I like for you to be still - Pablo Neruda

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as hough your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.

Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.

As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.

Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las coasas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía.

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my vvoice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.

Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
Déjame que me calle con el silencia tuyo.

And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio
claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

Me gustas cuando callas poraue estás como ausente
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.

[x] 如果的事

She said, "We'll never be more than this." And he never knew what she meant. He forgot the words, with time, but they are brought back in a haze of alcohol three years later in a smoky, dimly-lit bar. He remembers her face, her hands, the silhouette of her back when she walks away. He remembers the empty smile she gives him the next time they meet, perfectly civil and emotionally unavailable. He's not sure even now what he should have said, or if it would have made a difference. The world continues spinning - figuratively and literally - and he realizes he's tipped off the stool in his stupor. One foot meets the ground abruptly, jerking him to a stop, and a hand catches his upper arm to steady him. He looks blankly at the figure holding him up, his anchor to this dusky reality, and his mind is working slowly but he registers the face of his friend, looking at him with concern. He wishes it were her, instead; wishes he had known the words.

[x] we were never meant to be (we just happened)

we were never meant to be (we just happened)
PG, 550 words

sometimes she thinks she shouldn't be this happy - but that's stupid. everyone should be happy. it's just, she never expected to be so happy. she never expected to end up here, her chest tight with joy that feels like it's going to burst out of her with wings. she never expected all these smiles and all this laughter and all this warmth when she rolls into his arms at night and counts the shadows his lashes cast on his cheek.

she's a little afraid she's going to wake up and find out it's all been a dream, or that she's going to blink and everything will dissolve before her eyes like an illusion. it's terrifying but at the same time it's thrilling, every time her blood rushes in her ears and her heart rate doubles and triples and she falls all over again, into the warmth of his smile.

love is all these songs she never stops singing, all the romance books she's secretly read. love is grand gestures and sappy movies he confesses to watching. love is sunshine and flowers and chocolates on the right days, walks in the first snow, and every other cliché she has never really understood and has never really bothered with.

love is all these stories of once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after, fairy tales and princesses and the knights who rescue them. it's every cheesy lyric that's ever been written into song, about love keeping you warm, love keeping you safe.

she doesn't know if she believes in these meant-to-bes, these promises of forever that the world seems to think love is made of. all she knows is that she doesn't understand it, this happiness she has with him. she doesn't know if they'll be together later, much less forever; she doesn't know if they should be together now.

she wonders about the little things - if they should hold hands in public, if her parents will like him. she wonders if they will have a life together, take a vacation together, write postcards and letters and sign them together (two names linked with an ampersand). she wonders if they can sing together, voices blending and harmonizing, and write a song just for them.

she doesn't know what the future will bring, doesn't know if this scary, thrilling feeling in her chest will ever fizzle and fade. she doesn't know if she'll ever stop being this happy but, she realizes, she doesn't care.

because (once-upon-a-time) she used to wonder if he would kiss her back. once-upon-a-time, she used to wonder if she was imagining the way those arms held her close or the way those lips whispered her name, like a secret. once-upon-a-time, she used to wonder and daydream and hope a whole other series of what ifs (what if he loves me? what if he doesn't? what if i tell him?).

sometimes she is terrified of how happy she is, with no guarantees, nothing more concrete than an arm over her shoulder and her name in his smile. but she takes a chance on the what ifs anyway.

it doesn't matter if they were never meant to be, because they ended up here anyway. and that's what counts.

