Present.

If you ask me where I'll be in ten years, I'll probably say, "the same place I am now−taking the bus every morning, writing, and seeing through the rain."

If you ask me what I write about, I'll probably tell you that there's nothing particular that I like writing about; I just wing it.

That answer usually invokes eyebrows to raise, but I just smile and tell them that all I need is luck. Because that's all she needed.

And I think I'm trying to hold onto the last thing I have of her.

Luck.

***

March 27

Last year

She doesn't stop talking even after we're on the bus. It doesn't seem to matter to her that everyone else in the bus is silent and that they're all probably listening to her talking about her life.

I don't tell her that, though. I don't want her to stop talking−not because I'm actually listening to every word she says, but because when she speaks, it's like the whole world is waiting for her to say something else, and string her last word to the next with a smile.

That's how she speaks. Sometimes she takes a break in the middle of a sentence because she needs to breathe, and she fills the silence with a smile. Somehow, it has more meaning than any words she could ever say.

"Hey, Luhan, where are you going?" she asks finally. "On this bus, I mean. Where is it taking you?"

I've been waiting for her to ask this, thinking that it would be one of her first questions. "Work," I lie.

She frowns. "I thought you were a freelance writer," she says. "Doesn't that mean you work from home?"

"Not necessarily," I say, smoothing over the broken ice. "Sometimes I like to write outside."

"And where is that?"

For once, I wish that she would stop asking questions. But then I remember that I once knew someone who asked questions just like she did, and I'm reminded of why I'm not telling Yoona to be quiet.

"The gardens," I tell her. It's close enough to my actual destination that I can use it to patch up my lies if she catches me.

"Oh," she says. For a moment, it's silent. Then, "I have to get off on the last stop." She jiggles her bag as if to indicate her camera, which is obscured from view and probably suffering from the disturbance she's causing it. "Down to the seaside I go."

I smile, looking out of the window; she has the window seat, so there isn't much that I can see. I can see that it's still raining, though. "You're in luck. As usual," I say. "It's raining. You'll probably be able to get lots of nice photos."

She chuckles. "Yes, and I'll send them to you, don't you worry."

My smile widens. "I'll be waiting for them."

She rubs her hands together and it's only then that I realise that she has gloves on. White gloves.

I hadn't noticed them before, but I do now. They hug her slim fingers like a second skin, and I realise that that's the reason why I didn't notice them before; the only difference to what I'm guessing her actual hands look like is the absence of nails.

She notices me staring, even though I don't realise it myself, and rubs her hands on her jeans. "It's cold today," she says.

I look up and into her eyes. Doe-like.

"You think so?" I shrug, trying to feel a cold that hasn't gripped me. "It's not really that cold."

"I like summer better than this," she tells me. "It rains here more in the summer, anyway."

"But you still take photos all year round," I guess.

"What makes you think that?"

"It's spring right now," I say, "and you're still taking photos."

She shrugs. "Today was a nice day," she says. "Usually in winter, I take photos inside. I go outside and splash the windows with a hose, then run inside and pretend that the water on the windows is rain."

I find myself laughing. "That's actually a pretty smart idea."

A smile curves her lips. "I thought so, too," she says.

I shake my head, still smiling, and resolve to write that in my notebook when I get home. She is either a genius, I think, or a child at heart. Maybe both.

"Are you going to keep taking this bus?" I ask, even though I know I'm risking the disappointment I'll undoubtedly feel if her answer is 'no'.

She considers it for a moment before nodding. "I think so," she says. "At least for the next month or so. Even if it doesn't rain, I like the seaside." She casts a wistful look out the window. "It helps me to clear my thoughts."

"You don't really look like the type of person that gets bothered by anything." It's the truth.

She smiles faintly. "You think so?"

"Yeah," I say. "You're always smiling."

Her smile widens a little as she turns to look at me. "I guess it helps," she says. "Smiling, I mean."

I lean my head against the seat. "If only smiling made the world go round."

I don't know if she'd heard what I just said, because she doesn't reply, and silence blankets the bus again.

Then after a moment, she says, "You know, I hope it doesn't rain on the day of my future wedding."

I look at her in surprise. "Really? I thought you like the rain."

"I do," she says. "But what if he doesn't?"

"He should," I tell her, swallowing. For some reason, when I look at her, I really want her to be happy. I want whoever she ends up with to like the rain, too, just so she can keep seeing it as often as she likes, even if it's just through the photos she takes.

She laughs. "I'll teach him how to love it."

"You do that," I tell her, smiling. Familiar roads flash past the windows, distinct even through the rain. I see the bus stop looming in the distance.

I turn to her with an apologetic look. "This is my stop," I say, just as the bus starts pulling over. Getting to my feet, I start gathering my belongings. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

She gives me a bright smile, her eyes crinkling as she does so. "Tomorrow," she promises.

I make my way to the front of the bus when it stops, my footsteps heavy. I'm wondering what's wrong with me, and why I'm so reluctant to get off the bus. Usually I rush off without a second glance.

But this time, I look back.

Only when I see her waving at me, still smiling, do I realise why I don't want to leave.

I'm in love with her.