Briefly, my eyes scan the apartment that I had moved into only a year ago, and a red picture frame catches my eye. I remember the time that I had bought that frame in a department store before moving into my dorm that summer before freshman year. It’s the only frame I had ever owned. I honestly don’t know why I only have one picture frame in my life, when I take so many pictures; perhaps I simply always invest so much time in selecting pictures for display, and showcasing them just puts too much importance to the specific chosen pictures.

Yet I still find myself locking a picture of Minho and me in that red frame that burns my eyes every time I catch sight of it. And I then find myself replacing that picture with one that Seungyoon and I have taken during our first date.

And now, in my new apartment, I find that picture being yet again replaced with another.

***

It was about a year and a half ago that I half-heartedly packed all my belongings into suitcases and labeled boxes after he already removed his.

“Jen…” I heard him whispering my name, and I wished with all my will that it was not about to become the final time that I heard his deep, velvety voice sing that simple syllable. That inviting vibration of his vocal chords brought shivers to my entire body, and I found myself longing for it more than ever.

I answered with a mere side look, refusing to let my lips quiver and the obvious wetness in my eyes form clear droplets.

“You don’t have to leave…” He probably still held onto the sliver of hope that he would return and nothing about us and our relationship would change, but I was not that optimistic. And neither was reality.

“I can’t stay here…I can’t stay when everything reminds me of you – reminds me of how we won’t be together anymore.” I didn’t even know if I was actually in love with him or I just grew acquainted to the level of comfort in our relationship. I no longer trusted myself with my own feelings, but I knew it was a fair combination of both. The unease and sourness I felt within my tight chest only led me to believe that my feelings for him were far beyond simple infatuation.

Seungyoon’s fingers curled around my complying wrist and pulled me flush against his body, allowing my eyes to meet with his when I tilted my head back. His eyes were rimmed with a shiny string of red, and I was sure that mine were in no better condition. Wordlessly, he pulled me closer to his own body, letting our bodily heats to mingle and comfort each other. With every breath he took, the rising and falling of his warm chest comforted me more than my mother’s embrace ever did when I was a child. Was it wrong to already be missing the secure place I occupied within his arms?

“I love you.” I knew it was the last time that I would ever hear his velvety voice enunciate those three syllables, so I closed my eyes, allowing the contained tears to fall freely. Those words provided an odd comfort, yet it broke me into unfixable shards.

“I love you, too. Please don’t forget that.” I had not been as sincere in my life before when saying those three words. It’s ing ironic that the first time that I say these words to him will be the last time. Even if I couldn’t be sure about anything else, I knew that I loved this male standing before me, with his suitcases waiting patiently by the cold, hardwood door. Maybe I did not even know what love was, or what it felt like to experience love, but I knew I was desperate to keep Seungyoon in my life, and that I was not willing to let him leave, because it simply hurt too much.

And he left. No promises, no goodbyes. No “be happy even without me,” or even “meet someone better.”

An unpretentious relationship met its honest end, and I just continued to allow myself to pack the broken, left-behind pieces into suitcases and boxes that contained no memories.

***

I pull the dress effortlessly over my head and adjust its fit around my body before accessorizing my look with a simple silver ring and the friendship bracelet Patricia gave me years before to compliment the lone star on my chest. I dig through my closet for a pair of heels that were elegant yet simple enough to pair with the bold dress.

On the lowest level of my shoe rack, protected by velvet pouches, stands the pair of sandal heels, studded with millimeter-wide crystals. The pair that I had danced in so many times before. The pair that shone in many scenes of my past. The pair that I had worn to prom, as I stood next to Minho.

***

Just a year after I had moved into my new apartment, an unexpected guest knocked on my door, completely ignoring the fully functional doorbell. Who could it be at 2 A.M. on a Sunday night?

When I looked through the peephole to ensure that the person on the other side was not a serial killer or , I felt my heart stop for a fraction of a second – in shock or in elation, I had no idea.

“Minho.”

Once I opened the door, he flashed a crooked smile, and he was ever so dashing. Even after years of not even catching a glimpse of him, I felt my insides flutter at the mere sight of him. What was happening to me? To us?

Without saying a word, he extended his right arm, and my feet became nailed into the ground. Staring back at me was a lavishly ornamented bouquet of vibrant red roses – it was almost like ed up déjà vu. But the only difference was that it was not thirteen this time.

I still remembered the time in college, months after I broke up with Jinwoo and he with Jenny, which happened just weeks after the summer before junior year started.

From what I knew, they mutually agreed on the break after realizing that neither of them had actual romantic feelings toward the other anymore. They were both busy with post-grad ordeals and probably just did not have enough time to spend with each other – that or they didn’t bother to try hard enough. Either way, it was no longer in my place to probe and assume any further.

However, I rolled out of bed when someone knocked on my dorm door at 2 A.M. that night. It was Minho, standing before me and showcasing a smile that left me breathless.

