The crisp February wind nips at the young lady’s nose as she leisurely walks down the street. Normally there aren’t many people outside this early in the year but everyone is making last-minute dashes to purchase Valentine’s Day presents for their significant or soon-to-be significant other. This young lady, however, is not like them; she has no one to buy presents for. Though, she supposes, she will be receiving an armful of chocolates and flowers this year. She expects this to be the year that a couple of her dance colleagues will finally confess.

 

She pulls her jacket around her frame tighter in an attempt to block out the cold. Today the wind feels more bitter than usual. Perhaps, she wonders, the wind has recently experienced heart break. She read a story about the wind as a living thing once. She rather enjoyed that story as it had a beginning, a and an ending—much unlike her own story. She’s quite certain her story will have an ending, but as for the beginning and the she can’t be as confident. For some reason she feels as though she came to be right after the of her story.

 

She pauses mid-step, looking up and sighing when she realizes that she’s walked straight to the café she walks to every Saturday afternoon. She honestly has no idea when she started going to the café; she was just strolling around town one Saturday and ended up standing outside of it, like she is now. It frustrates her. Feeling the normal sense of defeat and confusion upon laying eyes on the café’s open sign, the young lady pushes the door open and steps inside. Her body is enveloped by the comfortable warmth and the smooth, thick aromas that swim around in the air of the café. She moves through the motions, quietly taking her usual table by the largest window on the left side of the building.

 

The seat across from her is empty but she, just like always, has a strange feeling that there should be someone in that seat. She has no idea who, though; every time she tries to think up a profile of the type of person that is meant to sit across from her at this café she gets a terrible headache. So, she just doesn’t.

 

The small café’s only waiter glides over to her table. She always swears he isn’t really human; the way he moves across the ground is much too graceful for him to actually be a lumbering, destructive human being like the rest of them. He has silver hair today and she wonders how recently dyed those soft strands are. She’s rather fond of the waiter. Though she doesn’t know how long she’s been coming to this café she does know that it has been long enough for her to learn a lot about this boy. She learned that he is in his second-to-last year of high school and that he’s had this job since middle school. It helps relieve some financial pressure for his parents, he says. She learned that he has a burning passion for dance and skateboarding, but sacrificed pursuing either to become a doctor to support his family. She learned that, though his voice is soft and his sentences are few, he is filled with a loud energy that she has yet to find a match for.

 

She learned all of these things about this silver-haired waiter, and yet she knows—and she knows that he knows—she’s missing the most important details about their relationship.

 

“Have you found it yet?” the silver-haired waiter asks in that soft voice of his. This is the question he asks every Saturday afternoon. He has never once clarified what the antecedent of ‘it’ is but she still knew what he was talking about. Some things are just funny that way. The young lady finds that a smile has painted itself on her face; she doesn’t know what is more amusing than such a faint voice coming out of such a large boy.

 

“I haven’t.” The answer is always the same.

 

“Maybe by next Saturday you will.” The reply is always the same, but today the young lady could sense more sadness and urgency in that thin voice than usual.

 

“If I don’t find it by next Saturday will it be too late?”

 

“Yeah,” the silver-haired boy murmurs with a distant look in his eye. “But not for you.”

 

--

 

The young lady stretches her hand down to her foot, taking the necessary precautions to avoid injuring herself during dance class today. She can hear the soft pad of barefooted footsteps as they draw closer to her, and she looks up when the movement of those feet ceases. A smiling face greets her, happy eyes sheltered by round-framed glasses and a face too cute to belong to a grown man.

 

“How’s your solo piece coming along?” He sits down next to the young lady, crossing his legs. She takes a moment to admire the raven hue of the locks which only last week were a white-blond color. It seems as though everyone around her is changing, or preparing rather, for a change. She guesses she must have missed the announcement about the change, though.

 

“I’m almost done with the choreography. How about you? I’m sure yours will be amazing, as always.” He smiles and laughs a little, running a hand through his hair to push it out of his face. His pale fingers and his dark hair contrast prettily, she thinks. Out of the corner of her eye she can see a head of red locks move towards her. Ah, conflict.

 

“I’ve got to postpone my performance—”

 

“Ah, that , man,” a red-headed young man quietly sits down on the other side of her. The man in the glasses frowns, and the redhead retaliates with a lazy smirk. “I feel you; I’ve got to postpone mine, too. I injured my knee on my flip routine.”

 

“Oh, that’s awful. You should be more careful,” the young lady pats her redhead friend on the hand, ignoring the daggers coming from her spectacled friend’s eyes. She doesn’t really have an interest in either, though she feels like she would if she weren’t…if she weren’t what? She’s single, yet she feels like she doesn’t have the right to date anyone. Strange.

