Love, We Write

4 years later

Over 4 years ago, he made a promise to someone in his dreams, someone whom he does not want to forget, a promise that he will find her. A promise that they will meet and they will remember. And since that day, he has traveled to different countries, over different parts of multiple continents, going from commercial gardens to research greenhouses to wild forest blooms, to find the clues of the magnolias and chrysanthemums that will lead to you.

The views of the night sky that he gets from wherever he travels make the journey all the more worth it. In every country he visits, he makes sure to stay at places far away from the bright city lights that he possibly could, and every night he would look up at the night sky. He would see the stars scattered across the pitch-black canvas almost like snowflakes in one country, catch the trails of light that are the tails of the galaxy in another. These views are something he wants to see, something he wants for himself, something close to him and real, not something flashed by his hacking skills on an alabaster dull white ceiling.

And with every different skies that he is seeing every single day, his dreams become different too. Magnolias and chrysanthemums still adorn his dreams, its reds and whites now brighter and richer, but alongside slowly the number of flowers grow. 2 years ago, he saw the buds of blue irises starting to grow, much like the artificial ones Hannah gave him to keep him company in the hospital. Over the years, he starts seeing butter-yellow daffodils, golden daisies, and ivory white snowdrops. He sees shy violets and the carnation pinks, the deep blues of the forget-me-nots, and the tinkling bluebells. And with those dreams, the vestiges of emptiness that used to come from you 4 years ago, also start to dissipate. Each day he wakes up anticipating. Waiting.

He supposed that a lot has changed. The both of you have changed. Back then, it was easier to discern which ones are his emotions, and which ones were yours bleeding into his days, because you were both in different places. He used to be angry, and you used to be concerned. He used to live for others and you used to be empty. But now, the both of you feel as if there is something entirely yours that is worth fighting for. Something that the both of you want for yourselves. Something worth waiting for.

There is just that starting point that he needs to find, that clue of the magnolias and chrysanthemums. He has had doubts before, when the first 39 places he had gone to did not click with him. He’s had doubts whether he will really be able to find her, but Jake supposed he’d just have to trust the process and he’ll know when he sees it. But he’s at place #40 now, and something feels good about it.

Place #40 feels good to him, feels different, something he could not say about the previous 39 places he has been throughout these 4 years, Jake thinks to himself as he takes in the hustle and bustle of the town. There is something to be said about this particular town, an electricity that fills his vein, and a rightness that he could not describe.

The first point of convergence between your and Jake’s separated paths came at place #40 on Jake’s list. It came as he was walking to the town square from his lodgings, it came with the jolt of scalding hot coffee spilled onto his hoodie, the involuntary wince, and the alarmed apologies from the woman who just collided with him.

It comes in doses of confusion as Jake looks at the light-haired woman with the red-flushed face and the flustered hands trying to wipe down the stain probably unnoticeable against his black hoodie, confusion intensifying tenfold with the exasperated shout of “Jessy, I told you to look where you’re going!” and the heavy footsteps coming soon after.

It comes with the highly apologetic look of the man in front of him as Jake tries to politely decline the persistent woman (whom he now knows as Jessy) who keeps on insisting that Jake give her his hoodie so she could wash it anew. It comes when Jake takes a good look at the pair and realizes, with a start, that there is some form of familiarity to these two people.

“Have we met before?” Jake could not help but blurt out to the pair, who looked confusedly at him. Their bewilderment makes sense, he has never stepped foot onto this place until yesterday, and with how much he keeps to himself, Jake has doubts that both the man and the woman, here in this place literally on the other side of the world from where he lived are within any circles of people he knows.

And yet it feels as if he’s heard of them, from stories shared with a distant fondness for a faraway adventure. A story shared between whispers and quiet smiles, of unabashed appreciation recalled by someone that fades away from him into misty forgetfulness.

Jake shakes his head, cancels his thoughts, and apologizes to the two for the peculiar question, speculating that he must have the two mistaken for someone he has heard of. Jessy, the woman with the bright green eyes that are clouding with guilt, offers one more time if there is any way to make up for Jake’s clothes that she has ruined. She offers to buy him lunch, claiming that both she and the man (whom she introduces as Richy) are on the way to meet their friend to get some food for the afternoon, a tradition for their trio that Jake is more than welcome to intrude on for today.

The first crossroads between your and Jake’s path diverge that moment Jake politely thanks them after declining the invite, dismissing the accident as nothing more than a minor inconvenience. It diverges that moment Jake walks separately from the pair, him to the place he has saved in his phone where he would find the magnolias and chrysanthemums in a private garden, Jessy and Richy on to the other side to have their lunch - and no doubt recall this tale of why they were late - to you.

You are already waiting for your friends outside the building of your therapist’s office for a while, just taking in the day. It was the kind of day you like, where the sun shines cheerily and yet not overbearingly bright thanks to the numerous cotton-like clouds, when the skies are transitioning from the cold-gray of the winter into the baby blue of spring, and the days start to hit that sweet spot between warm without being hot, and a refreshing chill without the bone-biting cold.

The shop where you work is in order for the morning for you to take a half-day leave; you have made sure that all orders for the morning are already arranged, and only had to be delivered. That part, you’re very sure that the shop is in capable hands of your worker, Dan’s hands.

“Sorry, we’re late. Jessy got too excited and spilled her hot coffee all over this stranger and it was a whole mess. Luckily, the guy was pretty cool about it,” Richy apologizes as they quickly come up to you, a remark which earns a short protest from Jessy.

“I asked him to join us so I could make it up to him for his ruined hoodie, and who knows, introduce him to my pretty, pretty friend over here,” Jessy replies as she links her arms around yours and begins walking in the direction of the cafe, and you tease whether inviting the stranger is more for you or for her, which Jessy protests vehemently and says that it’s really for you when the stranger is on more similar wavelengths to you than to her. She continues, “He seemed like your type; quiet and speaks only when necessary.”

“Yeah, right. He doesn’t stand a chance with our friend here,” Richy snorts, “Not when she has that someone she’s waiting for.”

