing.

 

They actually had time to see each other today. Not just hear each other, but see. An actual hour where neither of them is busy with something else, rushing something else. A whole hour. Just for each other.

Junmyeon takes one of his chairs at the kitchen and places it infront of his bathroom sink. He can’t trust himself not to fall these days. He’s gotten so weak that even standing took a lot of effort.

There is a small pile of products on the sink. Concealer. A tube of liquid foundation. A small dish of pressed blush on. A shell-pink lipstick.

He would laugh if he could; he’d never thought of himself as someone who would ever use makeup.

He picks up the brush—at least this was familiar territory. The principle was kind of the same, except he’s not working with paint. But he supposed his face made an alright canvas. He squeezes out a liberal amount of foundation and applies it on his face. He trusts his eyes. He’s drawn people so many times, surely he can paint himself to look like a normal one.

A touch of concealer to hide the bags underneath his eyes. A puff of pink on his cheeks to mimic a healthy blush. A layer of lipstick to hide how deathly pale his lips have become.

He inspects himself on the mirror when he is done. He practices his smile. Perfect.

He walks to his bedroom, turns on the computer at his desk and tries not to sweat too much from the anticipation.

The screen of the other person is black, and then it comes to life.

And then… there he was.

“Junmyeon,” his voice greets cheerfully. “I’ve missed you!”

The cream wall behind the man and the top of the bed just peeking at the bottom of the screen clues Junmyeon that he must be in his bedroom

His face is more chiseled now, the angles tastefully more apparent than before. Junmyeon wonders if it had been years since he’d seen him, and not weeks. It was like he’d aged a decade in the past month. And he probably did.

There’s a small part of Junmyeon that’s angry, petty at the way he seems to be doing alright and not miserable like Junmyeon was. But most of Junmyeon worries. Was he eating well? Was he sleeping? Was he healthy? Does he remember to close his bedroom windows at night like I always tell him to?

Perhaps the answer to all those was yes, seeing as he’s breathtakingly beautiful as always.

Junmyeon’s heart throbs, as if in anger. He’s right there! it shouts at him. Why won’t you be with him?

His throat contracts, as if in agreement. His lungs suddenly feel full, almost like he’s drowning. He hides his grimace behind a smile.

They talk about mundane things for a while, asking about each other’s days. He says that work in the company was horribly tedious as usual. Junmyeon on the other hand was thinking about quitting his job and becoming a freelance artist instead.

Junmyeon lets himself bask in the sound of the other’s voice, and his eyes fall on the small flower on his desk. He must have forgotten to clean it up last night. He can still see the flecks of blood on the petals, the small lines of bruises on the flower from having to fight its way up his throat.

Even then, it was a pretty sight. A delicate pink peony—his body’s unique way of punishing him for loving someone who could never love him back.

“I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas… Say, what do you want for a present?”

Be here. Be here and love me.

“I don’t know… can you come visit?”

The face on the screen loses its smile, transforming into that apologetic one that Junmyeon has come to know too well.

“You know there’s nothing I’d want more than to do that, Myeon… but I can’t.”

“Figured I’d still ask,” Junmyeon shrugs, a little too nonchalantly. “But that’s okay! Seeing you like this is enough.”

It isn’t.

A woman’s voice spills from the computer’s speakers. Junmyeon does not understand what she says, but he knew who it was.

“Was that Qian?” he asks futilely.

A sigh. “Apparently my in-laws decided to drop by, and we have to go and greet them. I’m sorry Myeon, I really didn’t know they were coming over.”

“I know. It’s fine. Your wife needs you with her.” The word tastes bitter on Junmyeon’s lips, almost as unpleasant as the flowers that were choking his lungs.

“Listen,” the other says as he gets up. “I’ll call you later, okay? And skype this weekend? I promise I’ll clear everything.”

“Not this weekend, I’m swamped. Tuesday next week?”

“Tough, but I’ll make time. I promise. I’ll see you then. Take care of yourself and don’t go getting sick now, alright?”

It almost made Junmyeon huff out a sad laugh.

If only he knew.

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🌱

Junmyeon sits on a park bench, tired of walking. He idly tosses Byul a ball from time to time, wondering what else to do with his unexpected free day. Maybe he can finally get started on those baking lessons? He did buy an oven for that, after all. And three books about baking. And thousands of won’s worth of other baking equipment. They’ve been sitting forgotten in his kitchen for almost a month now. He mentally gives himself a flick on the head. Why did he give in to that impulse, anyway? He was a disaster when it came to anything related to cooking…

Byul gives a couple of sharp barks, and Junmyeon looks at her. Her tail is wagging excitedly, her eyes going  from the ball in Junmyeon’s hand to his face, as if asking Well? Are you going to throw it or not?

Junmyeon huffs, and throws the ball a little farther away to satisfy the dog.

“She’s quite excitable, isn’t she?”

Junmyeon jumps at the voice. There is a man standing by the bench, a polite distance away, but it still unnerves Junmyeon how he never noticed the man come over. He really should stop being so self-absorbed.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man apologizes. “It’s just that I saw you playing with your dog and I wondered if I could pet her for a bit…”

Junmyeon could only stare at him mutely for a few seconds, not quite sure what to say.

Maybe Junmyeon would be much less intimidated if the man had just been a tad shorter. He was too tall for the artist’s comfort, although he supposed that the man’s face wasn’t so bad on the eyes. He had the look that would fit in well in magazines, in runways adorned with exotic clothing. It did not fit well in an everyday park, however. It made him stand out, almost like there was a spotlight on him, a charisma that could not be hidden by his rather drab getup of sweatpants, faded blue jacket, and ratty tennis shoes.

Junmyeon blinks, suddenly aware that he’s been silently staring for quite a bit too long that the man started shifting uncomfortably. He tears his eyes away and clears his throat.

“O-of course,” he finally manages. “Let’s wait for her to come back, she always likes to meet new friends.”

As if on cue, Byul zooms back towards them. She pauses in her tracks, tail wagging and cautiously observing the stranger beside her owner.

“Here, Byullie,” Junmyeon calls as he bends forward and puts his hand out for the ball. “Come and meet—“

The artist’s voice trails off as Byul ignores him, unceremoniously dropping the ball to the ground and running straight towards the man beside Junmyeon.

At first Junmyeon thinks Byul is going to attack the man, but the man does not seem to think the same. He simply smiles, and crouches down to the ground to welcome the dog into his arms. Byul is positively vibrating, her tail a blur from wagging so fast. She was jumping around the man so much, barking happily at him and then bounding off—only to run back and do it all over again.

Junmyeon can only watch in incredulity as his dog continues to ignore him for the stranger. Did she think that the man was good-looking, too? God, his daughter was such a flirt.

The man laughs as Byul jumps on him again, this time giving him a on his cheeks.

“Byullie, no!” Junmyeon scolds from his bench.  “I told you not everyone likes the ies!”

The man laughs again, only this time at Junmyeon and the artist can almost swear his heart stopped for a moment because of how blindingly bright the stranger’s grin was.

“It’s okay!” he assures Junmyeon. “I like ies. And don’t worry coz I always make sure to wash my face afterwards.”

He coaxes Byul into his arms, and shifts so that he is sitting on the ground instead of crouching, hugging the dog to his chest before putting her down to his lap.

“My name’s Kris,” he says.

“I’m Junmyeon,” the artist replies. “Sorry about Byul. She’s usually shy at first, I don’t know why she’s being so shameless with you.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Junmyeon,” Kris replies earnestly. “And don’t worry about it, it’s cool. I love dogs, and maybe she sensed that? To be honest I was kind of having a bad day and I came here hoping to run into someone who had a dog. I needed some cheering up.”

“Oh. Lucky for you I was having an off day too,” Junmyeon admits with a shy laugh. “Byul and I usually have our walk much later in the day.”

“Ah. That’s probably why we only met now.”

“Do you come here often?”

“I always come here in the morning,” Kris says as he gently runs his fingers through Byul’s fur. “I work in the afternoons as assistant gym teacher at the nearby elementary school.”

Junmyeon perks up. “Do you mean Jinshim?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“It’s the only elementary school around here,” Junmyeon laughs.

“Oh,” Kris grins sheepishly. “I don’t know much about this place, to be honest. I only came here for the job. And I haven’t really done much exploring and socializing.”

“Yeah, you uh… didn’t look like you were from around here.”

“I don’t look Korean, you can say it,” Kris encourages with an easy laugh. “I’m Chinese. But I went to college here in Korea. Went back home for a bit, but I quickly realized that I’d rather be here. So I packed my bags and left.”

“That’s…that’s quite brave of you.”

“Nah. I’m really more of running away,” Kris admits.  

Junmyeon tilts his head in question, and his new friend shifts uncomfortably.

