He closes his eyes and pictures the last time they tip-toed through the park at night, giggling like little love-struck children.

But that's what they were back then. Kids in love.

And here he stands now, counting the steps up the stairs to her apartment's door. He knows the number by heart, and he wishes it felt new.

A new beat plays out in his head and he taps his feet to it, waiting for her to answer the doorbell.

"Chanyeol!" Her voice has lost the bubbliness to it, no matter how hard he listens.

He closes the door and follows her in, looking at the back of her head. The same, plain hair, uncoloured and let-down as always.

She pours him and herself a drink, a tired smile always decorating her pretty face.

If only her beauty hadn't sunk in . . .

He knows she'll never understand no matter how much he tries to explain.

She thinks the same.

"Miya . . ." he begins once they're seated on her unmatched turquoise couch.

He sees fear in her eyes, and he decides to tip his glass and spill his drink instead.

"I'm so sorry!" He takes one look at her face and he knows she didn't buy the antic. But she gets up and cleans it anyway.

He makes a move to help, but she kindly shakes her head. "It's okay, Chanyeol. I'll manage."

Her voice always floats through him in a way that he keeps imagining the sound of it long after she's stopped talking.

He places an arm around her when she comes back, just to break the tension. She smiles again and turns on the TV to watch movies with him on cable.

Like always.

But it's a stormy night. All that's on the screen is static. Ugly motions of black and white that he could stare at