[x] beautiful

('cause you are so) beautiful
PG, 357 words

her eyeliner's smudged from the tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes that she refused to let fall. she rubs at her eyes and her fingertips come away sooty. she is better than this; she will not cry over this.

it's silly, and it's sad, but she wonders if he still finds her beautiful like this, when she is imperfect in every little way: her hair stringy around her face, her skin blemished, her eyes red from tears she won't cry and half a cold that hasn't quite gone away yet. she feels miserable and thinks she looks it too, which makes her heart sink just that little bit more. it's not that she wants to be a beauty queen or a model; she just wants to feel liked (wanted, desirable), and she wonders if that is possible still when she's at her worst.

she misses the way he used to hold her, arms tight around her as he whispers, "hey beautiful," like he was so lucky to have her. she misses how he looked at her, how he kissed her, how he made her feel, just for a little while, like she was the prettiest girl in the world. the only one he would care about and love and cherish.

it's stupid and she blinks rapidly (tears, stupid) as she reminds herself that she was the one who chose to push him away. it's not going to work out, she's not ready for this, this isn't what she wants... every reason and excuse that tumbled from her lips, she remembers, and regrets a little.

it's for the best, she knows at the bottom of her heart, but a part of her will always miss being, briefly, his number one.

she closes her eyes and presses the heels of her palms against them, squeezing back the stray emotions. she is better than this. she will not cry over this.

she has a future, she reminds herself. she has her dreams. she will find someone else, when the time is right, when she is ready for it.

and she will be beautiful to him, too.

2009.09.23

[x] The Greatest Love of All Time

Not my favorite, but the only thing close to original (for a given value of original) that I've managed to write in for-fucking-ever. Inspired loosely by Taylor Swift's Love Story. Oh shoot me. I take what I can get, okay?

This is a...vignette? I'm incapable of writing long things.

--

The Greatest Love of All Time

This is a love story, they tell you. It starts like this:

She’s crying.

Why is she crying? you ask. This is a love story. Shouldn’t she be happy and in love, flushed and breathless? Shouldn’t she laugh and smile and have a hand to hold, and a man who loves her to kiss? Shouldn’t she have promises of now and forever, until all her tears dry up?

This is what you’ve always hoped love would be like. You’ve never actually been in love, you think. There have been crushes, flutterings, butterflies in your stomach – but nothing quite so big, so monumental and momentous, as love.

You don’t know what it’s like. You’ve imagined it to be everything beautiful and splendid – a rush of feelings so intense that you won’t be able to contain them. You will shout to all the world, even silently, about love, love, love. Your eyes, your smile, your very pores will exclaim to everyone who passes you by: I’m in love. I am loved. This is love.

This is what you imagine love to be like, so you’re at a loss when the story begins:

She’s crying.

There’s no rain, no torrential downpour to match her mood, no light shower to gently streak her windowpanes like tears. It’s dark outside, though, because she’s wasted the entire day away in misery, pale and gray. Her hair is tied neatly behind her, her clothes immaculate – she made every effort to be okay this morning, so she could face the world and take it on. No one has to know, is what she thought that morning. I’ll be fine.

It’s all fallen apart, and now she sits immaculate on her bed, crying. She feels like she’s choking on her heart, feels like it’s risen up in her throat until she can’t breathe, and aches all over.

You want to reach out to her, maybe hold her. You’re tentative though, because you don’t know her. You don’t what’s wrong. What happened, you want to ask, but there is no answer. What brought her to this point?

How is this a love story? you wonder again.

Maybe her boyfriend (husband?) left her. Maybe he cheated on her – but, no. You think she’d be angrier if it were that. She seems too heartbroken. Maybe he died.

She seems young, so her boyfriend (lover?) must be young as well.

How tragic it would be to die so young. You would cry, too. (At least you think you would. It’s hard to judge, when you’ve never been in love.)

She wipes at her eyes, and you can read the weariness in the slow movements of her hand. She’s tired. Tired of crying, tired of feeling like the world has broken her. It’s easy to see, and it leaves you conflicted. Is there anything you can do to help her? Is there anything you might say to console her? Are there such things as the right words?

You wish you knew what was wrong.

Someone enters the room, an older woman. She gathers the girl in her arms, holds her close, and speaks quiet words into her ear. When she leaves, your protagonist lifts her chin. She looks suddenly determined, more certain of what she wants, like she has purpose. Her face is still streaked with tears, wet lashes dark in the fading light.

