Love. What is love? I don’t know for sure. Love makes people do crazy things. Waiting, for an example is a crazy thing. I never knew when I had began to wait for things that I know will never come. Imagine sitting in the middle of a desert, with dust particles clinging onto your clothes, cross-legged on the burning ground with your palms facing the sky, hoping to feel some moisture there. It was exactly what I felt like now.

I see shadows when you walk past, the tall, black indistinguishable shapes taunting me to pounce on it as a figure of what you are. There you stood, majestic, beautiful, everything I wanted. Unfortunately, the only man I ever wanted happened to be the only man I couldn’t have. Huh. How unfair could life possibly get?

He was everything I wasn’t. He was feminine, beautiful either way, and compared to me, I was just a little something more than dust. But some part of me was glad that you picked him over me. Because he was a much better lover than I will ever be, a much better partner than I can ever be. It doesn’t matter, I guess. I would end up listening to slow, smooth ballads anyway. I always end up this way, listening to the rich voice, the heart-wrenching lyrics that told of unrequited love and the gentle pitter-patter of rain as they sang. Sometimes, I thought that god made it rain on purpose, to blend in perfectly with the song. Sometimes, I thought that the music composers had recorded the ballad with the sound of rain in it, because they matched so perfectly. I wondered why no one did that yet. If I had the chance, I sure would.

The purpose of a ballad is to reach out to all its audience and touch their hearts to the point of realisation and self-reflection in one way.

Maybe he thinks of me this way. Maybe this would happen to me. Maybe I would be this way if he leaves me.

There is nothing to be left. You can’t end something that hadn’t been started. And so, I live that way. I live in the shadow of someone else because I am second best, the back-up plan in case things go wrong, the comforter, the human cushion, whatever you call it. When you come to me for advice and ask me in that gentle, soft tone of yours, how can I deny it?

Maybe you didn’t see it. Maybe you couldn’t see how my eyes twinkle when I look at you or when I try to touch your hand by accident. Maybe you couldn’t see how I turn away when I happen you see your affectionate show of skinship with him. Maybe you couldn’t see it. But you had to see it. I would have thought you were blind if you couldn’t. But that was what I thought. Then, I realised that you really were blind, blinded by his love and your love for him.

. I can’t get in the way. No, I can’t. I can’t be your obstacle to happiness because you can never be happy with me the way you are with him. Because, Kim MyungSoo, you can never see me the way you see him.

I grab the Polaroid camera off the shelf and take a picture of everything you owned, your pillow, your blanket, everything. I then took the photograph we had taken some time ago, only me and you. I compile everything together and head to the rooftop, where a silent rain was falling over me, showering me with sympathy and regret.

“Here is to you,” I tear up the photographs and stepped up onto the railing, ignoring the impressive height and the staggering view from here.

I held the torn pieces up in the air and inhaled deeply, hoping to memorise the fresh scent of rain forever. I hope I would remember this for life. I hope so.

“Stop.”

A gentle hand pried the torn photographs away from my grip, unfurling my fingers with his slender ones. I looked up to see your grim face. It was grim and yet, it was breathtaking. It was divine, almost like the face of a roman god.

“We can’t be any other way,” I said tightly.

You were silent. Why? Why didn’t you have anything to say to me now?

“I don’t want us to be any other way,” you admitted sadly, head bowed, hands clenched into fists.

“Don’t stop me, then.”

I lifted the photographs again, but you held me back.

“I need you. I need you, hyung,” you say almost desperately.

Oh, how I wished I could believe that. “You need him,” I corrected dryly.

“I need the both of you.”

“Well, you can’t have the both of us. I won’t make you choose. I’ll save you the trouble.”

With that, a snow of torn photographs drifted in the air, settling to land on the streets below. This winter, it was special, unique, because instead of snow, it snowed photographs. I loved the rain, but I found that the only thing I wanted and waited for, was the only thing I had loved.

“We can still be us.”

I turned around to look at you once more. “Those photographs aren’t lost forever, you know. They still are there, picked up by random strangers who have different pieces of my love for you. It’s scattered, but it can never be one piece again.”

Maybe someday, I will receive a wedding invitation that I might just want to miss after all. And that day, there will be snow again. Maybe someday, I will a birthday invitation to your son’s first birthday. Everyone shall know of the insane man throwing torn photographs into the air, blasting ballads in the early morning and watch the sun rise in vain, because rain never came. Everyone shall know of the happy, blessed couple who will continue to love each other for all eternity. Everyone shall have a piece of his torn photograph and wonder what his story was. Try listening to a ballad, maybe that would answer your question.