“Family drama,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Ah. It was probably best not to ask him about that, Junmyeon thought to himself. “So, how long has it been since you moved here?” he queries, changing the subject. “I’m actually pretty new around here as well. I used to live in Seoul until half a year ago.”

“Oh?” Kris perks up. “Well, let’s see… a month at most, I think? It wasn’t exactly planned. I was supposed to come here August, for the new school year, you know? But the other assistant’s dad got sick and she had to quit her job to take care of him. The school asked if I could come early for the spring term instead, and I was more than happy to.”

“Wasn’t it a hassle to have to move quickly?” Junmyeon wonders.

Kris shakes his head. “Not really. I didn’t bring much. Hardly anything, really. Mostly just clothes and a couple boxes of personal stuff. Besides, the school let me have one of their apartments, even if I’m not part of the senior faculty. Kind of a thank-you for coming. It’s small, but it’s furnished so I didn’t really need to buy anything for it.”

Junmyeon listens to him in awed silence. Kris’s life sounded so…dynamic. Junmyeon doubts if he could ever do such a thing, just pack his bags and go to a strange place without any plans. He tells Kris so, and the other just laughs.

“What are you talking about, you moved here too, didn’t you?” he asks disbelievingly.

“It’s not the same,” Junmyeon laments. “It was my older brother Minseok who did everything. He helped me find a job, helped me look for an apartment. He even came with me when I first moved here, and stayed for a couple of weeks to let me adjust before he went back.”

“Hmm. That was nice of him. But it was still pretty courageous of you,” Kris insists.

“Thanks,” Junmyeon smiles. “It gets lonely at times, but Byul helps a lot.”

His new friend looks down fondly on the dog in his lap, now sound asleep from all the gentle petting. “I’m sure she does,” he agrees. “She’s adorable.”

Now, Junmyeon was not exactly a people person. Even when he came to the park everyday, his conversations with anyone never lasted for more than a few minutes—mostly just greetings and small talk. Which was why, carrying on like this with Kris was pleasing but odd. Maybe it was the vulnerability that Kris approached him with, and the laidback but sincere way he talked about himself. It was rare to meet people who talked like they had nothing to hide—not arrogant, but definitely not timid, either. And the shared experience of having to make it alone in a new place was probably a big factor, too.

They move on to lighter topics, bachelor disasters such as how Kris once cracked an egg against the pan too hard that the egg exploded into a slimy mess on the floor, or how Junmyeon tried out a vegetable recipe once but could not figure out how to slice the onions so he ended up hacking at it instead. It becomes a competition, to see which one of them had the worse kitchen disaster.

“I once burned microwavable popcorn,” Junmyeon tries.

“Yeah? Well I—wait, how do you even burn microwavable popcorn?” Kris double takes.

“By not knowing what microwavable popcorn is and putting it inside a pot instead of a microwave oven, paper bag and all,” the smaller answers simply.

Kris gapes. “The instructions are written right on the bag!”

“Some people are dumb!”

“I’m amazed you haven’t managed to accidentally kill yourself till now. How are you even still alive?”

“I’m not that bad!” Junmyeon laughs, completely forgetting about their competition. “Although… I’m probably not the sharpest tool in the shed, either. I was so determined to make and eat popcorn that night, I actually scrounged through the charred mess and popped some of them in my mouth. And that was the first and last time that I ate charcoal-flavored popcorn.”

The taller guffaws, and Junmyeon laughs along. Kris laughs so hard that tears squeeze out from his eyes, and the shaking of his body wakes Byul from her nap. The dog looks at the two in turn and cheerfully barks, as if demanding, let me join in the fun too!

Junmyeon holds his arms open towards her, and Byul jumps into them instantly.

“God, that must have been the hardest I’ve laughed for like, the past year,” Kris says as he wipes his eyes, still quite out of breath. He stands up from his spot on the ground and dusts himself off.

“Me too,” the smaller agrees, and finds that he means it. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s had a good laugh. It was true, what everyone said about laughter being therapeutic. It felt like having a good night’s sleep after several days of fatigue.

“Listen, um…” Kris brings a hand to the back of his neck. “It was really nice meeting you here…”

Was he leaving already? “Oh,” Junmyeon responds, too much disappointment bleeding into his voice. “Y-yeah. It was really good talking to you too. I uh, guess I’ll see you around?”

The gym teacher nods earnestly, and Junmyeon’s arms circle around Byul for comfort, suddenly shy.

Kris makes to turn around, but hesitates.

“Actually it—“

“But if—“

The two stare at each other, and burst out into laughter.

“You go first,” Kris offers.

“I was going to say, ‘but if you have some time maybe we can go have brunch together?’” Junmyeon tries.

“And I was going to say, ‘actually, I’m free today, so if you don’t mind maybe I can treat you to a meal as a thank you for making my day less ty’,” Kris grins.

 Junmyeon’s face breaks into a smile, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I need to drop Byul off at home, though.”

“I kinda stink, so I gotta go home and take a shower, too,” the taller admits. “Meet in an hour?”

“Okay.”

“I’m not loaded though, so I’m sorry but I can’t take you to one of those fancy restaurants for our first date.”

The artist blushes despite himself. So it was a date. “Kris, I just told you a story of me eating scorched food, it’s not like I have a very sophisticated palate to satisfy either,” he laughs.

They quickly exchange phone numbers, and Junmyeon bids Kris goodbye from his seat. When the taller is out of sight, Junmyeon hugs Byul close. This time, he does not stop the unmanly giggles that wriggle through his chest.

 

 

 

 

 

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Omission 1-1: five years before

 

Junmyeon is at the oval when he sees him for the first time.

It was early, too early for anyone to be out, the grounds practically empty save for some students doing their trainings.

Junmyeon had come here to study movement; his professor had told him that some of his drawings were a bit stiff, awkward. So he’d come to the perfect place to observe people in motion—sitting, standing, running, stretching, walking, jumping—the university oval had everything.

Junmyeon is seated on the grass, hunched over his half-finished sketch, when a movement catches his eye. He turns his head towards it, and sees a guy walking towards the track.

The guy was in a blue tracksuit that was a little too short for him—the ankles of his long lean legs peeking out from the pants. His hair was dyed blond, which seemed to further pale his already fair complexion. Everything about him is sharp: his eyes, his nose, his chin, and almost every angle in his body because he had such a lithe figure. His height was enough to elicit the reflexive disdain Junmyeon had for overly tall people.

He sauntered into the track with a quiet type of confidence, like a being knowing that it was in its territory.

Junmyeon watched him from his spot on the grass, sketchbook sitting forgotten in his lap. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of him. He was weirdly fascinating, even while only doing something as mundane as stretching…

A flush creeps up Junmyeon’s neck, and he snaps his head back down to his work. He mentally slaps himself in the face. He came here to finish his project, not crush on random guys.

 

 

1-2

 

 

There he was again, days later.

He came later, much later than he did before. The sun was already high up in the sky, and Junmyeon had already finished his sketch for the day. He was just about to pack up when the familiar streak of blue walked into the quad.

The guy looked brighter today. Or maybe it was the sun? His track suit was ill-fitting as ever, but he still looked positively riveting.

Junmyeon had nothing else to divert his attention to this time, so he gave in and watched with poorly-hidden curiosity. The guy did his stretches as usual, and then positioned himself on the track. A breath, two. And then he sped off into a sprint.

The movement of his legs were like clockwork, almost hypnotic. Junmyeon could almost imagine how he would draw the figure on paper. Long lines for the legs, the arms, too. The angles of the limbs, the horizontal lines to show the wind rushing through him…

The guy speeds past Junmyeon, and the light from the sun hits his hair just right, turning it into an almost blinding gold.

The image stays with Junmyeon throughout the day, so much so that he could not focus on anything else. His hands stayed restless until he gave in and pulled his sketchbook out, feverishly drawing out the picture from his head into the paper.

Like a rubberband pulled taut and finally released, Junmyeon felt the tension drain out of him with each of his pencil. He looked at the finished sketch for some time. Color. It needed color.

 

 

1-3

 

“Do you always come here this early?”

Junmyeon jolts in surprise, and his brush pen smudges on the paper, the green ink blotting over the wrong lines. He looks towards the source of the voice, and his heart jumps up his throat.

“Ah, sorry,” the guy in the blue tracksuit says as he walks up to Junmyeon. “I didn’t mean to surprise you. Did you mess up your drawing?”

The art student shakes his head furiously, and shuts his sketchbook close before the guy could see it.

“I’m sorry!” Jumyeon blurts out. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”

“Huh?” The guy stops in his tracks, only a couple of steps infront of Junmyeon. “Dude, I don’t own this place, I’m not making you leave or anything.”

“It’s not that. It’s… I was drawing you,” Junmyeon confesses.

The guy raises an eyebrow. “You were? Huh. I’m kind of flattered.”

“Y-you are?”

“Yup,” the guy confirms as he seats himself beside the art student on the grass. “I actually just came over to say hi, but this is an interesting development.” He nods at Junmyeon’s sketchbook. “Can I see?”