She moves with purpose. Something is clutched tight in her hands – a small vial. She is uncapping it. You don’t understand. You don’t understand how this is a love story, if she is alone and unhappy. You don’t understand why she is lifting the vial to her lips, draining it with an elegant tilt of her neck.

She’s beautiful, you think. She’s young. She reminds you of someone you know, someone you want to protect and keep from the toils and wiles of the world. You hardly know her, but suddenly you are desperate for her to be happy, to live freely and laugh joyously. You want her to love, to shout it to the world to know, and fear clutches you when she swallows that last drop.

The vial falls to the ground.

She follows soon after, an inelegant collapse onto the floor, her immaculate clothing at last disheveled. Her face is pale, still damp with tearstains.

This is a love story, they tell you. You feel like a stone has settled into your heart.

How can this be a love story? How can this be anything like love, this story that makes you want to gather her up and cry into her hair? She is so young, so sad. You don’t understand. This is nothing like fireworks or moving mountains or birdsong. This is nothing like love.

You turn away as an outcry is raised, and rushing feet fill the room, crowding carelessly near her body.

This is a love story, they tell you. It ends like this:

He finds her and his cry raises goosebumps along your skin. It’s chilling, the anguish in his voice; it breaks him. He lands on his knees, pulling her towards him ever so gently. He sobs, laments. He kisses her one last time, murmurs prayers into her hair, despairing.

So this is he. This is her man. (Boyfriend? Lover?) This is her heart, her love.

Her love cannot exist with her. You realize this before he does. You’re almost calm when he pulls out a vial. This is familiar, too terrifyingly familiar. You almost don’t flinch when he drains the poison and the vial clatters to the ground as he slumps over.

So this is love.

So this is love.

But then she stirs. And then she screams, because no, no, no, she never meant for it to end like this. It was supposed to be different. He was supposed to understand. He was supposed to wait. She only ever wanted to be with him, only wanted him, only wanted—

She wails, and you know what happens next.

Everyone knows what happens next.

She grabs the dagger and plunges it into her own heart.

She’s crying.

You look away as she collapses onto him, star-crossed lovers thwarted even at the end. They’ll have eternity, but will forever be long enough? He didn’t understand. She didn’t wait. They were in love.

This is a love story, they tell you. The greatest love story of all time.

Maybe, you think, you’ve never understood what love is about all this time.

[x] the fall of the greek

The Fall of the Greek
In the winter of eternal life, there was never promise of eternal youth.

Lind frowned at the little pot sitting on her windowsill. Sticking out a finger, she prodded its contents, then drew in a sharp breath and sucked her fingertip into her mouth. Tithonus was prickly as ever. Dead, but still prickly.

She looked around the room, gaze resting briefly on the wastebasket before flickering on by. She wouldn’t relegate her pet cactus to such a dishonorable disposal. She’d raised him for the better part of two years, after all, ever since she’d received him as a graduation present.

Besides, it would start smelling bad. Lind only emptied the trash once every two weeks. Not much usually accumulated; with her busy schedule, she was rarely in the dorm, puttering about and generating trash. Unlike, she thought unkindly, someone else she could mention.

She determinedly didn’t look at Jennifer’s half of the room, decidedly less neat than Lind’s, with clothes strewn haphazardly all over the place and books and papers stacked in messy piles on the floor. The hazards of the lottery system, Lind often thought, mouth twisting. Next year she’d have to be sure to request someone she knew to be an organized, sane person. No, next year she’d make sure to live off campus and drag Pan with her. Only a ridiculous amount of money—or some other near unattainable form of persuasion—could induce her to stay.

