I Still Say They’re Flowers

a story by kei_sainter

‘What are you talking about? Can’t you see what they stand for?’ she looked up from the photograph of a sprig of flowers she’d just taken and glared at him in frustration, ‘How can you call them “flowers”? They’re perfect inspiration—watch me!’

And watch her he did— transfixed.

While she couldn’t surpass his classical technique and he could see miniature flaws in the way she did a plié or an arabesque, they meant nothing against her pure movements. It was as though all the colours of spring were swirling around them, a celebration of new beginnings. It struck him that while they may have been in the middle of a park researching dance interpretation, she would not have been out of place on centre stage at the Seoul Art Centre.

‘See?? What did I tell you? They provide beauty, life, fresh air… and hope,’ she implored him, trying to persuade him to see her point of view.

He coughed in embarrassment as he realised she was now kneeling next to him and had laid a passionate hand on his arm and he was still staring at her without a response,

‘Well, I still say they’re flowers.’

But despite their differences, they loved each other.

Hyoyeon and Kai.

Moon and Sun.

One ceased to exist without the other.

As their passions and philosophies on dance tangled and clashed, so did their hearts. How wonderful was youth that in the face of everything that could have been hard, exhausting or soul-destroying, having each other would make it all bearable.

Hands entwined, never letting go.

They were going to conquer the world of dance together.

+

‘Hyoyeon-ah!’ Kai pounded on the door, desperately.

He ignored the throbbing from his hand. Having scraped against the wood so many times in his vain attempt to get her to open the door it had turned an angry shade of red, and yet it faded against the agony in his chest.

That was raw. That was pain. His hand was nothing in comparison.

But there was no response and all he could hear were the faint, intermittent sobs that failed to be muffled by what he could imagine she was pressing against her face—a pillow, a blanket, her hand…  

Her ballet shoes? The shoes she wouldn’t use again…

‘Why?’ the question escaped his lips in barely a whisper.

Normally it wouldn’t have been loud enough for her to hear, but in the silence surrounding them it sounded so deafening that he was sure it echoed through to every crevice of the apartment.

Just five minutes ago she had been okay.

She was smiling and laughing and the foolish part of him believed that things were looking better—it always started off that way.

He started to believe that they would get through this, that they would find a solution… together. They always found a solution together.

But three minutes ago she was not okay.

Somehow finding the confidence to reach out and touch her hand as he’d done a million times before, her brave façade had splintered into pieces.

She withstood his touch for mere seconds before moving her gaze from their intertwined fingers to his face. He saw the battle as she tried to hold on to him, her grip clenching with surprising force—but in the blink of an eye her resolved vanished and she let go and rushed into her room—as fast as her limp could take her.

The rejection very nearly killed him— it always ended that way.

‘Hyoyeon-ah, why can’t I do anything for you?’ he completed his thought, collapsing to the ground in front of her door.

Folding his legs close to his chest, he rested his forehead on his knees and let out a shuddering breath.

‘I don’t want to keep asking why, but what else can I do?’ he said a little louder hoping that she was listening, ‘Why don’t I know what to do? Why don’t I know what to say to make it better?’

He hated being younger than her, only a teenager when she was already an adult. He hated being the weaker one, the less experienced one. His upbringing had been sterile, having lived in the academy since he was six years old. Before her, his world was only about dance and finding technical perfection.

Without her he would still be trapped in that untouchable, disconnected world.

‘Even now, I’m troubling you aren’t I? When you should be crying for yourself—I know you’re in there crying for me too. That even at your lowest moment the person that you’re crying for is me… it just kills me.’

'Why are you showing me such compassion when you should hate me for what I did... for what I didn't do?'

He thought back to the accident.

He should have protected her from their director. Younger though he was, he was her sunbae at the academy, the golden boy and possibly the one person who could have said something to the woman wanting nothing more than a perfect show.