 

“Anyway,” her raven-haired colleague continues, “our instructor said we’re getting a transfer student today and I’m in charge of mentoring him. Apparently he’s not a dancer, but he needs to choreograph a piece as part of his art college’s requirements.”

 

“Oh, is he from the National University of Arts?” The question broke itself from the young lady’s lips, ignoring her conscious’ rule to stay unspoken due to the confusion about how she knew the requirements of that college. The young man stares at her weirdly, his cute face wrinkled with curiosity.

 

“Yeah, he is…how’d you know?”

 

“Ah…” She has no idea but she thinks quickly, “I was thinking about going there.” He just nods in understanding, spreading himself across his legs and stretching. They continue in silence. She tries to slow down her heartbeat that she didn’t know had begun to speed up. Just the mention of a student from the National University of Arts made her heart beat to the tune of a song that she is unacquainted with.

 

The instructor of the class walks into the room and the noise dies down immediately. A young man trails behind the instructor, and the young lady assumes that he is the transfer student. The man looks rather nervous, his eyes looking anywhere but forward—his eyes looking at everyone except her. Silly, she thinks, a coincidence; he’s just nervous.

 

She tries to get a closer look at his face but there is a nagging worry in the back of her mind: she shouldn’t look at him. She shouldn’t look at his face. She has absolutely no idea what will happen if she does, but she has a feeling that it will be life-altering. She frowns and the spectacled man next to her looks at her questioningly.

 

“Everyone, this is the transfer student from the National University of Arts. He’ll be studying with us for a week as part of his course requirements. Introduce yourself, kid.”

 

Nervously, and carefully, as if he’s about to do something that could land him in a high-security prison, the transfer student steps forward, clearing his throat. The young lady studies his face now, ignoring the flashing neon signs in her conscious telling her to do just the opposite. He has gentle features that are offset by his strong jawline: soft skin; lips that are just barely puffy enough to be labeled as ‘full’; a straight nose with one deep, dark, dangerously magnetic eye on either side of its narrow bridge; and high cheekbones that aren’t quite noticeable now, but, she has a feeling, will be when he smiles.

 

His face is completely enchanting and she can feel her eyes trace every smooth contour with an expertise that she shouldn’t and couldn’t possibly have. She registers the acceleration of her pulse, an action that shouldn’t happen this way. It is almost as if her heart is conditioned to speed up as soon as her brain translates the image of his face, which couldn’t possibly be true.

 

“Hello, everyone,” he says, finally. The young lady exhales shakily; his voice is one that haunts her dreams. Countless mornings she spends trying desperately to erase that voice from her mind, the voice that floats around her subconscious at night and lingers like a ghost in her ears for the rest of the day. “My name is Yoo YoungJae. I hope that you all will take care of me.” He bows and scratches the back of his neck nervously, a mannerism that the young lady finds oddly heartwarming.

 

Yoo YoungJae.

 

The young lady can feel pressure constrict her chest, like suddenly a brick wall was thrown on top of her. Her vision is eaten up by darkness and she can hear that voice again.

 

Don’t let go, okay? I’ll keep you safe.

 

--

 

Dissociative.

 

Psychogenic.

 

Curious.

 

Problem.

 

Traumatic.

 

These words coat the young lady’s ears when she wakes up. Her blood pulses thickly through her body, the dull throb of a headache sitting high up on her forehead. She blinks her eyes rapidly, eventually settling for squinting when the blinding white of the room proves too much for her to handle. She studies the room she’s in, taking in the worn-out chair, the cold machines, the unrelenting fluorescent lights.

 

Another glance around the room brings her attention to the worn-out young man sitting in the worn-out chair. Like the chair, he seems as though he was once a bright, comfortable creature, but the years of sadness sitting on top of him caused his color and purpose to fade.

 

The young man stares at her sadly, though whether or not he’s realized she’s awake now is a mystery to her. She realizes that this young man is the transfer student, YoungJae. She has no idea why he’s in her hospital room, but she has an idea that she should know why he’s in her hospital room.

 

“SooYeon.” Funny, the young lady doesn’t quite remember telling YoungJae her name. “SooYeon,” YoungJae says again, this time more urgent, more desperate. Her name spills from his lips as if he’s filled with just that one word and he’s been threatening to overflow for a long time. His voice sends shivers down her spine and she can’t move. Her entire body freezes; her entire body knows something that her mind doesn’t.

