Everything about Chansung is perfect.

The way the sunshine filters through the windows of the coffee shop, lighting up his freshly bleached hair and making it look like he's wearing a halo. He smiles into his coffee, black with tons of sugar, before drinking from the small cup, mostly dwarfed by his hand. The ceramic clinks against the saucer, a soft tinkling that brings a smile to your lips. His broad shoulders lift, shrugging at something that's been said. 

The t-shirt he's wearing is his favorite, a grinning happy face adorning the front and irritating you to no end. He rarely washed it, too afraid of the design to fade. But he must've washed it because it didn't reek when you were beside him. His smile changes from a close mouthed polite one to one filled with teeth, he never bleached them but they always seemed to sparkle no matter how dark it was out. 

His right leg is bouncing, you can tell by the way the table shakes slightly. He does that when he's nervous and you wonder how it could be that after all this time he still gets nervous. 

He laughs echoes across the expanse of the store and you look up because it couldn't have been all that funny. You feel the embarrassment for him, cheeks coloring slightly. 

Coffee spills on the table and you quickly try to soak it up with a napkin before it gets onto clothes, apologizing the whole time. You didn't mean to ruin anything. A fresh cup, on-the-house lulls the conversation back to its relaxed state. It makes you smile because at least he's happy again.

He pulls the croissant he orders in two with deft fingers, revealing the fluffy white center as the crispy outer shell crunches, little pieces falling onto the plate. He pulls the insides out like the stuffing of an old teddy bear, leaving the shell off to the side to dip into his coffee later.
You look down at the hardwood in front of you, gripping it tightly and holding back threatening tears. 

He reaches across the table to touch your hand. 

But that's the problem.

It's no longer your hand.

When he comes to pay his bill your eyes are downcast, still staring at the oak counter top and cold metal register, you mumble his change before placing it into his hands.

He leaves the store without a word of acknowledgement, just a weak smile.

Because an ex is just that. Something to be crossed out, and eventually replaced.