The rest of the walk is filled with Richy’s teasing you for that bright hot pink flush you have on your cheeks.

Over lunch, they had asked you how your sessions are going, and you told them, without pretense, that it had gone well. You don’t lie to Jessy and Richy anymore, that is the one constant over your journey to self-healing since that day you made that promise. You might have days when you feel like it takes too much commitment to care for yourself, that it’s much easier to let the negativity built upon years of habit consume you, but the one constant on your journey is that you reach out to Jessy and Richy with nothing but the truth all the time.

You tell them when everything is well, but you also tell them when the dark clouds catch up with you, when the intrusive thoughts get too loud. You tell them of your initial apprehension at seeing a therapist, at having everything that is wrong with you laid out over the table in front of a stranger, and you tell them of the rocky start at building a bond of trust between you and her, but you also share with them of those times when you come to a revelation within your sessions, those days when you come out of the office with a clear idea on what to do next.

It’s an active work, unraveling the threads of your self-loathing and gaining that sense of color back in your life, but you work through it one day at a time. The road to self-love is up and down, and you have days when you despair and fret over the fact that you will never attain that happiness you want. But over the years, you get better at catching yourself before the thoughts spiral out of control, you’re more in tune with yourself enough to question some of the malicious harmful things you hear inside your head, you get better at seeing happiness not as a destination, but a never-ending journey that you savor each and every day of.

It’s an active commitment, but you’re slowly getting better at appreciating the highs and acknowledging the lows. And on days when you’re riding out your lowest of the lows, it was the promise you made that pushed you to find help; that promise to keep trying to live.

Live for the you who want to see him. Live for the person you are becoming, the person who has so much love for that person who is pushing you forward, while at the same time working towards having it healthily balance with the love she has for herself. When will you see him, you do not know, and you have no idea who it is you’re looking for, but you suppose you’d just have to trust the process and you’ll know when you see it. When you look up at the night skies, thinking of that person who you made that promise to, something inside you tells you to wait, that your path will cross when the time is right.

And so you keep trying to live, fulfillingly, day by day.

The second crossroad, this time converging both your paths closer, comes in the evening when the sun is on its descent on the horizon and Jake finally stops in front of the garden gates that are his destination.

It comes with the tug he feels at his heartstrings and it comes with his breath taken away, it comes with the clumsy steps up to the gate and the way his eyes could focus on nothing but the vast garden of scarlets and whites in front of him.

The cottage itself is a quaint little thing of red bricks and white fence, quite a walk away from the main road where the buses travel, at the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. But even from afar, the view cannot be missed. Against the blue of the sea and the reds of the setting sun, lies a garden of brilliant scarlets and whites of the grown magnolias and chrysanthemums.

Jake hears himself gulp, hears the crash of the ocean, hears his heart still. He could only stare in awe at the sight in front of him. This feeling of ease, of peace inside him, there’s no mistake about it. He knows it, that voice inside him told him. This is it. This is the place. This is the place he has been looking for, all these years.

The place he sees in his dreams.

It feels liberating, like finding the treasure at the end of a journey. After all these years, all these uncertainties, the nights of questioning whether he’s making the right decision, and he’s finally made it. He finally found the place that he is looking for, and the joy that is overflowing through every fiber of his being almost made him drop to his knees.

But then, comes the questions. As he approaches the gate, the questions keep flooding in his head.

Okay, so now what? He’s come all this way and he’s found what he is looking for, now what does he do? At the end of the journey, where does he go from here? How would he know where to go next? Is MC around at all?

“She’s not here, you know,” came a voice behind him, startling Jake from his reverie, his hand stilling at the gate door.

Turning around, he sees an old woman with a basket in her arms full of fruits, still looking bright and spry despite her thinning gray hair, with wrinkled yet kind eyes full of mirth as she smiles at Jake. Jake stares back at her with what he’s sure is a dumbfounded look.

“I’m sorry?”

The old lady laughs, eyes sparkling almost as if she knows something he does not.

“The last time someone looked at my garden with that much awe in their eyes, like all their hopes lie in those flowers, it was a young lady who came to my door about 4 years ago. You were doing the same thing, young man, with the exact same look, so I can’t help but assume a connection,” she clarifies as she walks up to the gate with a knowing look. Every word registers in Jake’s ears, but he does not know how to process and respond to any of it. Wordlessly opening and closing his mouth in search of words, Jake settles on the next best thing; that is to offer to take the basket from her arms and carry it into the house, an action which made the old lady chuckle in delight.

“Well well, aren’t you a gentleman? Tell you what, why don’t you come inside with me and have some tea, and I’ll tell you all about her.”

The table was set up to overlook the garden, a small set up with a vase of magnolias and chrysanthemum arrangements in the center. As he’s having tea with blackberry pies that the old lady (or Miss Sully, as she introduced herself) is offering him, he can’t help but steal discreet glances at the sparkling ruby-reds and honeyed whites of the flowers against the sun setting in the horizon. Miss Sully, noticing Jake’s glances at the garden, smirks knowingly.

“I planted them when I first got this house with my husband. He got me the flowers on our wedding anniversary and I planted them here. I never expected them to grow so well, but now that they do, you cannot help but care for them more and more. My husband is long gone, but these flowers that came from his gift make me feel like he’s here with me.”

Turning back to look at Jake, Miss Sully grins and adds, “Anyway, enough about my story. I used to think they were a source of comfort for me and me alone. That is, until 4 years ago, a young lady knocked on my door. Back then, she was a timid-looking thing, poor dear. Looked as if she just contemplated for a thousand years just to knock on my door. But the way her eyes transform when she looks at my flowers, the way that timid thing suddenly gains a moment of confidence and bravery just by looking at them, you don’t forget about that at all.”

Miss Sully smiles to herself as she recalls that day all those years ago when she opened the door and met you looking worried and nervous, out of breath and frazzled. And yet, when you spoke, you spoke with quiet determination.