 

“Yoo-ssi—” she pauses. Something feels wrong about being formal with him. Societal protocol is to be this formal with new people you meet, yet she feels as though this formality between them was done away with many meetings prior to this one. His eyes seem darker and sadder than before.

 

“SooYeon…do you know what muscle memory is?” YoungJae asks softly. The young lady blinks carefully; she’s afraid that in the time it takes her eyelids to complete the action YoungJae’s eyes would become even more inviting, to the point that she will fall into them.

 

“Of course I do. It’s when the body has repeated an action so often that the action can be done without the mind making a conscious effort.” She decides that YoungJae is a strange man. She supposes that makes her a strange woman because all she wants in this moment is to be consumed by everything that YoungJae is.

 

“How strong do you think muscle memory is?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Do you think muscle memory is strong enough that it can withstand the loss of the memory of an action?” YoungJae’s eyes glitter now, hopeful, and the young lady wants to kiss him. She’s thankful to be in a hospital at the moment; she’ll ask the doctor to see if anything is wrong with her brain. All of these strange urges she’s been having recently are bothering her. She must have control in her life.

 

“Well, I suppose if the action was repeated often enough, yes.”

 

YoungJae laughs on an exhaling breath, smiling and looking at the floor.

 

“Good. Maybe this will work.” Before she can ask him what he’s planning, YoungJae gets up and moves close, so impossibly close, to her. His lips hover mere centimeters above her face and, against her will, her eyes flutter close. Her heart beats as though it is synced to the flapping wings of a hummingbird, her face flushes with heat—and consequently a pink highlight—and her lips quiver. Her body’s reaction frustrates and angers her, but not as much as the disappointment that overwhelms her when all YoungJae does is pat her on the head before he strolls out of the door.

 

There must definitely be something wrong with her head.

 

--

 

The next few days pass by as mostly blurs with a few interruptions of nightmares so vivid the young woman is haunted by them throughout the day and of small moments so dreamlike she floats on them throughout the night. There is one thing that hangs over those days and that is Yoo YoungJae. No matter what she does everything seems to come right back to YoungJae. And she hates it.

 

She hates how her life has become revolved around this one man only minutes after meeting him for the first time. She hates how every smile she shares with him feels like it should be on a more intimate level. She hates Yoo YoungJae. And yet, she is hopelessly, absurdly and completely in love with him.

 

The worst thing is when they’re walking to class together and their fingers brush against each other, because then her fingers twitch and it takes all her willpower to keep her hand from reaching out and sliding into his own hand. The worst thing is when she sees his face for the first time each day and her heart goes into overdrive. The worst thing is when she catches herself staring at his lips and realizes that the phantom feeling of weight on her own lips is the pressure that would occur if he was kissing her.

 

The worst thing is that her body seems to be an expert on every cubic inch of YoungJae, even though her mind’s knowledge of YoungJae begins four days ago.

 

The worst thing is that she’s not even sure that those four days are all she has when it comes to YoungJae; she feels like there are countless days more hidden somewhere. An entire lifetime stored away for some reason unknown to her.

 

--

 

It’s Friday. The young lady has no idea what to label the energy of the world when she wakes up this morning. She tries, though, never to be deterred by a difficult task. Everything seems very anxious yet hopeful, almost as if awaiting the results of a vital test. She has a feeling something big is going to happen.

 

She has no classes today, and though she should be working on her solo choreography, she decides to take the free time to walk around town. Normally Saturdays are her days to wander around, but she knows that she will eventually, without fail, end up at the café that frustrates her so much. She’s curious about where she will end up on a Friday, though. Perhaps she will still find herself standing outside of the café. Perhaps she’ll be brought to another place. Perhaps—and this is what she is hoping for—she will have control over where her feet take her.

 

She strolls down the streets, taking her time to look around and admire the February weather. Today is Valentine’s Day, and despite the amount of people out and about prior to this day, not many people could be found. Her mind wanders as her feet do, and when her mind begins to focus on YoungJae, she wishes fervently that her feet don’t do the same.

 

She stops walking, subconsciously, which draws her attention to her surroundings. She’s standing in front of a fountain in a park that she doesn’t ever remember seeing before. There’s a bench to the right of the fountain and on the bench is a shocked—and yet somehow thrilled—Yoo YoungJae. Great. She turns to leave, still convinced that her mind has power of her body.

 

“SooYeon!” YoungJae calls. Apparently, her brain is not control over anything that would be considered voluntary action. She turns back around, faltering for only a split-second and walks over to YoungJae. He smiles up at her, patting the empty spot next to him on the bench. Don’t sit down. She sits down.

 

“What a coincidence, meeting you here.” She’s making small talk.

