I was seventeen when I first met Choi Minho. I can still remember his tanned skin glistening with sweat in the hot summer sun. His body was a flawless work of unbounded grace.

With eyes as deep and dark as the sea itself, he gazed into the distance when I read to him. And just like the sea itself, he could be gentle and comforting, but also raging and effervescent.

His thick, black eyebrows were pinched in a deep frown. He always had such a thoughtful face. As if he wanted to fathom every word and every sentence. Why had the author chosen this particular word? Why had he chosen this sentence to describe a feeling?

His broad stature showed that he knew how to handle machines and the unruly waves of the sea. His large hands adorned with slender, long fingers were dominant and shy in equal measure. I will never forget his smile, which held sadness and confidence within it.  

He was only a year older than me, so how could he seem so withdrawn? His gloomy eyes told me that he had already seen a lot in his still young life. Only years later I understood all his words with all their meaning. Too late I realised what was hidden behind the sparkling pupils of hope.

Choi Minho was...captivating.

Every now and then his whole persona seems like a dream to me. His body, his smile, his eyes.

The warm rays of summer bathed me with their deceptive intimacy and enveloped me in a wonderful dream. A dream that I was allowed to dream every summer until the clouds of reality gathered over me and the first drops of autumn shook me awake in the cruellest way.