Leaving the window, Lind crossed the room to her desk and began gathering her textbooks. She didn’t have time right now to deal with her cactus’s tragic demise: Tithonus could wait two hours, but Global Econ couldn’t. She picked up her coat from where she’d laid it over the back of her chair earlier and put it on, wrapping her fuzzy blue scarf around her neck and swinging one end over her shoulder. Gloves and hat followed. Pennsylvania winters were bitter as a norm and she couldn’t afford losing fingers when she had two papers due next week. At last Lind collected her books in one arm, checked that her bag was replete with writing utensils, and let herself out.

She cast one last, vaguely nostalgic look in the direction of the windowsill before pulling the door shut behind her and locking it.

A vain death in room five-fifty-one and no one to mourn, she thought ruefully.

[x] 昨日像那东流水

The saddest things are always the most beautiful. Han Ming hums the song her mother used to sing about two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. She thinks it’s a tragic story, a beautiful one.

***

“No,” she says. “We can’t. I can’t.”

There are a thousand unspoken words behind her eyes, dark and desperate, like lines of poetry Jinho never learned, incomprehensible and so very Chinese. Jinho doesn’t understand.

“Don’t you want to be with me?”

Han Ming tears her gaze away, fists clenching at her sides. “I can’t abandon my family like that, Jinho,” she says, and the words are choked, underlined with unhappiness. “I have responsibilities. You can’t ask that of me.”

What she means is that Jinho is not as important. What she means is that here, even in war-torn China, Ming will not leave with Jinho for safer, peaceful Korea. She doesn’t love Jinho more than her haggard, starving family, or her ravaged country. She will not trade the dusty and blood-stained roads or the gray-brown forests or the muddy rivers of China for greener, fresher hopes.

Jinho doesn’t understand and Ming knows it.

“But don’t you love me?” he asks, and that’s when Ming walks away, eyes stinging.

That is not the question to ask – that is not a question at all. But there are duties that must come before selfish desires.

***

They met on the day Han Ming watched the neighboring village disappear in flames, dirty black smoke curling into the gray sky like a cruel smear of charcoal. She was on the road halfway between home and a village that no longer existed except in charred timber and hastily-buried dead. There was no time for proper funerals when the army was so close, heralded by the terrifying fires that burned as warning.

A river of people carrying everything they could on their backs stumbled down this road, seeking safety, shelter. Ming watched them, anger and grief high in her throat, choking her and leaving her feeling restless, helpless.

Someone stumbled into her, clawed at her arm, fell to the ground—

He was hoarse with thirst, and his words were accented.

My name is Jing He, he said, because the army hunted down foreigners and murdered them in cold blood.

***

“Don’t leave,” Jinho says desperately, grabbing at Han Ming’s hand, when he really means Leave. Leave with me.

Ming stills but she doesn’t turn around. Her fingers curl around Jinho’s briefly, perhaps for the last time. “It’s not a choice,” she murmurs, voice soft but steady, so carefully steady. She’s not to be shaken. She simply cannot leave. It’s not a choice.

***

The army didn’t attack Han Ming’s village as expected. She nursed a slightly wounded Jinho in her house for a week, between attending to her ailing father and attempting tired smiles for her younger sister. (Li Yin should’ve grown up in a different era, Ming thinks. She should’ve known only luxury and happiness, not the fear that leaves circles around her eyes, or the backbreaking toil that leaves her exhausted, too thin.)

“Why haven’t they attacked?” Jinho wondered, sipping at the broth Li Yin had made.

“No matter,” Ming replied, spooning her own dinner. “We should be grateful.” It had been a week since the neighboring village had been torched – everyone expected their village to be next. Dozens of families had abandoned their homes already, hoping to flee before they lost everything.

Ming didn’t have a choice in leaving. Her father would not survive a long trek on the road. There was no place to go. It was better here, where at least they still had a bed and nearby medicinal herbs and two fiercely guarded chickens. They stood a poor chance against a rampaging army, but at least here they stood the best they could.

“I don’t understand,” Jinho said, but he let the subject pass. He talked instead of his travels around China – how he had come to the country to visit a year ago, before the emperor had been killed, before the political battle Ming didn’t understand, and the war.