“She’s a strong one, that one. Told me that she is battling some inner struggles for long, and that looking out at my garden as she commutes to and from work is one of the small reprieves she has had for all these years. She told me she wants to take her happiness in her own hands now and that if I would let her, she would like to have some of the flowers to grow for herself as a reminder on days when she feels like giving up.”

It feels a little strange, to say the least, but when hearing Miss Sully talking about you, Jake feels as if he knows you. He cannot picture how you look physically but he imagines you being a bit flustered after making that request to the old lady, imagines your voice faltering a bit trying to calm your nerves, imagines you reverting back to your old habit whenever you’re flustered, that is to furiously pat down your cheeks as if to cool it down. It feels as if he has seen you.

“What happened? What happened to her?” Jake asks, wide-eyed and curious, because for all these years, this is the first time he has heard of you from another person. Talked of by another person like a normal human being, instead of wisps seen in his dreams and heard in his heart.

“I gave them to her, of course. Told her she’s welcome to take as much as she wanted to. She comes by often nowadays, checks up on me, and helps me do groceries. Takes care of the garden. You know these old knees cannot hold for so long. You just missed her when she came around yesterday.

“These arrangements are from her, too. She took the flowers from the gardens and arranged them here; a fresh arrangement every month and I never ever get tired of them.”

She does not notice how Jake goes wide-eyed, not hearing the leap in his heartbeat as he hears only those three words that are most important to him; she is still here. You were here where he is. The flowers in the garden, the flowers in front of him in the vase, those so close within his reach, they hold traces of you. You’re no longer only the whispers of presence in his days, no longer intangible in dreams. You’re real and within reach now.

Looking up at Jake with his dumbfounded expression, Miss Sully smiles and continues.

“You know, I asked her once, what was it that made her take that leap to change? What made her knock on my door when she hasn’t done so all these years? And you know what she told me? She shrugged, looked outwards like you’re doing now, and said ‘I’m doing it for me, and for someone I’m waiting for’,” the old lady recalls, holding Jake’s gaze with her knowing eyes, and then she asks the big question, “Would that someone happen to be you?”

Jake looks down, suddenly self-conscious of the question. Now that he knows you are real and within reach, it dawns upon him that this is the first time he has talked of you and in front of a total stranger too. How does one explain the intangible to the tangible, how does he describe what he has with you to a common stranger? A search across the world from voices in one’s heart and images seen only in dreams, of vestiges lost and words unproven once sleep is gone. So he does not know whether he would have any right to say anything, what relation would be appropriate to you, how best to describe that faceless, voiceless figure in his dreams all those years ago.

But then, he remembers the hope and anticipation that he wakes up to nowadays, and he thinks of the promise that keeps him going. And he pushes through, “I… I hope so?”

There is comfortable silence that envelops the both of them, surrounded by the flowers and the darkening skies that had brought two separated souls together, a knowing silence that Miss Sully has learned to savor before breaking it with a chuckle.

“Well, call me crazy but I think you are. No two people would have the same look like all their dreams center around these flowers, but why don’t you see her for yourself?”

She looks up at Jake and smiles.

“She has a flower shop now. Quit her fancy uptight corporate job a year ago, and now she’s the best florist in town. And I think if you hurry, you might be able to catch the bus there.”

Somewhere not too far away, you jump in surprise when the front door chimes that familiar ‘DING!’ that lets you know of a potential customer.

Strange, you thought to yourself, no one rarely comes at this time, not when the shop is about to close. You look up towards the front of the shop from where you were squatting by the flower pots, pushing them back to its place. Outside, the sun is already starting to set, bathing the room in a soft orange glow and hitting the newly repotted daffodils, making its white petals turn a soft honey yellow. It both delights you to see the flowers still so thriving.

“Coming, just a sec!” you call out to the front and stand up, straightening your long-hunched form and wincing when you hear your back cracking in protest. God, you really need to invest on a low stool here if you don’t want your bones to hate you.

Stretching away the kinks in your muscles, you look at the flowers surrounding you; the room washed in a rainbow of sunflower yellows and rosy reds, of carnation pinks and forget-me-not blues, of shy violets and daisy whites, a symphony of colors made muted pastels from the dimming sunlight that leaves you at ease. There are buds waiting to grow into blooms, there are younglings, there are seeds and you smile to yourself, wishing the flowers to grow well as you exit the back room.

The man waiting at the counter is a bushy-browed and respectable-looking man, standing straight with shoulders wide. He greets you formally albeit a bit stiffly, and you laugh sheepishly, feeling slightly uncomfortable and awkward in front of this stranger. You still struggle to talk to people, still sometimes second-guessing whether you’re saying the right thing, and you still overthink sometimes whether you’re saying or doing something wrongly, but you’re also more conscious whenever you do it and are actively working to be kinder to yourself.

“Can I um… help you?” you ask quietly, and the man straightens himself, and looks at you.

“Sorry for coming in so late. My friends said you’re the best florist in town, and I have a quick order,” he says gruffly, but his eyes are nothing but cordial.

Oh.

The man, Det. Alan Bloomgate, as you later found out, is a police officer who works in the area, and he needs immediate help finding flowers for his wedding anniversary. Seems like he’s a bit late to the promised anniversary dinner and would like an arrangement to make it up to his wife. You nod in understanding, this kind of last-minute request is not uncommon; you have seen the occasional flustered teenager who was trying to buy flowers as an apology or the old man who decided to gift a bouquet to his partner on an impulse on their evening walk.

You ask whether he has any specific flowers in mind that he would like to be included. Det. Bloomgate responds in the affirmative, requesting that the bouquet include white roses, his wife’s favorites. Further making small talk, you smile to yourself when you hear the stoicism drop in the detective’s voice as he talks in adoration of her and their lives together, and you deftly pick the flowers to make the bouquet while listening to the man talk about his beloved.

As you are arranging the flowers, you ask Det. Bloomgate about his work life, how work as a detective had been for him, and what his most memorable case was. You won’t get many exciting cases here when this small town has only about 5,000 people, he begins, but he has to admit that one of his most memorable times in the police force was when the international police came to set up a temporary office in their small station about 12 years ago.