“Happy birthday!” He exclaimed cheerfully in his timbre voice before shoving a bouquet of red roses in my arms and suffocating me in his own. My pulse sped up significantly; I prayed and hoped that he did not notice, which he probably didn’t with his dullness.

“You’re late,” I muttered spitefully in a deadpanned-voice, all the while refusing to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered into the side of my head, which sent shivering tingles throughout my delusional body. I could no longer even think straight with his voice in my ears and his arms on my body. I found my mind wander into sinful, unchartered territory before applying pressure on his chest to escape from his enclosure.

After he released me from his death grip, I found myself aimlessly counting the number of roses in the bouquet, when I had no idea what the different numbers even symbolized.

Thirteen.

And, as if Minho read my mind, which I swore he did all the time, he said, “Thirteen roses for the most dashing best friend! Thirteen for friends forever!” Best friend. Thirteen roses. Friends forever.

“Right…”

We just stood there. It was silent, awkward – so awkward that the discomfort brought me back to the first day we met and made me forget that we were best friends. At least we were supposed to be in theory.

“So…aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“It’s already so late,” I countered, before inching backwards probably to invite him in with open arms later. But I couldn’t seem so easy and desperate, as if I wasn’t easy enough to get to already. “Shouldn’t you be heading back?”

He gave me a crooked smile before countering, “But I already missed your birthday, I can’t just give you flowers and leave.”

“I still don’t forgive you for that,” I groaned and pouted in all seriousness.

Unsurprisingly, I invited him in that night, and he asked me about how I spent my day. Minho sat on my bed with me as we finished the rest of my cake. He still had yet to explain the reason for completely missing my birthday, but he did not even crack a hint about it at all. Again, I found myself burying my dying sense of curiosity to redraw the line of distance between us. I was pretty decent at the entire friend ordeal until he began talking again.

“Ah, we’re graduating this year,” he began – completely innocuous without hinting where the conversation was going.

I sighed and laid flat on my bed with my head in his lap as he played with my hair. “Yeah, it still hasn’t hit me.”

“Time for the real life.”

I hummed in response.

“I guess it’s time to take problems seriously now.”

“What problems?”

For a few minutes the rapping of the air vent was the only sound I heard, apart from our even breathing. I asked that question out of good nature, as a best friend always should, but I never expected the response I got.

“Just questioning about what to do with my life, middle-age crisis, and I guess girl problems.”

It was time to pull out my script again. “Oh! Completely grown up now, aren’t we? Adult-life relationship problems now?”

I convinced myself I was fine; I had to be. I numbed the sinking feeling in my heart, the racing pulse, the constriction in my lungs. I should have been over this long ago, but I pathetically was not. Like the idiot I was, I was still hung up over the illusion of us being more than friends, even though I knew that was far from possible. Even when I tried to accept the inevitable reality, my heart still refused to follow suit.

I was actually faking it pretty well, until Minho asked, “Why don’t you date Seunghoon? It’s been months since Jinwoo, and the three of us have known each other since high school, and–”

“You should go, Minho.”

That’s when I realized I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t keep up this façade and light-hearted act of mine. I couldn’t smile and cater to Minho anymore when my insides were tearing and burning. I thought of what to say; I even thought about lying and breaking off our friendship or even just avoiding him. However, I realized that honesty was the best route at this point, when my life was already full of lies to myself and white lies to everyone else.

I avoided him for a week, which was easy because he was busy and I coincidentally caught the flu. I pretended I was asleep when Minho came to my dorm with a jug of chicken noodle soup during one of the weekends that Patricia went home.

When I got better, before the thirteen roses sitting innocuously in their crystal vase completely wilted, I held the vase and the jug of soup that Minho left outside my door with a post-it note in my arms before walking determinedly to his dorm room. Just seconds after I knocked, I heard shuffling behind the cheap oak door. The door swung open, revealing a relieved Minho.

“Where were you for the past week? God! Do you know how worried I was?”

“No.”

But I did know. I just refused to admit it for my own good – for my own sanity. I had to force myself to get over the impossible.

“Well then-wait, what?” His voiced was laced with confusion, and he was probably incredulous at this point. Guilt and regret filled me completely, but I had to be selfish for once.

“I can’t take these roses and soup – no, it, I won’t.”

“What do you mean? The hell are you even talking about, Jen? Do you still have a fever? Because you’re not making any sense right now.”     

Suddenly, I felt anger and frustration wash over me; I was making sense. I was making the most sense ever since I realized that I liked Minho. “I’m giving you back your ing thirteen roses.”

“Why? Are you mad at me because I didn’t celebrate your birthday with you this year?”

“No, in fact, I don’t even give two s about my birthday.”

“Then, why…”

“Because I can’t ing do this anymore! I can’t put up this act anymore.”