“It was a beautiful country.” Jinho smiled, his eyes bright. He touched Ming’s hand lightly. “I truly had a great experience.”

Ming couldn’t help smiling in return.

China was still a beautiful country, somewhere under the ashes and the blood and the haunting cries of mourners.

***

Han Ming doesn’t see Jinho for three days and she surmises that the foreigner has left at last, making his way back to Korea hidden on the boat he told Ming about. Ming’s heart hurts, but she tells herself there was no other way. Of course Jinho would choose safety and home over China (over Han Ming), just like Ming had to choose war and home over safety.

“Jie jie,” Li Yin says hesitantly, fingers twining through her hair. “You seem so sad.”

“I’m just tired,” she says, and smiles. She won’t let Li Yin worry, if she can help it. “Working the land is tiring.”

“Do you miss Jing He?” Li Yin asks, tying off her plait.

The pain starts in her chest and spreads until it’s almost too difficult to breathe. Does she miss Jing He? Does she miss the brief happiness of Jinho’s dimples and kisses, of Jinho’s strong hands holding her steady, of the quiet truths they’d exchanged in the dark? There will never be words, in Chinese or in any language of the world, Han Ming is positive, that can fully express how much she misses Jinho.

“Yes,” she says, because she’s made it a habit to never lie to Li Yin. “Yes, but I had to stay.”

“For us.”

Li Yin’s voice is sad and she sighs softly as she scoots along the front step of their house to press her side against Ming’s. She leans into her and Ming closes her eyes. They are silent for a long time.

“It’s hard living like this,” Li Yin says at last, softly. “Never knowing when they might attack. Never knowing when we might die.”

Ming reaches out and squeezes her hand in lieu of a reply. They watch the wind stir the dust in the street, blowing dead leaves across empty thresholds.

***

Jinho had kissed her first, because Han Ming had never learned to take what she wanted. She only ever took out of necessity, only ever acted as dutifully and as responsibly as she could. The weight of her decisions often weighed down her shoulders, now cupped by Jinho’s hands, his fingers stroking, as Ming found herself pressed up against the wall of the kitchen. Jinho’s mouth moved gently, tentatively, over hers.

“Is – is this okay?” he asked, words stumbling over his lips as he pulled back to stare into Ming’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” Ming said truthfully, because her heart was flying and her father was sleeping in the next room. She couldn’t look away from Jinho, and she swallowed hard, because she had never wanted something so desperately before. Wanted to be held and touched and loved, and maybe it was all possible despite the world falling to pieces around them.

“I don’t know,” she repeated, and moved until her lips brushed Jinho’s again, “but I want it.”

***

Li Yin has taken to singing the same sad, sweet song their mother used to sing about the two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. Han Ming still thinks it’s a tragic story, but she no longer finds it as beautiful.

She gazes out at the horizon often, eyes faraway. She’s not sure what she’s looking for – signs of an approaching army, or an omen to signal the end of the war, or a maybe the figure she sees endlessly in her dreams.

***

“There’s a boat,” Jinho said excitedly, grabbing Han Ming’s hand and pulling her around to the back of the house. He was flushed, eyes bright, and he looked so alive that Ming couldn’t help smiling, laughing too. “There’s a boat, Ming,” Jinho repeated, pulling Ming into a hug.

Ming didn’t understand, but Jinho was so happy that she could only be swept along in it.

“Wait, wait, what are you talking about?” she asked with a chuckle on her lips when Jinho finally let her go. “What about a boat?”

Jinho kissed her instead, swift, joyous. “A boat,” he repeated against Ming’s mouth. “Zai Zhong told me about it. It’s a secret, but it’s leaving in two nights. It can take us to Korea!”

For a moment, the world shifted on its axis, blurring out of focus, then rushing together to come sharply, painfully, into reality. Ming’s smile disappeared. She stepped out of Jinho’s arms but kept a hand linked to his, ever hopeful. She wasn’t sure what to expect when she looked up into Jinho’s smiling face, hesitant.