“Apparently some vigilante hacker’s proxy servers were triangulated somewhere around this area, so they thought he’d be here. Sent some officers, the type you’d see in those spy movies with how little they would talk. From what I heard, that hacker is some type of genius that they had been pursuing for some time now,” Det. Bloomgate continues, recalling the cold calculation and eerie efficiency with which police who work in massive organizations operate, only viewing breach of civilians' rights as collateral damage in pursuit of this man.

Your ears perk at the story, interest piqued.

"Oh, and did they ever catch this hacker?"

"Not that I know of. I think they found out it was just a dummy proxy he used to confuse them. They got pretty mad and left soon after. From what I heard, the hacker was never caught."

"Wow, he's that good, huh?"

"The best, I heard. He uses the name Nymos, and apparently was responsible for some of the biggest security breaches, and also some of the biggest exposé of international crimes and political scandals. They say no system is safe from this guy,” the detective carries on, looking on as you begin to wrap up your completed arrangement.

You hum in interest at the tale, more so on the fact that these extraordinary feats could have had come from just another commonplace person, an unassuming face that people pass by without even sparing a second glance. In fact, you could have met the person so skilled and so well-known amongst law enforcement, you could have bumped into Nymos sometime in your life and you would not even have known it, and the prospect of such possibility made you chuckle to yourself.

Finishing up the final few details to the arrangement, you catch sight of the flash of awe and wonder in Det. Bloomgate’s eyes as he looks at the finished product, a sight that injects you with a sense of pride. To you, each flower tells a unique story, speaks a different language and by arranging them, it gives you a chance to write and interweave your customers’ stories. And in Det. Bloomgate’s hands, the bouquet of white (admiration) and red roses (true love), white carnations (faithfulness), and red daisies (beauty unknown to the beholder) with a few placements of ivory snowdrops (hope), are what you hope could come close to the love story of him and his beloved.

“My friends were right, you truly are the best,” the detective remarks when you ring up the flowers at the counter, and you feel your cheeks heat up at the unreserved compliment. It feels good to be acknowledged but you could never get used to it.

You watch as Det. Bloomgate exits the shop, flowers in hand and a small smile on his usually stoic face, and as his retreating back slowly becomes smaller in your view, you catch sight of the arrangement of magnolias, chrysanthemums and irises by your cash register, and you smile to yourself. Every customer who walks in here has a story that they want to be told by the different languages of flowers. You do too.

The small arrangement of colorful scarlet, white and blue that you keep fresh on your counter every time are not just an eye-catching centerpiece, but it tells them of your and his story. A story of hope and perseverance, of happiness and love. Your mind begins to wander to the detective’s story of Nymos, and like how he could be anyone you pass by and you would not even know, you wonder whether you’d recognize that person whom you have been waiting for if you see him. You hope you will, because you are trying every day not just for you and for your friends and family, but for him too.

The third crossroads comes definitively at the break of night, when the curtains of day pull back into the richest of blues and purest of blacks, when the sun retreats and the stars come out and the town is closing down and retreating into the comforts of their homes. It comes in his heaving breaths, the burning he feels in his strained lungs as Jake rushes in front of the small florist at the edge of the town, the pit-a-pat of dread that beats a mile a minute in his heart when he sees how dark the shop is. It comes in worry of being unable to catch you in time that dissipates with a spark of light hope when he catches a sliver of light peeking out from a small room from behind the counter.

It comes with the anticipation of pushing the door and finding it still open, of hearing the tell-tale ‘DING!’ of the door chime in the background, an anticipation that mixes with awe as soon as he enters the shop and feels himself surrounded by the tell-tale silhouettes of flowers. None of the lights are on at the front of the shop, but the small line of light coming from the backroom, as well as the light coming from the stars and the moon on the night sky outside filtering through the large shop window shows him buckets on the floor and hanging on the wall, a safe haven full of blossoms, of butter-yellow daffodils and golden daisies, of shy violets and carnation pinks, of ivory snowdrops and cerulean forget-me-nots. There in buckets hung in perfect symmetrical lines on a rack, he sees the biggest collection of pillow-white magnolias, scarlet red chrysanthemums, and deep blue irises.

You were tidying up the backroom and were just about to close up shop when you heard the faint chime at the door. Confused, you catch the glimpse of someone entering and you wonder why a customer would come in so late. It’s already dark outside, a time not for business but to retreat into yourself and you had half a heart to call out that you are closed for the day and watch the customer exit but something made you stop in your tracks. Finishing up the last of your tracks, you quietly make your way to the front of the shop, your hand settling on top of the light switch that would bathe the dark shop into light.

Something makes your hand still and your eyes scrunched in vague familiarity as you take in the man with his back turned from you.

For as he continues to stare at the blooms of magnolias, chrysanthemums, and irises you had cared for in your shop, you are struck with the oddly calm sense of familiarity, like someone you have met before somewhere. You look at his hair black as the night sky you see behind him, and you’re brought to think of deep blue eyes like the iris blooming in your dreams, bright like the stars you see twinkling outside the window. You think of calm voices keeping you grounded. ‘It’s okay. You’ll be okay.’, that voice had said once upon many times ago.

You’re reminded of firm hands outstretched palm upwards in dreams just waiting for you to take, of gentle smiles that make you feel at home. You think of that promise to meet, a promise between two souls sealed with a feathery light kiss. That promise which has led you here, all these years.

You probably have never met this man, have never spoken to him, but inside your mind, one word stood out like flashing neon lights in the dark, blinking furiously at you and before you could stop yourself, you blurt out--

“Jake?”

Jake, who was captivated by the display he saw in front of him - heart still and breath taken away - stops when he hears that voice. A small voice blooming amongst the pin-drop silence amongst the flowers. He turns around, eyes wide and he sees you.