 “Okay,” he mumbles and reluctantly hands over his sketchbook.

“I’m Yifan, by the way,” the guys says as he flips the book open.  “Wu Yifan.”

“I’m Kim Junmyeon.”

“I look so graceful in your drawing, are you sure it was me you were looking at? I’ve been told I look like a chicken when I run.”

“I draw things the way I see them.”

Yifan grins at him in approval, and something tells Junmyeon that he will like this boy so much more than he already does.

“So you’re in the track team, or…?

“Nah. I’m a business major. I just run for fun. You?”

“I think it’s kind of obvious that I’m an art student…”

“What are you being mean for? It’s not nice to assume things! I was being polite.”

“I wasn’t--!”

“That’s okay. Myeon, can I call you Myeon? Well Myeon, have long have you been studying in this school? Did you know you could hang out at the theater department’s fourth floor classrooms? They’re almost always empty. I even managed to smuggle a sleeping bag there. For naps, you know? You should come with me some time…”

Yifan is excitable, like a puppy. It was almost like sentences were gushing out of him, stories pouring right out, like a tank filled and neglected for a very long time, finally being drained.

He is from China, he came here to study and to have a taste of living alone. How did he learn Korean? Why, from dramas, of course. No, he’s kidding. He had a lot of hardworking tutors back home. He doesn’t know many people around here. In fact, he hasn’t made any friends so far. He’s heard people say that he was intimidating. Was he? Nevermind that, he had Junmyeon now. They’re friends now, right?

“Right,” Junmyeon concedes after the Chinese male asks for the third time.

Yifan seems to sigh in relief, before launching off into another excited rant. Junmyeon sits back and listens, answers and nods. He liked listening to Yifan’s voice.

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🌱

“I have to say, that bibimbap was not as good as people said it would be,” Kris confesses in a low voice as they walk out of the restaurant. “I’m mourning my 12,000 won. I could have bought so much ramyun with that.”

“What are you talking about, it was delicious,” Junmyeon argues.

Kris stares at him in disbelief. “The beef was rubber. And the vegetables they put in were so wilted I could actually hear them begging me to let them rest in peace!”

“Hey, come on it wasn’t that bad,” the artist laughs.

“Junmyeon, I can make better bibimbap than that, and that says a lot coz I’m the second worst cook in the world.”

“Second?”

“Yeah, coz you’re the first.”

Junmyeon slaps him on the shoulder with an affronted laugh, but the taller only grins unrepentantly.

Brunch had been fun, bad bibimbap notwithstanding. Junmyeon had come in a bit late, still out of breath from having to run the last two blocks. He’d lost track of time at home from pulling out literally his entire wardrobe onto his bed, biting his lip nervously and trying on dozens of different outfits before he was satisfied. He’d even resorted to calling Minseok, of all people, his older brother who always went on dates wearing a suit.

But Kris had made it pretty clear that they were going somewhere casual. Only, how casual was it? Could Junmyeon go in jeans and a shirt with a bright jacket of some kind? Or was that too casual? Maybe he could go in slacks instead? But slacks were kind of formal, weren’t they? And could he wear a coat? His trench coat, perhaps? Or maybe he could just wear one a sweater? But then—

“Oh for god’s sake, Junmyeon,” Minseok cuts his brother’s panicked rant off. “Just wear whatever you’re comfortable with. It’s a date. The most important thing is that you have fun.”

“But what if I wear something ugly and he dislikes me,” Junmyeon asks in a small voice.

“Then he’s not worth your time. You’re cute in anything you wear, anyway. It’s those Kim genes, you know? It’s the one asset we have.”

Junmyeon snorts. “Okay, okay. I’ll just… choose whatever.”

“And Junmyeon?”

“Yeah?”

“You sound like you’re smiling. And I like that. Have fun on your date, okay?”

The familiar apologetic feeling simmers in Junmyeon’s gut. Minseok has had to go through so much because of him…

Junmyeon shakes his head, pushing the feeling away. Be thankful instead of sorry, his brother always told him.

“I’ll have fun,” he promises.

And he does.

When he sees Kris waiting for him on one of the tables, Junmyeon was again struck by the sight. He was in a simple white shirt topped with a black jacket. His hair was still glistening with dampness, but it only added to the sharpness of his looks, like an untouchable perfectly-cut gem.

His eyes then meet Junmyeon’s. The whole stoic façade falls and Kris greets him with a lively—almost too cheerful—wave.

Junmyeon had waved back, still not quite believing he was the one Kris would be dining with.

They talked quite a lot during their meal, mostly about their jobs. Kris complained about how weirdly competitive some of his students got, sometimes to the point of running until they threw up. Junmyeon found himself talking about how he worked at home, a topic he never thought he would gladly share about on a first date. He thought it was such a mundane topic—there were no weird coworkers he could talk about, or nightmare bosses to whine over. But Kris listened intently—never trying to change the subject, even teased a joke in here and there—effortlessly putting Junmyeon at ease.

“I’m not satisfied,” Kris sighs, shaking Junmyeon out of his thoughts. “Why don’t we go for something sweet?”

 The artist shrugs. “I guess I have room for more. How about that café over there?” he points to a nearby one. “My treat this time.”

They enter the shop, and the strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee floods Junmyeon’s senses. The scent calms him down, makes him feel like he’s back in his warm bed. It smells so enticing that he almost, almost wants to drink some.

“I’ll have the iced Americano,” Kris says to him. He’d leant down by Junmyeon’s ear, and his breath tickles the smaller’s neck, sending a slight shiver down his spine.

“O-okay,” the artist stutters. And to the barista he says, “We’ll have one iced Americano and one freshly-squeezed orange juice, please.” He also orders a small chocolate cake - also at Kris's request - and an oatmeal cookie for himself.

“What, no coffee for you?” Kris asks as they each pull a chair to sit down.

“I hate coffee,” Junmyeon states, plopping himself on his chair.

Kris’s arm on the chair freezes, and his chair stays half on the floor and half in the air. He stares at Junmyeon for a moment before seemingly taking notice of himself. He clears his throat and sits down.

 “Why, uh, why do you hate coffee?” the taller asks. But his tone didn’t sound like he was offended, much to Junmyeon’s relief. It sounded more like confusion. “In fact, why would you hate coffee?” he continues, this time louder, gaining back that plain-spokenness of his that Junmyeon liked. “It’s like, the blood of all people in the creative world! All the writers and artists I know practically live off of the stuff.”

“Okay, maybe hate is a strong word,” Junmyeon concedes. “I like the smell of it well enough, but I just can’t drink the stuff.”

“Why not? It’s coffee. Sure, it’s bitter and all, but that’s what sugar and cream are for. And those fancy flavors like vanilla and hazelnut and caramel and whatnot. Coffee is versatile.”

Junmyeon can’t help but laugh at how high Kris’s voice has gotten. “Calm down you caffeine zombie, it’s not like I’m stopping you from drinking it.”

“But it’s coffee!”

The artist rolls his eyes and pushes the plate of cake towards his date to shut him up. “Just eat and be quiet please.”

Kris gives him a playful glare, but takes the offer and begins to demolish the cake. It was almost childlike, the way his eyes gleamed at the sight of the cake, how he hummed in delight with every bite he took. Everything about Kris was uncontrived, unapologetic. It wasn’t that he was shameless, it was more like, he was aware of who he was. And he accepted who he was, embraced who he was. Junmyeon wondered how one could be so unreserved, so uncaring of what people may think.

“Not having any?”

Junmyeon snaps out of his thoughts. “Huh? Oh. No, I’m good, thank you.”

“Please don’t tell me you don’t like cake either.”

A beat. “No comment.”

Kris gasps. “Oh my god, you don’t like cake,” he accuses.

“I do like cake, I just… can’t eat much of it!”

“Oh really.” The taller sits back and folds his arms over his chest. “Explain yourself then, mister, before I peg you as the driest human being on the planet.”

“It’s for health reasons.” Junmyeon leaves it at that.

Kris gives him a measuring look, trying to gauge whether the artist was lying or not. He sighs after a beat. “Ugh. I really should stop myself from liking you too much, we hardly have anything in common.”

The artist blinks, the words registering in his ears. He bites his lip to keep himself from smiling. “You like me?”

“That was all you heard?” Kris groans, hiding his quickly-reddening face in his hands. “I mean, I did ask you out. Liking you is kind of a given, don’t you think?”

Junmyeon looks down at his lap to hide his grin.

Kris clears his throat to dispel the embarrassment. “Say. Have you gone to the famous spots here in Jeonju yet?”

“Only one. I’m horrible at going to places by myself, I usually end up getting lost.”

“Now, now, that won’t do. Which one was it that you went to?”

Junmyeon thinks. “It was that hanok village. I went with Minseok.”

