A Petal in Memory - Chanhun

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It's spring when I first see him.

Gardens in full bloom decorate the park with a lively palette. I sit shadowed by the cherry blossoms, watching sunlight filter through the arched ceiling of fairy-tale pink and illuminate the petals raining whimsically like a dream. A warm breeze whispers the hum of bees past my ears.

He approaches me under the soft kisses of dusk, a radiant smile gracing his face, compelling my eyes off the view and onto him – where they can't seem to leave again. The blossoms around us suddenly pale in comparison to the rosiness of this stranger's complexion.

Our conversation flows smoothly for a first meeting. I'm taken by both his breezy demeanour and the somehow-familiar comfort it offers. Smoothing down the stripes of my shirt, my fingers stop to twist at the hem.

"I need to go," I tell him reluctantly and he gives an understanding nod. A reassuring pat on my hand follows casually, naturally. Unspoken promises linger on his skin and scorch where he touches mine.

As I walk away, a flower fragment brushes my nose and drifts onto my waiting palm. Its lavish texture is all too resonant of the velvet butterflies fluttering inside my stomach.

Seared in my mind are the bottomless, chocolate eyes I've left behind, swelling in my chest is the anticipation of falling into them again.

"Chanyeol." I try aloud as soon as I'm far enough.

His name rolls off my tongue pleasantly, like the well-versed chorus of a favourite song.

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It's summer when I fall in love with him.

His visits grow increasingly frequent until we have an everyday routine of sorts, sitting side by side and divulging in soft murmurings of everything and nothing, intoxicated by the sultry fragrance of surrounding gardenia bushes. He compares my eyes to twinkling constellations in the gradient sky and I confide my dreams to chase the clouds. He tells me the possibilities are unending, describes plans to sail the boundless world. I wish I could join you, I hold on my tongue.

Reaching over to pluck an ivory petal from a nearby bud, I deliberate whether to confess that he and the exotic scent are somehow intertwined in my mind. The idea is absurd; the dainty flowers are such a stark contrast to his towering, masculine form. In the end, I do it anyway, and his lips to stretch into a dazzling grin, teeth gleaming, eyes crinkling delightfully at the corners – a sight that steals my breath and makes me think maybe he is just as delicate and ethereal as the petal in my hand and maybe it isn't so absurd after all.

"They were always your favourite flower," he mutters in his soothing baritone. Before I can ask what he means, I'm interrupted by an abrupt shriek of tires followed by blaring horns in the distance, making me cringe into my seat. The cacophony is inexplicably deafening in my ears, only worsened by its remnant ricochets in my head. By the time I recover, I've forgotten what I wanted to say.

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Some days he sits and nurses a coffee, wisps of steam caressing his face and smoothing the edges along his countenance. He raises an eyebrow in question of my empty hands while leisurely swirling his drink. My mouth dries, distracted by the flex of toned forearm muscles revealed by rolled sleeves.

"I don't really drink coffee," I flick my eyes back up before I'm caught staring like an idiot, "I love the smell, but I'm apprehensive about the caffeine."

His laughter is a deep yet melodious tone, infectious and unforgettable. I'm not sure what he finds quite so funny, but I find myself laughing along anyhow.