“What do you mean?”

“We can leave China,” he replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “We can go back to Korea, where it’s safe.”

“Jinho—”

Perhaps he saw the stricken expression on her face. He tugged her closer, pulled her back into his arms. “Ming,” he said tenderly, “this is great! Don’t you understand? We can finally be together, in peace. Safe!”

“Jinho,” Ming tried to say, but her voice caught again; she was terrified by the possibilities Jinho was offering.

“Of course we can bring Li Yin and your father too.” Jinho smoothed a hand over Ming’s back, comforting. “You know I’d never ask you to leave them.”

The world seemed cold for a moment, bone-chilling despite the stillness of the air. It was only early fall, not yet winter; there was no wind, no reason for the shudder that shook Han Ming. She held tightly to Jinho, not sure what to say or how to say it. Jinho was like comfort, earthy smells and protection from the world, Ming’s crutch and one of her few weaknesses. He made her laugh when the army could attack any day; he made her hope despite the hopelessness of their situation; he made her feel and want like she was a different person in a different time, like she could have this without regrets.

Jinho understood her so well, but—

“He’ll die.”

Ming’s words fell like bricks between them, heavy and unforgiving. She wrenched herself away from Jinho. “He’ll die if we try to make it to the boat, Jinho. He won’t make it. Not to Korea.”

Jinho’s expression was startled, unbelieving. He blinked, reached out for her again, and his words were earnest and well-meaning. “Ming, we have to try. I know it’s far but—but we have to try. Your father, I know he’s ill, but we can take care of him. We can do it. Start over in Korea, where he’ll have a real chance, without the war—”

Ming said sharply, “No, Jinho, he’ll die.” She knew it with full certainty. Her father’s health was past weak; he was barely alive as it was.

“Ming, Ming.” Jinho looked desolate and Ming could feel her resolve waver. But her filial duty was in her bones, more innate in the person she was than any selfish desire she might harbor. She choked down a dry sob as Jinho pleaded, “Ming, come with me. Leave with me.”

“No,” she said. “We can’t. I can’t.”

***

It rains the day the army enters the village. They don’t burn the houses. They don’t even bother to terrorize the scattered, remaining villagers. Instead, they unroll a long length of paper and nail it the faded red doors of the house where the village head used to live. The scroll is damp from rain, the ink slightly smudged, but it is readable under the awning that protects it from the worst of the downpour. Han Ming stands under her umbrella and feels sick, dizzy.

The war is over.

It’s been five weeks since Jinho left, and the war is over. Something happened at the capital and there is a new emperor now, with armies under his rule that do not attack the countryside.

Somehow, Ming’s village has survived these past months of terror and death.

She returns home bearing the good news, too numb to be elated or relieved. Li Yin breaks into tears at the news, overcome. From the other room, their father’s voice rasps, weakly, asking after the cause of Li Yin’s tears.

“The war’s over, Father,” Ming says. She shakes the water from her umbrella and leaves it in the corner by the door. She goes to her father’s bedside, takes his hand, and looks at his face, yellowed with sickness and lined with age. Her heart beats heavily in her chest, uncertain.

Han Ming’s father closes his eyes and, with much effort, the corners of his lips ease up in a smile.

“Good,” he says.

A minute later, he opens his eyes. Ming has been standing there, unmoving, waiting. “You should’ve gone,” his father whispers.

Ming opens her mouth to protest. “Father—”

“I’m going to die anyway. I just want you and Li Yin to be happy.” Her father’s hands feel papery and frail, but his fingers twitch over Ming’s palm. “I just want you to live a happy life, Ming. That will give me comfort.”

Ming’s throat is tight. “It doesn’t matter,” she says at last. “I want to take care of you. I want to be here for you and Li Yin. I must.”