It’s you, the person who pushes him forward, the person who he has been looking for, a person whom he has never met but knew in dreams over and over again. The person behind his path to happiness, his path and his destination. He was not sure what to expect when he did see you, but this sense of ease, a sense of being complete feels almost right.

One half of him who is used to yearning for 4 years had half-expected it to only be a mirage that will disappear into that dull white-washed walls of the hospital hallway that he is used to. And yet, here you still stand, in front of him, touchable as he feels your hands in his, tangible as he sees your small watery laugh, and real as he commits your smile to memory and that feeling he gets of floating and flying at the same time, and remembers the words he so much want to say.

“I finally found you, MC.”

Jake whispers in the quiet and smiles, feeling at ease, content where he wants to belong.

There is so much to say and so much to ask, but for now this is enough. You are here and he is here. You’ll remember and he’ll remember too.

There, under his night sky and amongst your flower fields, you meet again. From where he was pushed forward from what he once thought was irreparable unhappiness, from where it had lifted you from your most broken, the place where your two paths cross now holds a whole new meaning. When your fields where he can be at ease in dreams now a testament to your hard work in chasing down happiness, when his skies where you seek solace in dreams now proof of him prioritizing himself and living each day for a reason that he wants, when the point where your two paths converge are no longer a fleeting instant disappearing in forgetful dreams but a testament of a promise between two souls finally fulfilled, you meet again but this time never forgetting and never disappearing.

More Chapters

pt i: wandering around the far ends of the sky

pt ii: weaknesses that you don't show anyone

pt iii: in the midst of time, let's meet

pt iv: a place where you can be at ease

pt v: rendezvous under the twinkling starry sky

pt vi: to return besides my beloved you

4 years later

Over 4 years ago, he made a promise to someone in his dreams, someone whom he does not want to forget, a promise that he will find her. A promise that they will meet and they will remember. And since that day, he has traveled to different countries, over different parts of multiple continents, going from commercial gardens to research greenhouses to wild forest blooms, to find the clues of the magnolias and chrysanthemums that will lead to you.

The views of the night sky that he gets from wherever he travels make the journey all the more worth it. In every country he visits, he makes sure to stay at places far away from the bright city lights that he possibly could, and every night he would look up at the night sky. He would see the stars scattered across the pitch-black canvas almost like snowflakes in one country, catch the trails of light that are the tails of the galaxy in another. These views are something he wants to see, something he wants for himself, something close to him and real, not something flashed by his hacking skills on an alabaster dull white ceiling.

And with every different skies that he is seeing every single day, his dreams become different too. Magnolias and chrysanthemums still adorn his dreams, its reds and whites now brighter and richer, but alongside slowly the number of flowers grow. 2 years ago, he saw the buds of blue irises starting to grow, much like the artificial ones Hannah gave him to keep him company in the hospital. Over the years, he starts seeing butter-yellow daffodils, golden daisies, and ivory white snowdrops. He sees shy violets and the carnation pinks, the deep blues of the forget-me-nots, and the tinkling bluebells. And with those dreams, the vestiges of emptiness that used to come from you 4 years ago, also start to dissipate. Each day he wakes up anticipating. Waiting.

He supposed that a lot has changed. The both of you have changed. Back then, it was easier to discern which ones are his emotions, and which ones were yours bleeding into his days, because you were both in different places. He used to be angry, and you used to be concerned. He used to live for others and you used to be empty. But now, the both of you feel as if there is something entirely yours that is worth fighting for. Something that the both of you want for yourselves. Something worth waiting for.

There is just that starting point that he needs to find, that clue of the magnolias and chrysanthemums. He has had doubts before, when the first 39 places he had gone to did not click with him. He’s had doubts whether he will really be able to find her, but Jake supposed he’d just have to trust the process and he’ll know when he sees it. But he’s at place #40 now, and something feels good about it.

Place #40 feels good to him, feels different, something he could not say about the previous 39 places he has been throughout these 4 years, Jake thinks to himself as he takes in the hustle and bustle of the town. There is something to be said about this particular town, an electricity that fills his vein, and a rightness that he could not describe.

The first point of convergence between your and Jake’s separated paths came at place #40 on Jake’s list. It came as he was walking to the town square from his lodgings, it came with the jolt of scalding hot coffee spilled onto his hoodie, the involuntary wince, and the alarmed apologies from the woman who just collided with him.

It comes in doses of confusion as Jake looks at the light-haired woman with the red-flushed face and the flustered hands trying to wipe down the stain probably unnoticeable against his black hoodie, confusion intensifying tenfold with the exasperated shout of “Jessy, I told you to look where you’re going!” and the heavy footsteps coming soon after.

It comes with the highly apologetic look of the man in front of him as Jake tries to politely decline the persistent woman (whom he now knows as Jessy) who keeps on insisting that Jake give her his hoodie so she could wash it anew. It comes when Jake takes a good look at the pair and realizes, with a start, that there is some form of familiarity to these two people.

“Have we met before?” Jake could not help but blurt out to the pair, who looked confusedly at him. Their bewilderment makes sense, he has never stepped foot onto this place until yesterday, and with how much he keeps to himself, Jake has doubts that both the man and the woman, here in this place literally on the other side of the world from where he lived are within any circles of people he knows.

And yet it feels as if he’s heard of them, from stories shared with a distant fondness for a faraway adventure. A story shared between whispers and quiet smiles, of unabashed appreciation recalled by someone that fades away from him into misty forgetfulness.

Jake shakes his head, cancels his thoughts, and apologizes to the two for the peculiar question, speculating that he must have the two mistaken for someone he has heard of. Jessy, the woman with the bright green eyes that are clouding with guilt, offers one more time if there is any way to make up for Jake’s clothes that she has ruined. She offers to buy him lunch, claiming that both she and the man (whom she introduces as Richy) are on the way to meet their friend to get some food for the afternoon, a tradition for their trio that Jake is more than welcome to intrude on for today.