 

“Do you really believe it’s a coincidence?” He’s turning it into a deep talk. She rolls her eyes; he always loved to . How she knows that he always loved to , she has no idea.

 

She tries to change the direction of the conversation. “You’re alone on Valentine’s Day? I’m not surprised.” She immediately wishes her tongue wasn’t something she had control over when she sees the pain in his eyes. The pain in those mesmerizing spheres is from multiple worlds; from his past, from his present, and from what he wishes won’t be the future. The young lady also catches a glimpse of her own pain from the same past, present and future—all of which she had no idea she was a part of.

 

“It’s my fault, you know.”

 

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

 

He stares at her seriously and she holds her breath. “You can leave anytime you want, you know.” She doesn’t know what he means but, as he shallowly exhales to signal the start of his story, she has a feeling she will. “I met my first—and only—love my senior year of high school. She was in her last year of middle school, 9^th grade. I met her at the upcoming freshman orientation for our school. It was one of those things where, at first sight, I knew that I was in trouble. She was by far the prettiest girl I’d ever seen—but she was young—way too young. And I regret not waiting to date her until she got out of high school.

 

We started dating the spring she graduated from middle school. She was so mature for her age that sometimes I felt like she was taking care of me the entire time rather than the other way around,” YoungJae pauses and chuckles, the nostalgia written all over his face. The young lady is enthralled by his story. The words of his past are so familiar to her that she can’t help but imagine herself as the girl in his story—and she can’t but feel like that is what she’s supposed to do.

 

“We were together almost all of the time; I guess we were that couple that was so in love we annoyed our friends. I can’t even begin to count how many hours we spent together…and it was always just so…perfect. Our fingers fit together perfectly; she was the perfect height for resting her head on my shoulder; she fit perfectly in my arms when I hugged her. Really, everything about her was perfect. Even now, even though she’s broken, she’s still perfect…” YoungJae trails off.

 

“Broken?” the young lady whispers this word, fear of coming to terms with the reality of this story sitting heavy on her shoulders.

 

“Her junior year of high school, her class went on a trip to Jeju Island, and I went as a chaperone. There was a problem with the plane, which resulted in a crash landing.”

 

The young lady can feel tighten.

 

“We sat next to each other, and as the plane was going down, I held her hand and made her look me in the eyes the entire time in an attempt to calm her down…”

 

Don’t let go, okay? I’ll keep you safe.

 

“…but later, I found out that was a bad idea. We survived with minimal injury, but the whole thing was too much for her to handle.” YoungJae looks into the young lady’s eyes now. She doesn’t know how but there are tears threatening to spill down her face. “The doctors said that, because of the trauma, her brain repressed anything related to the plane crash…”

 

“Which includes you,” the young lady finishes for him. “You were the main thing she saw during the situation, which her brain translated to trauma…so, she forgot about you? But wouldn’t she only forget about the plane crash?”

 

“Psychogenic amnesia occurs when psychological damage happens to a person, causing them to repress—or essentially lose—some autobiographical memory. Entire scenes and episodes of that person’s life can disappear. Her case was special…anything and everything related to me ceased to exist, theoretically…” YoungJae stops, curiously studying the young lady’s face, hoping that she’ll pick up on the solution.

 

“Muscle memory,” the phrase rips itself from her lips but this time she doesn’t even try to stop it, “when the body has repeated an action so often that the action can be done without the mind making a conscious effort.”

 

“Do you think muscle memory is strong enough that it can withstand the loss of the memory of an action?” YoungJae asks again, his eyes still glittering with hope, but hope for a different thing than last time. He leans forward and the young lady’s eyes flutter shut just before their lips meet.

 

YoungJae’s lips on the young lady’s own feel so right and so comfortable. Smiling, YoungJae pulls away.

 

“SooYeon,” he says her name as though it’s the only way he can breathe. The young lady wrinkles her nose as YoungJae’s breath tickles across her skin. Her vision threatens to blackout again but she forces herself to stay conscious throughout the rushing of images in her mind. She can see the years spent with a man that she loved—loves—until slowly the face of the man takes the shape of YoungJae’s face.

 

The memory of a plane crash comes back forcefully, causing the young lady to hyperventilate. YoungJae is talking to her frantically but she can’t hear him over the rushing wind in her mind.

 

Suddenly, a light breaks through the gloom of the plane crash and she sees a younger YoungJae, with shaggy hair and glasses. He seems awestruck, stuttering cutely about being the tour guide for the orientation. The memory of their first meeting blends into the memory of the time YoungJae asked her out. He’s scratching the back of his neck nervously with one hand, the other hand extended towards her, holding a bouquet of flowers. There’s an adorable pink blush on his face and she can feel the happy confusion that she experienced during that moment. The first time they held hands, their first date, their first kiss—she can see it all.

