A few days ago, our photo studio welcomed the presence of a new recruit.

And I still remember, the way he walked into the room with the wind under the soles of his feet.  Light, unwavered steps that carried him all the way across the floor and to me.  He called himself Jongin, but that name stopped mattering once I found out that he didn't come to play around.  He looked serious about the modeling business, serious about the cameras and the posing and the lighting.  

He knows as much as I do.

Jongin is one to classify himself among the throngs of people that come to look at him.  His onlookers are as mortal as he is, and he would rather blend among them than take the spotlight for himself.  Jongin is a mind-bending soul that has come to look for a place to be, a place to stay.  His composure is enough to say that he's looking to belong as much as I am.  

Kim Jongin, Kim Jongin, Kim Jongin.

I hope that this soon this name will stop leaving a strange aftertaste on my tongue every time I bring it up.

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Not long after hobbling my way out of my dusky neighborhood at four in the afternoon, do I find my footsteps pushing me down the street, on the way to the supermarket.  

It's seldom I visited this place, because it is too often teemed with families that hang along the vegetable aisles--arguing about pounds and cucumbers, and couples that linger along the register stands--deciding between paper and plastic.  Cashiers and shelve stockers are perfect material for a photography project most likely to be titled Depression.  But, because I'm not intending on completing one, I avoid the market as much as possible.

Only today, I have no choice but to pick up a few things to fill the empty slots of home and kitchen.  

Fruit, sugar, and napkins are on my list, but I'm also looking for something else.

Cigarettes.

The same kind I was introduced to not too long ago, by the young girl on the streets.  

For days now, I haven't been able to get the image out of my head--her torn sleeves and padded shoes.  The image of a blooming girl held back by the roots of a family living in poverty.  I want to find her again, find that image again.

As I break myself from the confines of the sidewalk and step into the tunnels of the supermarket, I sense the anxiety trickling down my neck. It reaches the tips of my fingers and it's a feeling I can't place--nervousness, worry, or expectation.

I wander through the aisles, avoiding a herd of shopping carts, head tipped slightly as I scan the shelves. The metal rows are drowned in shades of curves and corners, boxes and cans, and each one looks just as artificial as the other.  My footsteps are pale against the countenance of the tile floor, black and white resonating silently as I trail through the soulless aisles.  My mind rings under the florescent lights, with the same image of the little girl, fingers etched with the crease of dry cigarette boxes, and I try to match memory with the armies of cardboard before me.

I continue searching, but for what I suddenly can't remember.  

I ask a store worker where they keep the canned peaches, and he points me toward aisle fifteen.  

And that is when I smell it.  

The riveting stench of ash and second-hand smoke.  Burning my nostrils and churning in the back of my throat.  My eyes begin to water and I run my tongue along my lips, chapped with trepidation.  Still, I welcome it all as a sense of comfort, to find what I was looking for.

My eyes continue the length of shelves--slowly, slowly--until I reach the end, where my gaze meets the shadow of an unrequited stranger.  

A stranger I've met before.

The young girl stands but five feet away, wearing the same patched skirt and sweater, hair as disheveled as it was the first time we encountered each other.  I can see the grime beneath her nails from where I'm standing, and her dismal expression matches mine.

I want to call her over, but then I realize that I don't know her name.

I take two steps forward, but I never reach her, because she takes three steps back.  I attempt to move closer, but she shrinks away.  Farther and farther.

I trace our distance, until I see the cause of our strange separation.  She isn't running away from me, she's being pulled away.  By a second stranger--male--who stands beside her, clasping a calloused hand around her over-worked ones.

The intruder is dressed in stark white, face turned away.  His arm tugs at the young girl, beckoning her along.  Her eyes venture back to me, begging.  But I don't understand.  I step forward again, but she continues to move, like a cloud helplessly carried by the wind.

I reach my arm forward, but the male picks up speed and his legs sprint down the aisle, dragging the girl with him.

I let out a mustered cry.

Before they turn the corner and disappear through the ocean of pasta boxes and soup cans, the male stranger turns back one last time.  He's too far away for me to make out his features, but he raises his hand, waving it narcissistically.  

Don't worry, he says.  We'll meet again soon enough.

My feet are frozen in place, powerless, as I watch both of their shadows--my inspiration and her captor--slink away into aisle fourteen.