The first crossroads between your and Jake’s path diverge that moment Jake politely thanks them after declining the invite, dismissing the accident as nothing more than a minor inconvenience. It diverges that moment Jake walks separately from the pair, him to the place he has saved in his phone where he would find the magnolias and chrysanthemums in a private garden, Jessy and Richy on to the other side to have their lunch - and no doubt recall this tale of why they were late - to you.

You are already waiting for your friends outside the building of your therapist’s office for a while, just taking in the day. It was the kind of day you like, where the sun shines cheerily and yet not overbearingly bright thanks to the numerous cotton-like clouds, when the skies are transitioning from the cold-gray of the winter into the baby blue of spring, and the days start to hit that sweet spot between warm without being hot, and a refreshing chill without the bone-biting cold.

The shop where you work is in order for the morning for you to take a half-day leave; you have made sure that all orders for the morning are already arranged, and only had to be delivered. That part, you’re very sure that the shop is in capable hands of your worker, Dan’s hands.

“Sorry, we’re late. Jessy got too excited and spilled her hot coffee all over this stranger and it was a whole mess. Luckily, the guy was pretty cool about it,” Richy apologizes as they quickly come up to you, a remark which earns a short protest from Jessy.

“I asked him to join us so I could make it up to him for his ruined hoodie, and who knows, introduce him to my pretty, pretty friend over here,” Jessy replies as she links her arms around yours and begins walking in the direction of the cafe, and you tease whether inviting the stranger is more for you or for her, which Jessy protests vehemently and says that it’s really for you when the stranger is on more similar wavelengths to you than to her. She continues, “He seemed like your type; quiet and speaks only when necessary.”

“Yeah, right. He doesn’t stand a chance with our friend here,” Richy snorts, “Not when she has that someone she’s waiting for.”

The rest of the walk is filled with Richy’s teasing you for that bright hot pink flush you have on your cheeks.

Over lunch, they had asked you how your sessions are going, and you told them, without pretense, that it had gone well. You don’t lie to Jessy and Richy anymore, that is the one constant over your journey to self-healing since that day you made that promise. You might have days when you feel like it takes too much commitment to care for yourself, that it’s much easier to let the negativity built upon years of habit consume you, but the one constant on your journey is that you reach out to Jessy and Richy with nothing but the truth all the time.

You tell them when everything is well, but you also tell them when the dark clouds catch up with you, when the intrusive thoughts get too loud. You tell them of your initial apprehension at seeing a therapist, at having everything that is wrong with you laid out over the table in front of a stranger, and you tell them of the rocky start at building a bond of trust between you and her, but you also share with them of those times when you come to a revelation within your sessions, those days when you come out of the office with a clear idea on what to do next.

It’s an active work, unraveling the threads of your self-loathing and gaining that sense of color back in your life, but you work through it one day at a time. The road to self-love is up and down, and you have days when you despair and fret over the fact that you will never attain that happiness you want. But over the years, you get better at catching yourself before the thoughts spiral out of control, you’re more in tune with yourself enough to question some of the malicious harmful things you hear inside your head, you get better at seeing happiness not as a destination, but a never-ending journey that you savor each and every day of.

It’s an active commitment, but you’re slowly getting better at appreciating the highs and acknowledging the lows. And on days when you’re riding out your lowest of the lows, it was the promise you made that pushed you to find help; that promise to keep trying to live.

Live for the you who want to see him. Live for the person you are becoming, the person who has so much love for that person who is pushing you forward, while at the same time working towards having it healthily balance with the love she has for herself. When will you see him, you do not know, and you have no idea who it is you’re looking for, but you suppose you’d just have to trust the process and you’ll know when you see it. When you look up at the night skies, thinking of that person who you made that promise to, something inside you tells you to wait, that your path will cross when the time is right.

And so you keep trying to live, fulfillingly, day by day.

The second crossroad, this time converging both your paths closer, comes in the evening when the sun is on its descent on the horizon and Jake finally stops in front of the garden gates that are his destination.

It comes with the tug he feels at his heartstrings and it comes with his breath taken away, it comes with the clumsy steps up to the gate and the way his eyes could focus on nothing but the vast garden of scarlets and whites in front of him.

The cottage itself is a quaint little thing of red bricks and white fence, quite a walk away from the main road where the buses travel, at the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. But even from afar, the view cannot be missed. Against the blue of the sea and the reds of the setting sun, lies a garden of brilliant scarlets and whites of the grown magnolias and chrysanthemums.

Jake hears himself gulp, hears the crash of the ocean, hears his heart still. He could only stare in awe at the sight in front of him. This feeling of ease, of peace inside him, there’s no mistake about it. He knows it, that voice inside him told him. This is it. This is the place. This is the place he has been looking for, all these years.

The place he sees in his dreams.

It feels liberating, like finding the treasure at the end of a journey. After all these years, all these uncertainties, the nights of questioning whether he’s making the right decision, and he’s finally made it. He finally found the place that he is looking for, and the joy that is overflowing through every fiber of his being almost made him drop to his knees.

But then, comes the questions. As he approaches the gate, the questions keep flooding in his head.

Okay, so now what? He’s come all this way and he’s found what he is looking for, now what does he do? At the end of the journey, where does he go from here? How would he know where to go next? Is MC around at all?

“She’s not here, you know,” came a voice behind him, startling Jake from his reverie, his hand stilling at the gate door.

Turning around, he sees an old woman with a basket in her arms full of fruits, still looking bright and spry despite her thinning gray hair, with wrinkled yet kind eyes full of mirth as she smiles at Jake. Jake stares back at her with what he’s sure is a dumbfounded look.

“I’m sorry?”

The old lady laughs, eyes sparkling almost as if she knows something he does not.

“The last time someone looked at my garden with that much awe in their eyes, like all their hopes lie in those flowers, it was a young lady who came to my door about 4 years ago. You were doing the same thing, young man, with the exact same look, so I can’t help but assume a connection,” she clarifies as she walks up to the gate with a knowing look. Every word registers in Jake’s ears, but he does not know how to process and respond to any of it. Wordlessly opening and closing his mouth in search of words, Jake settles on the next best thing; that is to offer to take the basket from her arms and carry it into the house, an action which made the old lady chuckle in delight.