 

“YoungJae,” she murmurs, blinking rapidly, suddenly aware of the tears streaming down her face. “YoungJae I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—I can’t believe that for this long I—oh, my gosh, YoungJae, I—” YoungJae silences her with another kiss. She can feel all of the missed years in this kiss, and she can feel the sanity that settles over her when his fingers intertwine with hers. When he pulls away from the kiss they’re both smiling and crying, a mess of cage emotions set free after a long time. Their hands are still locked together, tightly, too afraid to let go.

 

“Don’t let go, okay? I’ll keep you safe.”

 

--

 

It’s Saturday again. SooYeon walks into the café, head held high and a smile plastered on her face. She moves through the motions, happily taking her usual table by the largest window on the left side of the building. The seat across from her is empty, but she doesn’t worry too much about it; he’ll show up soon.

 

The small café’s only waiter glides over to her table. She still swears he isn’t human; she’s convinced he’s some sort of guardian angel. His silver locks still look silky, but seem a little bit lighter today. SooYeon smiles at him and he seems a little taken aback. SooYeon smiles because she remembers; she remembers how she introduced her soft-spoken classmate to her snarky boyfriend. She remembers how the silver-haired boy used to have soft blond curls that bounced when he was excited about the latest skateboard competition. She remembers YoungJae jokingly—though now, she realizes he was serious—telling that curly-headed boy to take care of her if there ever was a time YoungJae couldn’t.

 

“Have you found it yet?” the silver-haired waiter asks in that smooth, faint voice of his. It’s still the same question, the one he asks every Saturday afternoon. The mismatch of his voice and the way his head brushes the top of every door frame still causes a giggle to build in .

 

“I have.” Finally, today, the answer is different. SooYeon looks around the waiter and, seeing YoungJae entering the café, waves him over to their table. The silver-haired boy follows SooYeon’s line of sight, his eyes growing wide. He grins stupidly upon seeing YoungJae’s smiling face.

 

“YoungJae-hyung!”

 

“Thanks, JunHong, you really did a good job.” YoungJae pulls the silver-haired boy into a rough hug, ruffling the younger’s hair.

 

“Of course I did, I promised I would.” JunHong smiles cutely, taking their orders.

 

“Oh, JunHong,” SooYeon calls as the silver-haired boy turns to leave. “Here are my colleagues’ numbers. They’re pretty valuable at my dance school and I’m sure they can pull some string as far as tuition goes if you wanted to go there.” JunHong’s face is overflowing with happiness. “You could work as choreographer too, so you can quit this job. Their names are HoJoon and Mark. You should definitely give them a call, and let them know I recommended you.” JunHong thanks her and heads back to the kitchen.

 

“Who’re HoJoon and Mark?”

 

“No one that you should worry about,” SooYeon replies nonchalantly.

 

“Do they like you?”

 

“Does that matter? I’ve always had you, and I don’t really want anyone else.”

 

“You know, our first date was here,” YoungJae mentions, propping his elbow up on the table and resting his head in his hand.

 

“I know; after that, you insisted we come here every Saturday.” SooYeon rolls her eyes.

 

“You still came here every Saturday, though, by yourself. Even though you had no idea why, you still did?” It’s not really a question; it’s more of a way for YoungJae to hear confirmation.

 

“Muscle memory,” SooYeon replies simply, smirking at YoungJae. YoungJae smiles blissfully, sticking his tongue out.

 

“So?”

 

“So what?”

 

“Do you think muscle memory is strong enough that it can withstand the loss of the memory of an action?” YoungJae waits patiently, partly because he knows the answer and partly because he knows being patient is the least he can do for being such an impossible guy. SooYeon sighs heavily, an action that doesn’t match the fond grin on her face.

 

“I don’t think there’s anything in this universe that could keep me from forgetting you completely, idiot.”

 

“I love you, my pretty Soo—”

 

“Here’s your order.” JunHong seems a bit flustered as he places the drinks on the table and walks away.

 

“Damn, JunHong, interrupting my game…” YoungJae mutters.

 

“You’re lame,” SooYeon deadpans, “I don’t know why I love you.”

 

“But you do love me, and you love me a lot. So much so that you couldn’t forget the way my lips feel on yours even if you tried.” YoungJae smirks and SooYeon wants to wipe that smug look off of his face.

 

“Shut up and drink your coffee,” SooYeon says with a blush on her face. YoungJae grins.

 

“I missed you~”

 

I missed you, too.