Faced with an injury that could keep her prima ballerina from opening night, the director had done the unthinkable. She'd left what would have been a simple injury to fester, put Hyoyeon on painkillers with the advice of an inept doctor and finally--after the two week performances were done— the injury had manifested into something that could no longer be cured fully, even with rehabilitation.

I’m sorry. You will not be able to return to being a professional ballerina…

The dreams that they’d been cherishing were— in one clinical sentence—crushed.

And he stood by and watched it happen.

Light footsteps heading towards the door brought him back to the present, but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to.

‘Jongin-ah…’

The lock turned and the door opened. A rush of air flooded his back before it was replaced with a familiar warmth and scent. She wrapped her arms around him, letting her long blond hair fall around his strong shoulders as she buried her head against his neck and wept.

He hated himself for not being able to turn around to comfort her because he was too busy with his own agony. He hated that he didn’t think he was strong enough to put his arms around her, to allow her to use his arms as her sanctuary. Instead here she was, once again being the stronger one. How laughable that she was the one offering him refuge.

But still his hand reached up, almost in fear that she would run again, clutching the arm enveloping him.

‘Hyo… It’s painful to see me right?’ he asked, wanting to ask the question but not really wanting to hear the answer.

‘I love you.’

‘That’s not an answer... I know you love me.’

There was silence and he noticed that he was now drenching both his hand and her arm with his tears.

‘That’s the only answer I can give you.’

His eyes shut, his tears too hot to bear and his jaw clenching to prevent any sound from coming out. Together they cried-- and in such a cruel reminder--  their bodies shuddered with tears, completely attuned with each other as they’d been every time they danced together.

Somewhere in the agony, he noticed that his fingers had gone white with the grip on her arm. Was he trying to loosen her grip or trying to keep her from leaving him? He didn't know.

Which one of them was holding on and which one was letting go?

Time passed and in her exhaustion she fell asleep.  He gently carried her back to her bed where he hesitated before sitting down on the edge.

Just for a little while longer, he begged.

His hand ran tenderly over her hair and fleetingly touched her face.  Minutes stretched into hours… or did it only feel that way?

Eventually he was ready.

Ready for what-- to grow up? He didn't know but instead of asking the childish questions of “why”, he finally had the courage to accept the truth for what it was.

Try as he wanted to be “the cure”—he was always going to be a reminder.

She wasn’t going to get any better with him around.

+

‘I didn’t ask you when you told me you wanted to go, but since it’s your last day here—will you tell me why you want to go to America?’

‘I want to be a better dancer,’ for both of us. The words remained unspoken but it hung in the air between them, and you owe it to us.

 ‘Good luck,’ the director finally said.

He nodded, before slinging his bag over his shoulder and leaving the office. They could have said many more words to each other, but none of them would have done any good. 

The car was downstairs waiting to take him to the airport.

I don’t want to leave, Hyoyeon-ah. Please don’t make me. Tell me I can stay.

He couldn’t deny that the childish thoughts were still there, and were playing on him since he made the decision one month ago. His relief that it would take at least that long to fix his papers was short-lived though. He hadn’t heard from her since leaving her apartment that last time, hesitating at her doorway and casting one last glance over her sleeping figure.

You’re doing the right thing.

One day… one day you can come back.

He jolted against the seatbelt when the driver suddenly slammed on the breaks.

‘What the—’ the driver swore and leant on the horn angrily, ‘The truck just pulled out in front of me. Aish! Move that thing already!!' turning his attention to Kai, he apologised, 'Sorry sir, we'll get going as soon as he moves.’

But Kai didn't respond, his gaze glued to the words written along the side of the truck.

                                      All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.

Tears he had been holding back suddenly filled his eyes and he shamelessly allowed them to fall.

Beep.

His phone drew his attention and he hastily wiped his cheeks before checking the message.

'Hyo... she sent me a picture of flowers?' he stared at the screen in confusion until he realised that they were from that day, long ago.

They were still flowers to him, but what did she call them? He tried to remember.

                                       ‘See?? What did I tell you? They provide beauty, life, fresh air… and hope.’

Fin.