“Come on,” Kris prods, getting up from his seat. “I’ll forgive you for not liking coffee and cake if you take me there.”

“What,” the artist asks incredulously. “What part of ‘I’m horrible at going to places by myself, I usually end up getting lost’ did you not hear?”

“That’s why we have maps, Junmyeon. And residents and passersby that we can ask for directions.” The taller reaches out a hand to him. “Now come on.”

Junmyeon hesitates, but gives in. He shakes his head, knowing full well that the rest of the afternoon was going to be tiring. But he takes Kris’s hand, and somehow he doesn’t mind.

 

 

 

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Omission 1-4: five years before

 

Brown. It’s the color of Junmyeon’s coffee, drowning in cream. Yifan always brought freshly brewed coffee for them both, but it was far too strong for Junmyeon’s liking. The cream softened the flavor, and the art student was always generous with it. Along with some sugar, it made coffee taste like a gentle caress to his taste buds, unlike the nauseating slap of bitterness that Yifan preferred.

They meet at the oval every morning, even on weekends. They sit on the grass for a while, to eat breakfast—mostly convenience store meals because both were hopeless in the kitchen. Afterwards they would have their coffee with a dessert courtesy of Yifan, which was almost always a chocolate cupcake.

“So much caffeine,” Junmyeon complains.

“It’s good,” Yifan argues. “Nothing better than coffee and sweets to get our hearts pumping for the day.”

Junmyeon rolls his eyes.

But his heart does race so much these days.

He blames the caffeine.

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🌱

 

“Scholar Kim, I believe that this village is in dire need of an improvement of their water drainage system.”

“You majesty, I believe it would be much cheaper if we chose another crown prince instead—one that watches where he walks and does not step into puddles.”

Kris gapes. “How dare you. Soldiers, arrest this man this instant!”

His loud voice attracts the attention of the people around, and Junmyeon bows his head in shame.

“Stop being so loud,” he hisses.

The Chinese male at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Let’s walk away and save our dignity as aristocrats, yeah?”

They are in the Hanok Village. Kris, despite never having gone here before, managed to get them both here easily. Five minutes in, and he sees the hanbok rental shop. No amount of pleading from Junmyeon could stop him from renting costumes for them both.

Junmyeon ends up dressed in a shiny silk robe. At least Kris had allowed him to choose. His had a salmon pink overcoat, and he likes the way it shimmers whenever he moves. He tried not to blush when Kris insisted to take pictures of him, declaring that the color suited him so well.

Kris on the other hand was dressed as a crown prince. None of the other costumes fit his ridiculously tall frame—not that he minded it one bit. He took too much delight in the role for Junmyeon’s liking.

The taller sees something interesting up ahead, and runs towards it. Junmyoen rolls his eyes in exasperation as he disappears around the corner. Where was he getting all that energy? The afternoon heat, exacerbated by the robes, made Junmyeon lethargic—not that he was energetic in the first place, but still.

He takes the turn, and a figure by the side jumps at him.

“RAAAARGH! Take that, you pompous scholar—Junmyeon, what’s wrong?”

Junmyeon is clutching at his chest, willing his heart to stop beating so hard. The shock at Kris’s prank was enough to send Junmyeon’s heart into an overdrive, each beat loud and strong and raw. The pain was enough to make him mute, only deep gasps escaping his lips.

“Junmyeon,” Kris sounds terrified. Arms grasp at the artist’s shoulders. “Junmyeon, talk to me. What’s happening?”

“H-hurts…”

“Are you having a heart attack? Stay here, I’m going to call for an ambulance.”

Junmyeon grabs Kris by the arm as he turns away. “No! No, I-It’s okay. I’m fuh…fine. Just gotta… breathe.”

The Chinese male does not look convinced, but he cracks at the pleading look on Junmyeon’s face. He leads them both to a nearby bench, and runs to a vending machine for some water.

Junmyeon’s heart has calmed down by the time Kris comes back, but his fear of the pain starts to be exchanged with shame. Kris hands him the drink, and Junmyeon gulps it down gratefully.

“I’m sorry,” Kris murmurs, sitting quite a distance away from the smaller as if afraid of harming him further.

Junmyeon only shakes his head. He owes Kris some kind of explanation, but where was he supposed to start? He takes time to collect his thoughts, and for a while only the buzz of the other people around could be heard.

“I—I had…” Junmyeon falters, but takes a deep breath. “I had hanahaki,” he confesses.

“Wow,” Kris breathes, his hand reaching out and laying itself on top of Junmyeon’s. “Damn. I’m sorry, Junmyeon.”

The artist shakes his head. “It’s ok,” he reassures him, and actually means it. The warmth of Kris’s hand on his is more than comforting, it gives him the small push to keep talking. “I don’t remember much about it. But ever since my surgery, my heart has been… weird. It hurts when I get too excited, or too nervous or too…anything. My doctor says it’s more of a mental thing. Phantom pains from the flower, apparently. Anyway, it’s because of it that I stay away from anything that’s too stimulating.”

“Like coffee,” Kris supplies, finally understanding.

Junmyeon nods sheepishly. “Coffee, cake, energy drinks, chocolates... I know it’s dumb, but it really scares me when it hurts.”

He hears Kris sigh. “It’s not dumb. Hey.” He gives Junmyeon’s hand a light squeeze, prompting the artist to look up. “Everyone is scared of pain. It’s not dumb to try and protect yourself from it. I’m sorry for being a and scaring you like that.”

“Sorry for bringing the mood down…”

The taller shakes his head. “Nah, I’m the one at fault for acting like a kid,” he says guiltily. “And thank you for telling me.”

Kris looks him in the eye, and Junmyeon is suddenly very aware of the fact that he is gripping Kris’s hand. He snatches his hand back, as if burned, and tries to hide the blush that starts to creep up his neck.

“Tell you what,” the taller offers, easily breaking the tension. “You rest here, and I’ll go get us snacks. I think I saw a woman selling grilled squid over at that red house…”

Before Junmyeon can refuse, Kris is already on his feet, jogging away. It was quite a sight, a man in a crown prince’s getup sprinting amidst the thin crowd. He hears the Chinese male’s voice boom with a command for the “peasants” to step aside, and Junmyeon chuckles in affection.

He still found it hard to believe that he was here, outside, actually visiting a tourist trap—in a period costume, even. Thinking about it now, it sounded like something perhaps the thirteen-year-old version of him would do—the version of himself that he thought to be the most adventurous. But Junmyeon didn’t mind. He was having fun.

And Kris. God, where did he even come from? And how come Junmyeon had only met him now? If there was one thing he would change about meeting the Chinese male, Junmyeon would make it so that he had met Kris much, much sooner than today.

But that was alright. The artist smiles to himself. Kris was here now. And the thought of him being in the same city as Junmyeon was more than enough to make the future something to look forward to.

“Mister! Hey, mister!”

Junmyeon sits up, startled. There is a girl standing infront of him.

“I knew it!” the girl shouts in delight. “Mister, here.” The girl hands him a black wallet. “You lost this!”

The artist pats his pants underneath his robe, and his wallet is still there. “Thank you, but I think you got the wrong guy, sweetie,” he tells the girl. “I didn’t lose my wallet.”

“But it’s yours,” the girls insists. She opens the wallet and shows it to Junmyeon. “See? It has your picture in it!”

Junmyeon frowns. That couldn’t be possible. Maybe it was just someone who looked like him? He takes the wallet from the girl, and takes a closer look.

His breath catches at his throat.

There, protected by a film of clear plastic, was Junmyeon. He looks several years younger in the picture, his hair swept to the side the way he wore it back in college. He is smiling in the picture, looking unbelievably young and bright and happy.

And right beside him on the picture was Kris.

 

 

 

 

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Omission 1-6: two years before

 

Junmyeon has been feeling lonely lately.

Ever since that day, things have been… awkward, between him and Yifan.

Junmyeon supposed that it was his fault. He really should have thought more before he went and confessed his feelings to his best friend.

 

“I’m sorry, Myeon. I’m really sorry. I love you too, but… not that way.”

 

Oh. Of course.

 

“You’re a beautiful person, and anyone will be lucky to have you. I want you to remember that, okay? There’s nothing wrong with you, Junmyeon. It’s just that you deserve someone who will love you without holding back. And I’m not that person.”

 

Junmyeon tried to listen to him, but all he can think of was how utterly perfect Yifan was, how incredibly sweet he was being, even as he was rejecting Junmyeon.

And that was it, wasn’t it? Rejection. It didn’t sink in to Junmyeon until then.

Yifan didn’t love him.

He feels his heart break, and with every breath it shatters a little more. YIfan didn’t love him.

 

“Junmyeon, hey. Please say something? I don’t want this to be the thing that ends our friendship. You mean too much to me.”

 

And the art student had pulled on a wobbly smile—he’d hoped it would come across as reassuring and not pathetic.

