It's strange, isn't it? How people tend to remember some things, forget others. It's not a conscious effort on our part - what we remember, we just do. I don't remember the first time I fell and scraped my knee, don't remember where half of my scars came from, don't remember my first sentence, my first haircut, my first day of school. Not even the second or third or fourth, for that matter. I'm pretty sure those were momentous events, to the mind of me a few years back though, shouldn't they be remembered? It's almost as if our memory, our mind, is just a big holey piece of swiss cheese, some things slip through, some things don't. There's no logic, no pattern, no semblance of formula to this, however, I guess it's all based on luck. It's strange then, because I remember almost everything about him. Maybe memory is closely related to the nerve impulses so potent in our minds that every single instance spent with him was safely stored simply because when I was with him, my body became hypersensitive. Everything was sent to the brain immediately, which is probably why I always lost my words while they made their way to my mouth, simply due to the common case of information overload.

I remember the first time I saw him.

He was just there, on a lone park bench under the velvet dark, legs tucked snugly under himself, spotlit by the nearby street lamp, casting a golden sheen over him, his hair lighted up like autumn leaves in chilly mornings, seemingly reddish brown under the light. Just sitting there, not doing anything in particular, just living. Breathing and enjoying life. Being alive. That was what drew me in, you see. These days, everyone has some place to be, some thing to do, rushing here and there and everywhere and how often do you see someone actually stop for more than five minutes to actually enjoy and appreciate the fact that they're alive? We're walking miracles, all of us, and we don't even know it. No, we complain about how hard life is and how stressed we are but no one actually bothers to change that, to change the way they feel. And I was so sick of all the time rushing by and I just wanted to find a way to stop time, to make it tick slower, to enjoy my time because it's not going to be for forever.

He mastered that. He understood. And so I walked closer.

Half-formulated plans clouded my thoughts as I walked, thoughts meant to initiate conversations that last through the night before it all disappears in the morning; a classic fairytale. Cinderella, anyone? - I'd ask him what book his hands were busy toying with, and we'd move on to good books, good music, good stuff and bad stuff and everything in between - I'd walk past him, holding eye contact for a second or two before walking away, and he'd call for me, stopping me in my tracks and we'd share earphones and look at the way the clouds move rapidly across the sky - I'd ask him what his name was and he would do the same, and I would walk off with his number written on my brain cells so that I would never forget, praying that they won't fall through the holes in my swiss cheese memory - but as I neared the bench, as he looked up, I lost all train of conscious thought.

And my mind went blank. Now let me make this clear. I didn't magically fall into the cliche of love at first sight. I didn't even like him. I was just fascinated. I felt in him a kindred spirit in this world full of strangers, the same way an endangered creature would feel when faced with one of its kind for the first time. His eyes told me everything, confirmed everything I'd already known about him. That he lived. His were the eyes of the living. Bright, soulful, free of worries and stress and worldly problems that didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things anyway. His eyes were open. And they were so beautiful, simply because of that fact, that I couldn't process anything else. That was all I remembered, anyway. I didn't fall in love. That would've been pathetic. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't mildly intruiged. And a little disoriented. He tilted his head, I think, I was still a little foggy on the details, and raised his eyebrows slightly. Friendly, yes. But quizzical, too.

"Uh," I managed. He smiled. I managed one too, if a slight turn up of the lips while trying to regain clarity constituted as one. "Hi."

I know, very eloquent speech of mine there.

His smile grew warmer, less polite, more welcoming. I felt gratified, the same feeling I get when I finish a particularly difficult and tedious set of homework, or when I make a baby gurgle with my retarded acts. I warmed, too. My limbs unstuck, unfroze, I thawed. I could think again. "Hey," he replied, amicably enough. His voice seemed to soothe my grated nerves, a balm om itching wounds, and I relaxed even more. 

"I was just- I mean- It's going to rain soon." 

I fidgeted uncomfortably, shifted my weight from one leg to the other, berating myself. Everyone knows the first rule of How Not to be Boring in Conversations is to not talk about the weather. Way to go, me. Perfect, now I'm a random despo stranger who can't think of anything to talk about except the weather. I waited for a reply. A few seconds passed -

He was just staring. Isn't the conversational ball in his court now? Am I supposed to say something else? I flushed, all the way down to my neck, pulling my hair around my face for protection - my natural self-defensive mechanism. "You know, you might get caught in the rain." I elaborated, lost for words.

Chuckling, he returned his attention to his book, caught in his hands and twirled around, like a rat being played with under a cat's paws. There was something wild underneath that simple action. It was luring me in, too. Then he looked up again, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips before he asked, "Don't you like getting wet?"

I gasped slightly. That was almost lewd. 

It took me a few seconds to compose myself to form a coherent response. My mind just wasn't big enough to process all those conflicting emotions, half-formed thoughts, quixotic delusions instantly. I needed time to think. What did he mean? Was it coincidental? What's his game? Who is he?

He smirked. I reeled.

"I'm Sehun."