“Well well, aren’t you a gentleman? Tell you what, why don’t you come inside with me and have some tea, and I’ll tell you all about her.”

The table was set up to overlook the garden, a small set up with a vase of magnolias and chrysanthemum arrangements in the center. As he’s having tea with blackberry pies that the old lady (or Miss Sully, as she introduced herself) is offering him, he can’t help but steal discreet glances at the sparkling ruby-reds and honeyed whites of the flowers against the sun setting in the horizon. Miss Sully, noticing Jake’s glances at the garden, smirks knowingly.

“I planted them when I first got this house with my husband. He got me the flowers on our wedding anniversary and I planted them here. I never expected them to grow so well, but now that they do, you cannot help but care for them more and more. My husband is long gone, but these flowers that came from his gift make me feel like he’s here with me.”

Turning back to look at Jake, Miss Sully grins and adds, “Anyway, enough about my story. I used to think they were a source of comfort for me and me alone. That is, until 4 years ago, a young lady knocked on my door. Back then, she was a timid-looking thing, poor dear. Looked as if she just contemplated for a thousand years just to knock on my door. But the way her eyes transform when she looks at my flowers, the way that timid thing suddenly gains a moment of confidence and bravery just by looking at them, you don’t forget about that at all.”

Miss Sully smiles to herself as she recalls that day all those years ago when she opened the door and met you looking worried and nervous, out of breath and frazzled. And yet, when you spoke, you spoke with quiet determination.

“She’s a strong one, that one. Told me that she is battling some inner struggles for long, and that looking out at my garden as she commutes to and from work is one of the small reprieves she has had for all these years. She told me she wants to take her happiness in her own hands now and that if I would let her, she would like to have some of the flowers to grow for herself as a reminder on days when she feels like giving up.”

It feels a little strange, to say the least, but when hearing Miss Sully talking about you, Jake feels as if he knows you. He cannot picture how you look physically but he imagines you being a bit flustered after making that request to the old lady, imagines your voice faltering a bit trying to calm your nerves, imagines you reverting back to your old habit whenever you’re flustered, that is to furiously pat down your cheeks as if to cool it down. It feels as if he has seen you.

“What happened? What happened to her?” Jake asks, wide-eyed and curious, because for all these years, this is the first time he has heard of you from another person. Talked of by another person like a normal human being, instead of wisps seen in his dreams and heard in his heart.

“I gave them to her, of course. Told her she’s welcome to take as much as she wanted to. She comes by often nowadays, checks up on me, and helps me do groceries. Takes care of the garden. You know these old knees cannot hold for so long. You just missed her when she came around yesterday.

“These arrangements are from her, too. She took the flowers from the gardens and arranged them here; a fresh arrangement every month and I never ever get tired of them.”

She does not notice how Jake goes wide-eyed, not hearing the leap in his heartbeat as he hears only those three words that are most important to him; she is still here. You were here where he is. The flowers in the garden, the flowers in front of him in the vase, those so close within his reach, they hold traces of you. You’re no longer only the whispers of presence in his days, no longer intangible in dreams. You’re real and within reach now.

Looking up at Jake with his dumbfounded expression, Miss Sully smiles and continues.

“You know, I asked her once, what was it that made her take that leap to change? What made her knock on my door when she hasn’t done so all these years? And you know what she told me? She shrugged, looked outwards like you’re doing now, and said ‘I’m doing it for me, and for someone I’m waiting for’,” the old lady recalls, holding Jake’s gaze with her knowing eyes, and then she asks the big question, “Would that someone happen to be you?”

Jake looks down, suddenly self-conscious of the question. Now that he knows you are real and within reach, it dawns upon him that this is the first time he has talked of you and in front of a total stranger too. How does one explain the intangible to the tangible, how does he describe what he has with you to a common stranger? A search across the world from voices in one’s heart and images seen only in dreams, of vestiges lost and words unproven once sleep is gone. So he does not know whether he would have any right to say anything, what relation would be appropriate to you, how best to describe that faceless, voiceless figure in his dreams all those years ago.

But then, he remembers the hope and anticipation that he wakes up to nowadays, and he thinks of the promise that keeps him going. And he pushes through, “I… I hope so?”

There is comfortable silence that envelops the both of them, surrounded by the flowers and the darkening skies that had brought two separated souls together, a knowing silence that Miss Sully has learned to savor before breaking it with a chuckle.

“Well, call me crazy but I think you are. No two people would have the same look like all their dreams center around these flowers, but why don’t you see her for yourself?”

She looks up at Jake and smiles.

“She has a flower shop now. Quit her fancy uptight corporate job a year ago, and now she’s the best florist in town. And I think if you hurry, you might be able to catch the bus there.”

Somewhere not too far away, you jump in surprise when the front door chimes that familiar ‘DING!’ that lets you know of a potential customer.

Strange, you thought to yourself, no one rarely comes at this time, not when the shop is about to close. You look up towards the front of the shop from where you were squatting by the flower pots, pushing them back to its place. Outside, the sun is already starting to set, bathing the room in a soft orange glow and hitting the newly repotted daffodils, making its white petals turn a soft honey yellow. It both delights you to see the flowers still so thriving.

“Coming, just a sec!” you call out to the front and stand up, straightening your long-hunched form and wincing when you hear your back cracking in protest. God, you really need to invest on a low stool here if you don’t want your bones to hate you.

Stretching away the kinks in your muscles, you look at the flowers surrounding you; the room washed in a rainbow of sunflower yellows and rosy reds, of carnation pinks and forget-me-not blues, of shy violets and daisy whites, a symphony of colors made muted pastels from the dimming sunlight that leaves you at ease. There are buds waiting to grow into blooms, there are younglings, there are seeds and you smile to yourself, wishing the flowers to grow well as you exit the back room.