 

“Of course,” he’d said. “I—it’s not your fault that you don’t feel the same way. And I don’t want to lose you either. But maybe… do you think you could give me some time?”

 

That was Valentines’ Day. It was now almost March and the two have hardly seen each other, let alone talk. Junmyeon did not realize just how much of his time was spent with Yifan until he had to spend them without him. Each day was dull, each minute a century. He mostly skipped breakfast now—there was no point when everything tasted like sand and just eating the meal itself was painful. He avoided being on the school grounds as well, especially the track. He would only go to his classes, and then zoom his way out as fast as he could when they were over.

Yifan, sweet Yifan, still left him messages everyday. Asking how he was. Greeting him a good morning. Wishing him a good night. He never asks anything, but the question was there. Are you over me yet?

Junmyeon wished he could just stop feeling entirely. An absolute nothingness—that would be much better than this simmering mix of lovesickness and yearning and loneliness and self-pity.

He’s at home now. His small apartment smells musty. He hasn’t cleaned it in days. He closes the window in his bedroom to keep the cold wind out—his throat has been hurting for a while now. And there’s some rough phlegm in his throat he can’t quite cough out.

There’s someone knocking at his door.

His heart starts racing, because he knows it’s Yifan. No one else ever came over at Junmyeon’s—only his brother and his best friend. He never asked any of his college friends over, he wasn’t that comfortable with any of them.

He sits on his bed and wills the knocking to go away.

“Junmyeon. Myeon. I know you’re in there, I just saw you go in,” Yifan calls from the door. “Please open the door.”

The art student sighs. Well. This was something that was bound to happen eventually. Yifan was just that stubborn. And Junmyeon was always just too willing, too fond of him to ever say no.

He does not know what to expect at the other side of the door. Was Yifan angry? Disappointed? Sad? Was he fed up with Junmyeon?

So many different scenarios, and none of them were right. For what greeted Junmyeon as he opened the door was the sharp, cheerful barks of a puppy.

It was nestled in Yifan’s arms, and Junmyeon would swear it was love at first sight.

 

 

“What do we name her?”

It is an hour later. They are sitting on the floor of the living room, watching the puppy roll around on the carpet. Whatever tension there was, had been completely washed away by the mere existence of the sweet dog, and the two best friends found it easy to fall back into how they were before—unstilted conversations and easy laughter.

“Oh, I’ve already thought of that,” Yifan informs Junmyeon. “I want to name her Byul.”

“Byul,” Junmyeon tries. He reaches out to give the puppy a belly rub. “A star. Do you like that name?” he asks her.

The puppy gives one sharp bark in reply, and it was all Junmyeon could do not to snatch her up and hold her against his chest in a crushing hug.

“A star,”Yifan echoes. “I want her to be that for you. Like how you are for me.”

Junmyeon turns to his friend, tilting his head in question.

“Let me be sappy just this once,” the Chinese male rolls his eyes. “I’m serious. You’re like a star to me, Myeon. Coming here to Korea, this was just supposed to be my one rebellious act. Just something that I had to do for myself. My future is pretty much sealed, you know? So I wanted to have at least this. A normal university life. And then I’ll go back home and live the life my father has planned for me.” He shifts so he is completely facing Junmyeon.

A hesitant hand reaches out and lays on top of Junmyeon’s. The art student looks at it and then at Yifan, but the Chinese male refuses to meet his eyes.

“Meeting you… was the best thing that has ever happened to me.” Yifan’s voice has softened down into almost a whisper, a sound so fragile it made Junmyeon unwilling of even taking a breath for fear of scaring it away. “You’ve made the last four years so great. I’ve never met anyone who was as tolerant of me as you are—“ Junmyeon had frowned, wanted to say that he wasn’t tolerating Yifan, no way. But the Chinese male squeezed the artist’s hand, asking him to let him finish.

“I love how I can always be myself when I’m around you, and how you never make me feel bad about being pretentious when I’m with everybody else. I’m always amazed at how you can make whatever problem I’m facing seem small with just one reassuring squeeze of my hand, and how we can just look at each other and have whole conversations without even talking. I love how you always draw me, and the person you sketch—he always looks confident and strong and hopeful and brave and I wish—I wish I could be him and be as wonderful as you see me as…”

Yifan sniffles, and it was only then that Junmyeon notices that their faces are both glistening with tears.

“I have barely four months left here,” the taller continues after a shuddering breath. “Once I graduate, I have to go back home. And I won’t be able to come back.”

Junmyeon’s heart stutters.

“I guess I’m too much of my father’s son to go against him more than I already have,” Yifan says through a painful smile. “We’ve already lost so many days, Myeon. I don’t want to waste any more of it. Whatever time I have left here, I want to spend them with you.”

It dawns on Junmyeon then, exactly what Yifan had replied to his confession before.

Yifan did love him. But the love that Yifan could give, was strictly limited to this—a friendship that wasn’t quite friendship. An extremely thin line that teetered between platonic and romantic; acknowledging both but never favoring either. A mix of the two, a hazy facsimile of what Junmyeon yearned for.

And he does not know whom he should feel sorry for more then. Yifan, who wanted but could not dare. Himself, who was more than willing jump, but could not be met halfway.

What Yifan was asking for at this moment, was to bring things to how they were before. To be back to normal, before Junmyeon cracked the fragile façade of their relationship with his clumsy confession.

And Junmyeon wants to say no, wants to lash out and demand more. But the last few days have been excruciating. Being without Yifan was too draining, too painful. Not having him was unimaginable. If he disagreed to this, he would lose Yifan forever. But if he said yes, he can have him back. It won’t be exactly what Junmyeon wants, but …it would be close enough.

He squeezes Yifan’s hand back, a wordless assent. A quiet surrender.

Yifan smiles at their hands, then at Junmyeon.

Something in Junmyeon’s chest cracks.

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III 🌸

REVISION

 

 

 

Fingers trembling, Junmyeon pulls the picture out from its pocket. He traces the figures in the picture, as if expecting them to be wiped away by his fingertips. But it was real, inerasable. There was no mistake about it. The person at his side... His hair is longer, and dyed blond. But it was him. It was Kris.

But how? He’d only met Kris today. If they had known each other before well enough to take a picture together, surely Junmyeon would remember him?

Junmyeon turns the picture over. There is writing in the back, in an all-too familiar handwriting.

 

 

Yifan,

 

You better not lose this one. I don’t have any more pictures of us!

You ruined them all when you spilled my paint

(which you still haven’t replaced, by the way) all over the table.

 

 

Merry Christmas :)

-Junmyeon

 

 

 

Junmyeon takes a deep, shuddering breath, his mind desperately trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Hey, I couldn’t buy the squid. I think I lost my…”

The artist looks up just as Kris’s voice trails off. The Chinese male’s eyes widen at what Junmyeon had in his hands, instantly confirming everything.

“Who are you?” Junmyeon demands in a harsh whisper. “Who are you, Kris? Or should I call you Yifan?”

“Junmyeon. Listen, I...“

In that instant, it all dawns on Junmyeon. “Was it you?” he interrupts. “The person I fell in love with. The reason I got sick. Was it you?”

Kris’s shoulders slump in defeat. He nods mutely.

Junmyeon’s breath emerges in gasps, and he clutches at the bench to ground himself, to support himself as he stood up. “What is this, Kris?” A traitorous drop of tear escapes his eye as he frowns. “Is this a game to you? Are you playing with me?”

“No, god, Junmyeon. No,” Kris implores. “I would never do that to you.”

“Then what are you doing?!”

“Junmyeon—Junmyeon. Please,” he raises a placating hand. “Please listen, let me explain. Everything I told you about me is true—the job, moving. I swear I didn’t know you would be in the park. I… I knew you were in this city, but I didn’t know where. And when I saw you this morning I just—I just couldn’t help but—“

He reaches towards the trembling artist, but Junmyeon recoils from his touch.

“Don’t touch me,” the smaller hisses, backing away. “Don’t—don’t come near me. I need to think…”

He turns away, pulling at his robes and trying not to break down there and then. He feels suffocated, there’s a ringing in his ears that won’t go away. Too much—it was just too much to process.

He wordlessly hands off his rented clothing to the shopkeeper, earning a worried glance from the old woman. But that was just another thing that Junmyeon has to dismiss, has to worry about later because his head is about to explode.

Why?

Why was Kris—Yifan? What was he supposed to call him?—doing this? Did he see Junmyeon and thought it would be interesting to fool around with someone who was head over heels for him before?

He grabs at his chest, feeling the scar lining the middle of it. Oh god… was he going to get sick again? His only clear memories of having hanahaki were of being in pain—the wracking coughs that shook his whole body, the stabbing pain in his heart that radiated to his lungs, his throat, his lips. And what if he needed to get a surgery again? His mind was a whole mess after one. Will there be anything left of him if he gets another one?