Her father’s hand falls from hers, back onto the bed by his side. He closes his eyes again and sighs, catching in a hollow cough that makes Ming lean forward, worried. Her father waves her away and leans back into his flat, rough pillow. He’s tired. “You’re a good daughter, Ming.”

From behind, Li Yin slips her arms around Ming’s waist and rests her head against her back. “Jie jie,” she says softly, and Ming hears remorse in her voice. She’s sorry. For their world, for their lives, for the way things had to be, Han Ming here and Jinho not.

Ming thinks of Jinho, remembers him. Remembers his golden laughter and his bright eyes, remembers the heat of his body and the sweetness of his voice, low in Ming’s ear, earnest, honest. She remembers feeling like she’s finally found someone who understands her, who will support her and hold her when she should need it.

The rain patters down, washing away dirt and mud, clearing the dusty marks of hopelessness. The leaves have turned color now, flaming gold and red and orange, shivering under the force of the rain, dancing on the trees outside the house.

Han Ming stares at them through the window, and thinks about her family and about China, her home – free at last from the war.

The most beautiful things are always the saddest.

***

In another country, barren and gray and cold with pending winter, Jinho sits by the fire, warm in heavy layers and a cup of hot tea. Here, he is home, he is safe – he lives in peace. Here, he only remembers the days and nights with Han Ming, every smile and every touch. He dreams endlessly about two lovers that could never be together in life, and died never knowing what might have been. He reads poems and memorizes their lines, learns the words he didn’t know how to say before. I’m only now realizing how much I love you. He finally understands what he didn’t then, about choices and lack of choices. He regrets leaving.

One day, he will go back.


[2008.12.29]

Those of you who have seen this before, you know why I changed what I did. How does it work?

writings, three

h— loves hg. some people know this, or have guessed it, or joke about it, but only h— knows the depth of her affections. it borders on obsession sometimes, how much she thinks about him, how much effort she puts into pretending not to care, when she actually watches hg sleep at night and clips a lock of hg's hair while he's unaware and keeps it locked in her diary. it borders on obsession, the way she watches hg's mouth move, the way she lingers outside the bathroom when hg showers, just listening. it borders on obsession when she starts stealing hg's things, little things, but it teeters on the edge and falls completely into the abyss of obsession when she starts hating the others because hg smiles at them (don't fucking touch him).

but h— will never tell. and no one will ever find out.

--

E— knows H— doesn’t mean to be cruel. Despite his jokes and his loud complaints and his nattering on about his beauty, he’s normally a very good friend. His friendship, once won, is deep and fierce. He is charismatic and aggressive and unafraid of saying things that make others stop and double-take. E— has always admired him, but he’s always been a little afraid too. He’s not sure how to be someone H— admires in turn, instead of someone easily dismissed.

The problem with H— is that he’s careless with people he doesn’t treasure.

H— is careless with E— and the knowledge that E— is not one of the ones H— cares most about hurts more than H—'s thoughtlessness.

--

“It’s 11:11,” she says. “Make a wish.”

K— smiles half-heartedly and remains silent. She frowns at him and tugs at his hand, pulling it into her lap. “You’re no fun,” she sighs, the crease of her brow weary, as if it is too much effort to fight this. She’s tired. She’s learned better.

K— shakes his head at her. “You know I don’t believe in things like that.” He doesn’t look at the white room around him and tries not to think about the thin blanket pulled up over her legs. He ties not to think about this uneasy feeling of not belonging. He focuses on her face instead, unfamiliar in its weariness. She squeezes his hand, chastising.

“I wish you would.” Her voice is soft. “It would make me happy.”

He pulls his hand away, fighting shame. “Fine, I’ll make a wish.” He attempts a smile but it feels like a lie when she returns it with one of her own.

“You’re a good son, K—,” she says.

K— lets his gaze fall to the sterile, white hospital floor, bile rising in his throat. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he wants to leave, because he doesn’t belong anymore. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he’s sorry, he doesn’t know her anymore.

He can’t tell her that he wishes he were home, instead.