Seoul, 2 0 0 7
I thought I loved you, but it was just how you looked in the light.
"I'll be going first. Goodbye!" Dylan waves as he shuffles out of the little bookstore named 'Starbooks'. Seriously, Junmyeon thought it was such a funny idea.
"Bye! Don't trip and impregnate someone!" Junmyeon calls out.
Dylan flips him off.
Dylan walks down the street and takes in his surroundings. He hums a slow melody to himself. The notes get lost between zooming engines, scrambling footsteps, and tires screeching to a stop on red lights.
It's an autumn afternoon. Some poets claim it's their favorite season of the year. Looking at the cascading leaves of dull gold and red, Dylan can somewhat understand.
You're so blessed. You always stop to smell the flowers. Don't lose that. His mother would say this during sunny days as she affectionately ruffled his full head of hair.
You could say that he lived a pretty easy life.
He gets good grades. People compliment him left and right. He still has both his arms, his legs, his head, and—you get the picture.
At eighteen, Dylan knew a lot of things and pretended to know more.
Youth is the greatest excuse for ignorance. He's guilty of abusing it a little bit more than necessary.
As he walks through a small park to get home, Dylan finds her.
He knows her and doesn't.
The part of him that knows her starts walking toward her.
It's weird. He's been through this exact neighborhood park for years, but somehow the trees feel taller. The leaves seem brighter. The wind feels crispier. Children are laughing and running after one another, playing a game only they know the rules of.
In the middle of this almost movie-like setting, she stands out (but not in a good way). Her long wave of light brown hair and small frame are hard to miss, especially when they're laid out all over a bench.
Dylan continues walking. He's seen her around campus. She's an art major. He's never seen her alone. She was always surrounded by something: friends, teachers, and admirers.
Once close enough, he sees her ruffled hair, groggy eyes, and distressed clothing—she may or may not have been here all night.
"Excuse me. You okay?" He asks and regrets it when she groans.
"Not again," she sighs. She must be talking to herself. "I really should tell my drunk self that sleeping in parks isn't a good idea."
"Are you okay?" He asks out of politeness. Sometimes, you just have to ask the obvious to keep a conversation going.
"Shhh, let me gather my marbles first." Lien commands with a whimper. She massages her temples with her fingers and sits upright.
She looks like how normal people do the first few minutes of waking up: dazed, confused, and blinking as they wait for things to make sense again (except that Dylan thinks she's ten times prettier than the average person).
"I'm Dylan," he says, because somehow he's got the need to talk.
"I know, you're taking music, and you look like a doll." She mumbles and starts fixing herself. People are starting to turn their heads to this couple: Lien with her bed hair and dark eyes, and Dylan staring at her cautiously, as if she's a solar eclipse waiting to happen.
"I'm Lien." She extends her hand, and Dylan finds out it's as soft as it appears when he takes it.
Now, a normal person would politely shake it and get the formalities over with. But there isn't a rule like that scribbled in Lien's book. She drags Dylan closer and engulfs him in a warm hug.
He has trouble separating her warmth from the sun's rays.
The hug lasts for five seconds. He keeps count. It's enough for Dylan to describe her aroma as floral with a tinge of something like citrus. When she pulls away, her lips are stretched so wide that it makes Dylan wince inwardly.
"I'll be seeing you around, babydoll." Lien winks and hops away freely.
Dylan remains rooted to the spot for some time before walking home.
Three hours later, with flipped tables, pockets turned inside out, and wrinkled brows, Dylan realizes that his wallet is missing.
Did she just rob me?
* * *
Dylan is among the rushing crowd. He's trying hard to sew together the pieces of Lien that he gathered throughout the week.
Her father founded a major broadcasting company.
"We sometimes wonder why she studies here. Lien's the type to go and study business and all that jazz," says Guizhong—the campus' biggest gossip—bribed with three cups of coffee and a cupcake. "I've talked to her, and she's really nice. Lien's so down to earth, considering her social status. She's a sweetheart, and it's not like she's going to bite. You should go talk to her."
Dylan's trying to, but he never gets the chance.
Around the large halls and resounding walls, she'd be constantly occupied: chatting with a friend, sharing jokes, balancing stacks of books, or sprinting from one class to another.
Being a popular student doesn't give Dylan special access for a conversation with her.
He shakes his head, shoves his hand in his pockets (he thinks he looks cool when he does that), and opens his locker to retrieve some of his notebooks.
There's a slit on the metal frame. It allows people to slip in a cliché love note, or even little messages.
In Dylan's case, it's his wallet and crumpled paper, indicating that the sender must have been in a hurry to write and grabbed the first thing they saw.
Confused, Dylan flips it open and counts the bills inside until he's sure that it's the same amount he previously had. He reads the note, and a lunatic smile takes over his soft features.
Babydoll,
By now, you'd have figured out that I took your wallet. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't mean to. They say that lies and theft are brothers, but I'm only familiar with theft. That's what makes me suck. I can never conjure (that's a big word, eh?) a lie to cover it up. It's not about conscience or anything. I just terribly need the money.
I'm sorry that it took me a few days. You have to realize how hard it is to remember things. Thank you for not accusing me immediately, though (even if you did, I would have pulled on an innocent façade).
Comments. Suggestions. Feedback would be much appreciated and taken to heart if said at Hobbit (you know, the bar) during nine p.m. sharp this Saturday while wearing clothes that look presentable, or at the very least, easy to remove.
With Love,
Lien.
(I'm so cool right)
♠ ♠ ♠