Present.

June 14

It's raining.

Something about it reminds me of sunshine, of happier days in between the rainy ones, sitting under the roof of a bus stop shelter, beside someone whose physical presence there has long since faded. She'll always be there, though.

I'm sitting at my desk, trying to write this goddamned opinion piece. I have no idea what I'm supposed to write about the first marriage anniversary of the only woman I have ever loved, and to be honest, the prospect of my boss dropping me an angry call asking about it is the least of my worries.

All I can think to write is what I remember of her, unlike my colleagues, who are writing based on the facts that the media spews up about her.

The Yoona I know likes running through the rain and wearing a different coloured sweater every day. She's a photographer, with flowery handwriting and doe-like eyes. She's not an heiress, or the wife of a rich and powerful man who probably hasn't even graduated college yet.

But I can't write any of that, because aside from technical problems and as selfish as it sounds, I don't want to share my Yoona with the world. I've already had to watch her walk out of my life.

When I really think about it, she hasn't really left, and that's what hurts the most. Her name, the shape of her smile, and everything about her is still etched permanently on the inside of my heart, but I guess it's not the same when I can't actually see her and have her in front of me.

Sometimes I wonder if I could have changed anything. I wonder what would have happened if I had barged in on her wedding day, or if I had told her before then that I love her. I wonder if the tight feeling in my chest will ever go away, and if I will ever stop missing her.

Sometimes I think I see her, on the opposite side of a river, or on a rare occasion that finds me sitting in a taxi, and I see her, the back of her, disappearing into a building hundreds of metres away. That's when I start wondering all those things all over again, just when I had thought that I was on the way to forgetting.

I never come up with any answers, though, and I realise that it's because I don't know. I don't know why I felt that about her; loved her, I mean. I don't know why I thought I could ever have stopped her by telling her that I love her. I don't know why I miss her so much, and if it's really her that I see sometimes, or just a figment of my imagination.

But that's how it is sometimes. You think something and you don't know how to explain it, but that's okay.

That's what she told me once.

There's a dull thud as my forehead hits the desk. I exhale a sigh of frustration, squeezing my eyes shut as if it will help to clear my mind.

I have so many thoughts, so many sentences already mapped out in my head, but I can't use any of it for my article.

I'm about to call my boss to tell him that I really can't do this piece, when there's a knock at the door.

I don't hear it properly the first time, thinking I'm just imagining things, but when it comes the second time and silence follows, I stand and walk over to the door.

When I swing the front door open, there's no one there. I'm about to shut it again, but then I see the box sitting on the floor and I freeze.

I poke my head out into the hall, looking left and right to see if it has been mistakenly placed in front of my door; maybe it's meant for one of my neighbours. But when I pick the box up and look down at it, I see the label, and it's addressed to me.

I recognise the flowery scrawl immediately.

Yoona.

Without even thinking, I run back inside, kicking the door shut behind me. I rush over to the window, clutching the box in my hands−it's quite heavy, I notice−and peer out of the raindrop-stained glass.

But there's no sign of her. I can't see anyone out in the rain; the damp concrete road into the apartment block is empty. Not even a single car drives in or out.

Sighing, I lean back, glancing down thoughtfully at the box. There's no return address, and the whole box seems to be held together by tape.

After I find a Stanley knife, I cut the box open, peeling back the flaps to find−

I gasp.

Inside is a stack of photos; I'm willing to bet that they're all the photos of the rain that she'd promised she'd send to me. Tucked into the side is the stained serviette, with 'Coffee and rain, March 27' in her artsy scrawl.

A lump starts growing in my throat and tears threaten to spill over when I see the last thing in the box. In between the photos and the serviette, sitting in the middle of the box, is her camera.

On top of it is a note that says:

Luhan,

I was meant to send this to you a while ago. I'm sorry; I'm late.

This time, it's not my birthday, so you can't tell me that I can't be late.

Here are all the photos I never got to show you myself, and the serviette from the day we first met.

And my camera. These days, I don't have time to go out and take photos at the seaside. Jongin doesn't like me going out in the rain (don't worry−I'll teach him how to love it someday).

For now, all I can do is ask the maids to wet the windows for me. It's not the same, though.

So I'm giving it to you, in the hope that you'll take all the photos that I can't be there to take.

I miss our little bus escapades. I miss you, too. I bet you see much more of me than I see of you.

I'm sorry I never got to explain to you properly. You probably hate me for leaving you so rudely, but I had no choice. It wasn't something I had a say in. Not that I get a say in anything much, really.

You know, the day I got married, I could have sworn that I saw you. I still don't know if it really was you, but it made me feel a little better, knowing that I wasn't completely alone that day.

I really do miss you, Luhan. We should meet up sometime, when I'm not busy, and you're not at the seaside or taking the 7:00 bus.

Maybe I can help you fill up the rest of that little notebook of yours.

Wait for me; I'll try not to be late.

-Yoona

I can't stop the tears that start streaking down my face as I lower the note. I don't really know what to think right now. All I know is that she hasn't forgotten me, but she's still not here, and I still miss her.

I call my boss and tell him that I really can't do this piece.

***

A/N: One more :) As usual, thanks for reading!

I have another Luyoon fic coming up after this one ^^ Hopefully it'll be up tomorrow :)