Because Junmyeon knew it in his heart: it was not just the memories and the feelings that went away. No matter how good the mind was at repairing itself, it cannot mend the soul. And having love ripped out of your being leaves a permanent scar. It was something that his doctor had never mentioned, but Junmyeon knew. He is a patchwork of his former self, a listless man with a hollowness at his core.

And how stupid could he be, to fall into the same mistake twice.

And to think, he’d confessed about his fears to Kris, how he had hanahaki… was Kris laughing inside the whole time, thinking how pathetic Junmyeon was?

Somehow that thought was unbearable. It makes Junmyeon stop walking, biting his lip as his tears flow down his cheeks. Despite everything, he still wanted Kris to like him. He wants Kris to smile at him, look at him like he was the prettiest face in the room, argue with him about stupid things, take him to places and hold his hand so he would never again feel lost.

This day had given him a snapshot of what being with Kris would be like, and realizing that it was probably all he was ever going to get… it felt like a stab to the chest.

He doesn’t attempt to hold his sobs in anymore. He stumbles forward, leans at a wall to his side for support, and lets himself slide to the ground in defeat.

 

 

 

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Omission 1-5: four years before

 

Junmyeon gets a glimpse of Yifan’s life outside of school purely by accident. He had been standing outside the art supplies store one evening, hugging his new set of charcoal pencils to his chest. They had cost him a fortune, and he was vibrating with excitement at the thought of trying them out at home.

A black car pulls up, stopping just meters away from where Junmyeon was standing. Probably another customer for the upscale restaurant just down the street from the store. A couple alights from the back and at first Junmyeon thinks nothing of them. He turns back and starts walking away, before he pauses. The man looked vaguely familiar…

He turns back and gives them another look.

His eyes widen in shock. It was Yifan.

He was in a midnight blue velvet suit, his hair styled and brushed away from his face. No wonder Junmyeon had not known it was him at first. He was unrecognizable.

The girl at his side stands tall and graceful, and even from far away Junmyeon could feel the aura of power and wealth radiating from her. Everything about her was shiny like a jewel—her hair glossy under the streetlights, the glinting silver at her ears, her neck, her wrist, the dress she wore that shimmered into a wave of glitter everytime she moved.

Her arms are linked with Yifan’s.

They could be friends, Junmyeon reasons. Or she could be his sister. A cousin.

But then he meets Yifan’s eyes.

The taller stares in shock, eyes widening and lips parting into Junmyeon’s name. The look in his face tells Junmyeon that no, the girl wasn’t Yifan’s friend. Or sister. Or cousin.

Junmyeon looks at him, then at the girl, then back at him again. The taller makes no indication to move towards him, but his eyes beg Junmyeon. Please, they say. Let me explain.

But Junmyeon is already taking a step back, and another, and another. He runs.

Yifan does not run after him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They are in the empty theater.

Days have passed since then, days since they last saw each other. Junmyeon had avoided Yifan all week, feeling too confused and betrayed to face his friend. What did it all mean? Will it change anything? But the question that hurt the most was why didn’t he tell me?

Yifan had finally cornered him today, waiting right outside his classroom so Junmyeon would not have the chance to run away.

They are on the stage, Yifan lying on his back staring at the ceiling and Junmyeon at the edge, sitting with his back against the wall and his sketchbook propped on his knees. He does not know what he is drawing. There are just lines and circles and scribbles. But it was something to keep his attention off of Yifan.

“Her name is Song Qian.”

Junmyeon does not need to ask who Yifan meant. His grip on his pencil tightens, but he does not say anything. Only the scratches of Junmyeon’s pencil keep the drowning silence at bay.

“I have to marry her.”

Junmyeon’s hand jerks, and the tip of his pencil breaks.

Yifan sits up with a sigh. “I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, but I come from money. And my father—well, money is all he cares about. I’m being groomed to inherit his business empire, and he would tell you it’s because he cares about my future but it’s really just to make sure the money stays within the family. Song Qian is just another business venture for him.”

Junmyeon bites his lip. “What about you,” he asks in a trembling voice. “What is Song Qian to you?”

He glances up just in time to see the Chinese male give him an unreadable look. “She is someone that I will never be able to love.”

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🌱

 

Wandering aimlessly was something Junmyoen should never do. With his penchant for getting lost, he was supposed to follow memorized guides, stick to roads he knew. Yet here he was, just allowing his feet do the thinking, letting it take him to wherever. But they’re starting to hurt, and he figures maybe it was time to go home.

He looks up around him, trying to orient himself. He was at the train station. Figures. Just what this day needed: another thing to make him uneasy.

He’s only been here twice in total—one, when he and Minseok had first come to this city; and two, when he saw Minseok off. The times he’d been here in his dreams, though, those Junmyeon could not count.

He spies an empty bench and walks towards it. He figures he’s lucky it’s not rush hour yet, at least right now the station was pretty quiet, only a few people were about, mostly walking in a leisurely way that made Junmyeon sure they were headed somewhere nice. He watches them wistfully for a while, wondering where they were going, thinking how it would have been nice to be one of them, just another average person enjoying their weekend outside.

“Junmyeon.”

Junmyeon closes his eyes and huffs in frustration. Why couldn’t he be given just a few minutes of peace?

“Did you follow me here?” he demands.

“Yeah,” Kris sighs, not even attempting to deny it. “I know you probably already think of me as a stalker or something and this doesn’t help my case, but I figured you were done with the lies. Plus… I wanted to at least make sure that you got home safe.”

The artist exhales tiredly. “Why couldn’t you have just told me from the start?”

“I’ve never been the bravest of people,” Kris shrugs. “And never been the smartest, either. That’s kind of your thing. All I know is that I saw you, and my first impulse was to run towards you and hold you and beg for you to love me again. But…you didn’t know me. To you, I was just a stranger at the park. I had to introduce myself somehow. And I don’t know about you, but I figured ‘Hey I’m Kris, I’m the reason why they had to rip a flower out of your chest’ would be a great conversation starter.”

“So you thought that making me look like a fool was the best option,” Junmyeon deadpans, unimpressed.

“Of course not! I’m an idiot, Myeon.” Kris sighs. “I am. And I really should have handled things differently. I’m sorry for lying to you. I’m sorry for pretending I didn’t know you. I was going to tell you, I swear. In the moment, I just wanted bask in having you with me again. And then I was going to wait for the right time to confess everything.”

“I don’t know about this, Kris. I don’t know,” Junmyeon groans, cradling his head in his hands. “I’m so confused right now. It’s all so overwhelming. I like you. I won’t deny that. But all these—these past stuff. It complicates everything and frankly I don’t think it’s worth it.”

A beat of silence.

“Then why are you here?” the taller ventures in a small voice.

Junmyeon frowns at him. “What?”

“Why are you here?” Kris asks more insistently. “Why are you here, in this particular train station, in this particular city? Of all the places, of all the cities in South Korea you could move into, why Jeonju?”

Why? It was because—because…“I—I don’t’ know!”  Because it felt right.

 “Well I do. I know why. And I could give you all the answers. But Junmyeon,” Kris skims the tips of his fingers at Junmyeon’s, and this time the artist does not flinch away. “You have to trust me.”

The taller stands from the bench, and steps infront of Junmyeon, hand reaching out.

“Please come with me?”

 

 

 

 

 

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Omission 1-8: the year before

 

Junmyeon is floating, flying in a haze of white. There is only fog—he is in the fog… he is the fog. Voices start talking, pictures flashing, but they all mix into a buzz, into a collage of everything and nothing.

There is a ground.

His feet land gently, and the fog dissipates. The ground is scratchy underneath his feet. It wasn’t soil. It is a canvas. Splotches of colors appear one by one, like paint dropped straight down. One appears right underneath his feet. He tries to avoid the quickly-growing blue puddle, but a new one of another color appears wherever he steps. The solidness under his feet disappears, and he falls, drowning in an ocean of colors.

 

 

 

Bronze.

 

It dangles below Yifan’s neck. It wasn’t even an official competition, just a friendly neighborhood track meet. Yifan didn’t win, either. He wasn’t even close. But his blinding grin as he proudly shows his medal to Junmyeon tells how he doesn’t mind it at all. He wears it the whole day, like a badge, almost. And he demands to be treated to lunch here, to cake there. And Junmyeon—he pretends to be annoyed. But he gives in. Anything to be blessed again with that goofy smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jade.

 

 

The third soju bottle is almost empty, and Junmyeon is buzzing. It’s the last day of the school year. He and Yifan had attended the campus-wide yearend party beforehand, but the business major did not seem too keen on going home afterwards. He takes them both to a snack bar, a hole in the wall that they reached after many twists and turns in some nameless streets that Junmyeon had no way of knowing. He would not be able to find his way out of here, that was for sure.

But that was alright. He had Yifan. And Yifan was crazy good at memorizing roads and directions—Junmyeon believed he had some kind of built in navigating system, because he’s never failed to get home even when he was drunk.

 Yifan seems miserable at the moment. He’s downing shot after shot of the horrible bitter drink. Junmyeon nibbles on his fish cakes, content in watching his friend.

“I have to go back home for summer,” Yifan finally speaks up, voice slightly slurring.

“Yeah?” That was disappointing. “That’s a good thing. You’ll get to see your folks.”

The Chinese male scoffs and reaches for another drink. He gulps in down, and some of the soju dribbles out from his lips to his chin. Junmyeon can’t help but follow the movement of the liquid, entranced.

“One thing you need to know about me, my friend,” Yifan says, forcing Junmyeon to take his eyes off of the other’s lips. “Is that it’s never a good thing for me to see my folks.”

 

 

 

 

Gray.

 

 

Junmyeon is standing under a streetlight, in an empty street. It is quickly getting dark, but he does not want to leave his spot. The darkness is menacing, a frightening unknown. He bites his lip as he tries not to cry. He should not have been so stubborn, he should have listened to Yifan. He should have asked for clear directions when he passed by that store earlier—heck, he should have asked for a map. Who was he kidding. He was terrible with directions. He should not have come here at all. But he really wanted to see that art gallery. The artist will be showcasing her work in another city next week, and Junmyeon will not get the chance again.

He slumps against the streetlight and lets himself slide to the ground. He curls in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest both for warmth and comfort. The autumn wind is unforgiving, and Junmyeon whimpers as the cold creeps into his skin.

“You .”

Startled, Junmyeon looks up. Yifan is standing infront of him, hair tousled and face glistening with sweat. He hands Junmyeon a jacket, but the smaller ignores it, opting instead to stand and hurl himself forward into Yifan’s arms.

He crashes into the taller’s chest, solid and sweaty and warm. He hears Yifan sigh and a pair of strong arms pull Junmyeon closer, entrapping him in a crushing embrace.

“I told you not to go alone. You always get lost. Why were you so impatient?”

“I—I didn’t want to bother you,” Junmyeon hiccups. “I know you have an exam next week and you should be studying—“

“I already made time for this, I know how to manage my time, you know? If you’d just waited until tomorrow I’d have gladly gone with you. Now my schedule is all messed up. And since it’s your fault, you’re going to help me study all night.”

Junmyeon does not care, Yifan could say anything right now and he would agree to it. He was just glad that Yifan was here now, so glad that he was safe and not lost and all he could do is sob into the taller’s chest.

Yifan’s gray shirt becomes soaked, darkening into an almost black. 

 

 

 

 

 

White.

 

 

The walls are sickeningly clean, so neat to the extent that they felt dead. Junmyeon wonders if that was the reason why being in this hospital room is so depressing.

Yifan is on the bed, leg in a cast and raised with supports. The doctor tells him he was not allowed to run for the next six months.

That was the first time Junmyeon ever saw him cry.

 

 

 

 

Pink.

 

 

The peonies in Junmyeon’s arms are gathered in a large bouquet, in a color that reminds him of a soft blush. He is searching for Yifan—he is on the grounds somewhere, probably by his fellow business majors.

Today was Valentine’s Day.

Junmyeon halts and takes a deep breath. Yes. He was certain. He had been certain for a while now, about how he felt about his best friend. He was not sure when he started wanting more, wanting to entwine his fingers with Yifan and walk with their hands clasped together, wanting to kiss him breathless, wanting to always be the one beside him, wanting him all to himself. He was in love with Yifan. And today was the day he will confess.

You can do this, he tells himself. It will turn out just fine.

He has a chance. He thinks he has a chance. In the three years he’d known Yifan, his bestfriend had never shown interest in anyone. Yifan has had girls and boys try and ask him out,—with his looks, it was a given. But he’d rejected them all without even batting an eye.

And there were times… there were times Junmyeon thinks Yifan might like him back. The smiles he only reserved for him, the arm around his shoulder that never disappeared whenever they were around other people—almost possessive in its hold, the goofiness that only Junmyeon was allowed to know about, the lingering touches, the kisses on his forehead whenever Yifan thought that Junmyeon was already asleep… surely, surely those meant something?

Of course, there was the thing with Song Qian, but hadn’t Yifan himself say that he didn’t love her? That was a whole other mess, but Junmyeon was sure it will work out somehow. For now, he has to tell Yifan how he feels.

He sees him now, he’s talking to someone. He sees Junmyeon and his face lights up with a grin—the very same one that made Junmyeon feel weak in the knees.

“Yifan,” Junmyeon greets as he reaches him. He takes a deep breath. “I have something to tell you.”

 

 

 

 

Red.

 

 

It’s everywhere.

It’s on Junmyeon’s sink, on his bathroom walls. There are splatters of it on his pillows, on his couch, on the floor, even on his dining table. He should probably clean up. Minseok has been calling him a lot these days, worried sick. Junmyeon has long stopped going to work, his constant coughing drawing concerned looks from everyone.

Nobody knows, not even Minseok.

Junmyeon wasn’t a fool, he knew that what he had was terminal. And that it would all come to an end, one way or another. And he was terrified.

He didn’t want to die. He still had so much to live for, so much left to accomplish. But could he give up Yifan, in exchange for that?

Turns out, he didn’t need to answer. His phone rings later on—of course it was Yifan. And he only needed to say a few words for Junmyeon to decide to hold on.

“Myeon,” he’d said. “I’m coming back to Korea.”

 

 

 

 

Black.

 

Junmyeon can’t see anything. There was only darkness as far as his eyes could see. Or was he really seeing? Were his eyes even open?

“Junmyeon,” he hears Minseok call. His voice is fragile, trembling. “Just hold on, alright? We’ll get to the hospital soon.”

No, Junmyeon wants to say. We can’t go there. Don’t let them take it away. He’s coming—Yifan’s coming. He says he has something to tell me. Minseok, please…

But his lips won’t move, his throat won’t form sounds. And then the darkness engulfs him, and--

 

 

Junmyeon opens his eyes, fills his lungs with air and finds himself standing on the white canvas again. But the colors are waning. Each one, like water color getting washed out, spreading and fading into the whiteness as if they had never been there in the first place.

Junmyeon’s eyes widen in realization—the surgery. The flower rooted in his heart and entangled in his lungs. It finally drained him to the point of collapsing. Minseok had probably found him on the floor, and now he was in a hospital. They were performing surgery on him now. They were taking it away, and with it all—Yifan. It’s all Yifan. The blue of his too-short tracksuit. The gold of his hair under the sun. The soft hazel of his yes. These were Junmyeon’s memories of Yifan, and they were all starting to disappear.

“No,” he whispers, kneeling over the puddle of bronze at his feet, Yifan’s gummy smile vanishes little by little until it was gone. “No. Stop!” he shouts at no one. “I can take it, I just need a few more days. I have to see him, I—“

 He sobs, running over to the purple of the carpet in Yifan’s room, and he sees himself lying in it, head on Yifan’s lap. The Chinese male disappears, the purple carpet transforms into a blanket—Junmyeon is lying in his room instead. There is no one with him, there wasn’t anymore, there never had been.

“Yifan was there,” he insists to himself, cradling his head in his hands. “He was there, he was with me. I remember, I remember—“

He looks up at the rest of the canvas. Almost nothing remains now. What had been there in the first place? A tear rolls down his cheek and he is confused. What was he crying about?

A drop of azure—there, just a few steps forward. Junmyeon stands up and makes his way towards it. It’s not paint. It’s a flower.

Yifan, his voice, his smile, his warmth. His promise.

“On your birthday,” Yifan had whispered to him. “We’ll see the cornflowers.”

Junmyeon sobs, and nods as he holds the flower to his chest. “Okay,” he says to the nothingness. Even the canvas is fading now, only blackness remains, slowly engulfing everything into oblivion. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

“May 22^nd,” he tells himself. “Ride the train. From the city hall station. Get off at Yongsan, then take the one to Jeonju. Yifan will be there. Don’t forget, Junmyeon. City hall station. Yongsan. Jeonju. City hall station. Yongsan. Jeonju…”

 

City hall station.

 

Yongsan.

 

Jeonju…

 

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🌱

 

Kris holds Junmyeon’s hand, guiding him with a purposeful pace.

They had ridden a bus, the short trip filled with Kris’s soft voice, telling Junmyeon about how they’d met five years ago. It all sounds alien to the artist. But he listens. And after every story his mind feels a little clearer, a little less muddled. He still does not remember those memories, but hearing them told from Kris’s lips… they just made sense.

A light breeze had greeted Junmyeon as he got out of the bus, and his eyes are flooded by the crisp colors, the freshness of the scenery around them.

There are no buildings, only flowers and trees and the wide open sky. There are mountains in the distance, their tops disappearing into the clouds. Junmyeon barely had the chance to admire them before he is pulled along by Kris’s insistent hold.

They pass by a sign which the artist hastily reads. Jeonju Yangmyojang. Jeonju Tree Nursery? Why did Kris bring him here?

The road turns into a dirt path, and Kris suddenly stops. Junmyeon bumps into him, unable to stop in time. He glares up at the taller.

“Junmyeon,” he says softly, uncaring for the scowl on the artist’s face. “I need you to close your eyes.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don’t want you getting sneak peeks of it. You have to see the whole thing all at once. Don’t worry, I’ll hold you. I’ll make sure you don’t trip.”

“You want me to walk with my eyes closed?” Junmyeon demands.

“Trust me. Please.”

Junmyeon huffs in displeasure. He glares at Kris again, before biting his lip and finally does as the taller asks. He closes his eyes, and he feels an arm go around his shoulders. He feels the warmth of Kris at his side, at his back. It’s almost an embrace, and the intimacy should have put Junmyeon off. Instead, he has the urge to nuzzle further into the warmth.

They walk like so, with slow, small and careful steps. Kris stops them after a while.

“We’re here,” he announces softly. “Open your eyes.”

And Junmyeon does.

At first, he does not know what he is looking at. His eyes are flooded with the colors of the field before him—greens and blues and whites and purples and touches of yellow. Everywhere, as far as his eyes could see, was a great expanse of flowers upon flowers upon flowers, seemingly floating upon rivers of green. A harsh wind blows, but the flowers merely swing along, as if they were dancers and the wind was the music.

Cornflowers, his mind supplies.

Junmyeon lets out the breath he did not know he was holding, and as if in a trance he walks towards the flowers, cautiously stepping close but not enough to hurt them. He cradles one of them between his fingers, revels at how vivid its blue was, at how the petals seem to explode from the stem—like a firework, almost.

“Why Jeonju?” Kris says beside him. “This is why. We were supposed to visit this place, last year on your birthday. It was going to be my present for you. I was going to run away from my family, from the wife they forced on me, from the life I never wanted. I called you. You’ve always wanted to come here, after seeing pictures of it. You told me, you could sit in one of those pavilions, with nothing but your paint and canvas, and you would be—“

“The happiest man on earth.”

“The happiest man on earth,” Junmyeon supplies at the same time. “I… I remember saying that. But it was to some friend…” his voice trails off, realizing that Kris was that friend, his existence written over with dozens of other persons in Junmyeon’s memory.

“I was going to confess to you here. I didn’t want it to be something done over the phone. You deserved more than that. After all that I put you through, you deserved a cheesy speech, in a place that you’ve always dreamed of visiting. You were always anxious about going to new places, though,” Kris remembers with a fond look on his face. “Mainly because you got lost so easily. So I called you days before, telling you about the trip, the steps we’ll take along the way, to let you be at ease.”

“The city hall station,” Junmyeon breathes, eyes widening in understanding. “Yongsan. Jeonju.”

“The stops from Seoul to here,” Kris nods. “You kept repeating them to yourself like a mantra, until you knew it by heart. And every call we made after that, we would say them to each other. Like a reminder, a promise.” The taller takes a shaky breath. “I didn’t know that you were sick then. You hid it really well, you know? It’s almost funny, but it just really makes me mad. The one time in my life that I decide to be romantic, and it almost kills you.” The taller bows his head, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “If I had known… It didn’t matter how, I would have come back sooner. I’d have walked if I had to. But I didn’t. And when I finally managed to come back to Korea you were nowhere to be found. Turns out I was three days too late.”

He looks back up at Junmyeon, eyes swimming with tears. “I got ahold of Minseok, and he let me to see you at the hospital. You were unconscious for two days, and when you finally woke up you just stared at me and asked Minseok if I was his friend.”

Junmyeon’s heart aches in sympathy. He wants to reach out to Kris, to offer a hand, or even just a pat on the back. But he is paralyzed, unable to do anything but listen.

“I didn’t know what to do with myself,” Kris goes on after a couple of deep breaths. “The only person that ever mattered to me didn’t know who I was. Not only that, he got so sick and almost died because of me, because of my cowardice. I figured that maybe I should take it as a sign that I shouldn’t be with you. You were finally rid of me, and maybe that was for the best.

“But then, on your birthday, you disappeared. Minseok shook me awake that morning, frantic and on the verge of tears because no one could find you anywhere. We searched every corner of that hospital, and nothing. Nobody knew where else to look. You were still under heavy sedation so everyone was certain you had been kidnapped or something.

I took a minute, stood by your hospital bed, just thinking. And then I don’t know what possessed me, but somehow I knew exactly where to find you.”

He turns to face Junmyeon, and their gazes find each other.

 “To this day no one knows how you did it.” Kris’s voice has lowered into a whisper, a sound so low he could be divulging a secret. “But you took the train from Seoul, to all the way here. To Jeonju. All by yourself. When I found you, you were just sitting prettily on a bench at the train station. Just there. Staring straight ahead, waiting. For me.”

 “It wasn’t a dream?” Junmyeon whispers.

“To you, it probably seemed like it was. You were so high on those pain meds it was a miracle you could even stand, let alone travel.” Kris’s mouth tug into a fond smile, the first one  Junmyeon sees on him since this early afternoon. “I realized then, if you—all banged up and mind broken in twenty different ways—held on for us, hung on to our promise like your life depended on it…how could I give up?

So I went back home, faced my family. I came out to them, and like I expected they disowned me. But it wasn’t so bad. It felt liberating. And then I filed for divorce with Song Qian. She deserved at least that from me. She was pushed into the marriage just as much as I was, she deserved a clean break—not an ambiguous one from a runaway husband. After that came the saving up, because I didn’t have the sense to set aside some money before I got cut off.” Kris chuckles. “It took quite some time, but I’m finally here.”

Junmyeon tears his eyes away from his. He shifts his gaze to the field of colors before him, deep in thought.

“There’s so much history between us,” he lets out after some time. “But I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember you. And I probably never will.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to remember me,” Kris responds. He takes Junmyeon’s hand in his, prompting the smaller to look up. “Not as Yifan, anyway. That guy was weak. And he was selfish and stupid and frankly too much of a daddy’s boy. He doesn’t deserve you.”

 “I won’t be the Junmyeon that you knew.”

“I know.”

“I might not like all the things he liked. I might not react to things the way he did. I’m not him anymore.”

“I know.”

“I hardly know anything about you, but you know so much about me. And I won’t always be comfortable with that.”

“I know.”

“And I like you, but I don’t know if I will ever love you the way I did before.”

“I know.” Kris tightens his grip on Junmyeon’s hand. “All I’m asking is that you give me a chance. Not as Yifan, but as Kris. I’m still stupid and clumsy, but I’m slightly braver than he was. And whatever we will become, whether it be friends or boyfriends or strangers,” he falters on the last one. “Whatever we will become, I will always be all-in. No more of that wimpy, half-hearted . This time… this time I’ll do the waiting. And I promise that this time it won’t be as angsty.”

The artist chuckles, despite himself. “That’s good. I think I’ve had enough angst to last me a lifetime.”

The smile that they share is shy, hesitant. Junmyeon looks into Kris’s eyes, and it clicks. This was it. The sight he always saw in his dreams—those hazel eyes that looked like pools of honey. But they’re not in pain—they’re brighter, more hopeful. He searches for uncertainty in them, any hint of fear or apprehension. He doesn’t find any.

“Watch the sunset with me?” Kris asks softly.

He leads them to one of the pavilions, holding Junmyeon’s hand the whole time.

They sit beside each other, facing the dimming sun. Junmyeon watches how the light strikes the flowers. He thinks of how the flowers and leaves face the sky, soaking up all the light they could get. And how they do that every single day until autumn came and the plants died, leaving behind seeds for spring.

That was what Junmyeon’s past self had given him—a seed. A sliver, the tiniest string of attachment to what he had in the past. Whether Junmyeon would let the seed grow was up to him.

These flowers, they will die. They will leave seeds behind, but what will grow next spring won’t be the same ones that died. They will be completely different ones, and yet exactly the same.

Can love still blossom even after feelings are gone? Junmyeon wasn’t sure. He can’t see that far ahead in the future, nor does he want to. Right now all he will allow himself is a few days ahead—and he can see himself in this pavilion, this time with some paint and a bit of canvas. It will be a little difficult, but he thinks he can manage to paint with one hand. His other one will be too preoccupied with holding Kris’s, whose soft voice will be resonating in the background. Junmyeon will paint the flowers with his brush, and Kris will paint the picture of his past self for Junmyeon with his words. They have a lot of stories to tell; Junmyeon wants to hear about Kris as a child, as a boy, as a man. And he wants Kris to catch up, wants to let him hear what he’s missed. Wants him.

It still scares Junmyeon a little, but he figures it’s worth a chance. Because his heart is beating like crazy, but for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t hurt.