The man waiting at the counter is a bushy-browed and respectable-looking man, standing straight with shoulders wide. He greets you formally albeit a bit stiffly, and you laugh sheepishly, feeling slightly uncomfortable and awkward in front of this stranger. You still struggle to talk to people, still sometimes second-guessing whether you’re saying the right thing, and you still overthink sometimes whether you’re saying or doing something wrongly, but you’re also more conscious whenever you do it and are actively working to be kinder to yourself.

“Can I um… help you?” you ask quietly, and the man straightens himself, and looks at you.

“Sorry for coming in so late. My friends said you’re the best florist in town, and I have a quick order,” he says gruffly, but his eyes are nothing but cordial.

Oh.

The man, Det. Alan Bloomgate, as you later found out, is a police officer who works in the area, and he needs immediate help finding flowers for his wedding anniversary. Seems like he’s a bit late to the promised anniversary dinner and would like an arrangement to make it up to his wife. You nod in understanding, this kind of last-minute request is not uncommon; you have seen the occasional flustered teenager who was trying to buy flowers as an apology or the old man who decided to gift a bouquet to his partner on an impulse on their evening walk.

You ask whether he has any specific flowers in mind that he would like to be included. Det. Bloomgate responds in the affirmative, requesting that the bouquet include white roses, his wife’s favorites. Further making small talk, you smile to yourself when you hear the stoicism drop in the detective’s voice as he talks in adoration of her and their lives together, and you deftly pick the flowers to make the bouquet while listening to the man talk about his beloved.

As you are arranging the flowers, you ask Det. Bloomgate about his work life, how work as a detective had been for him, and what his most memorable case was. You won’t get many exciting cases here when this small town has only about 5,000 people, he begins, but he has to admit that one of his most memorable times in the police force was when the international police came to set up a temporary office in their small station about 12 years ago.

“Apparently some vigilante hacker’s proxy servers were triangulated somewhere around this area, so they thought he’d be here. Sent some officers, the type you’d see in those spy movies with how little they would talk. From what I heard, that hacker is some type of genius that they had been pursuing for some time now,” Det. Bloomgate continues, recalling the cold calculation and eerie efficiency with which police who work in massive organizations operate, only viewing breach of civilians' rights as collateral damage in pursuit of this man.

Your ears perk at the story, interest piqued.

"Oh, and did they ever catch this hacker?"

"Not that I know of. I think they found out it was just a dummy proxy he used to confuse them. They got pretty mad and left soon after. From what I heard, the hacker was never caught."

"Wow, he's that good, huh?"

"The best, I heard. He uses the name Nymos, and apparently was responsible for some of the biggest security breaches, and also some of the biggest exposé of international crimes and political scandals. They say no system is safe from this guy,” the detective carries on, looking on as you begin to wrap up your completed arrangement.

You hum in interest at the tale, more so on the fact that these extraordinary feats could have had come from just another commonplace person, an unassuming face that people pass by without even sparing a second glance. In fact, you could have met the person so skilled and so well-known amongst law enforcement, you could have bumped into Nymos sometime in your life and you would not even have known it, and the prospect of such possibility made you chuckle to yourself.

Finishing up the final few details to the arrangement, you catch sight of the flash of awe and wonder in Det. Bloomgate’s eyes as he looks at the finished product, a sight that injects you with a sense of pride. To you, each flower tells a unique story, speaks a different language and by arranging them, it gives you a chance to write and interweave your customers’ stories. And in Det. Bloomgate’s hands, the bouquet of white (admiration) and red roses (true love), white carnations (faithfulness), and red daisies (beauty unknown to the beholder) with a few placements of ivory snowdrops (hope), are what you hope could come close to the love story of him and his beloved.

“My friends were right, you truly are the best,” the detective remarks when you ring up the flowers at the counter, and you feel your cheeks heat up at the unreserved compliment. It feels good to be acknowledged but you could never get used to it.

You watch as Det. Bloomgate exits the shop, flowers in hand and a small smile on his usually stoic face, and as his retreating back slowly becomes smaller in your view, you catch sight of the arrangement of magnolias, chrysanthemums and irises by your cash register, and you smile to yourself. Every customer who walks in here has a story that they want to be told by the different languages of flowers. You do too.

The small arrangement of colorful scarlet, white and blue that you keep fresh on your counter every time are not just an eye-catching centerpiece, but it tells them of your and his story. A story of hope and perseverance, of happiness and love. Your mind begins to wander to the detective’s story of Nymos, and like how he could be anyone you pass by and you would not even know, you wonder whether you’d recognize that person whom you have been waiting for if you see him. You hope you will, because you are trying every day not just for you and for your friends and family, but for him too.

The third crossroads comes definitively at the break of night, when the curtains of day pull back into the richest of blues and purest of blacks, when the sun retreats and the stars come out and the town is closing down and retreating into the comforts of their homes. It comes in his heaving breaths, the burning he feels in his strained lungs as Jake rushes in front of the small florist at the edge of the town, the pit-a-pat of dread that beats a mile a minute in his heart when he sees how dark the shop is. It comes in worry of being unable to catch you in time that dissipates with a spark of light hope when he catches a sliver of light peeking out from a small room from behind the counter.

It comes with the anticipation of pushing the door and finding it still open, of hearing the tell-tale ‘DING!’ of the door chime in the background, an anticipation that mixes with awe as soon as he enters the shop and feels himself surrounded by the tell-tale silhouettes of flowers. None of the lights are on at the front of the shop, but the small line of light coming from the backroom, as well as the light coming from the stars and the moon on the night sky outside filtering through the large shop window shows him buckets on the floor and hanging on the wall, a safe haven full of blossoms, of butter-yellow daffodils and golden daisies, of shy violets and carnation pinks, of ivory snowdrops and cerulean forget-me-nots. There in buckets hung in perfect symmetrical lines on a rack, he sees the biggest collection of pillow-white magnolias, scarlet red chrysanthemums, and deep blue irises.

You were tidying up the backroom and were just about to close up shop when you heard the faint chime at the door. Confused, you catch the glimpse of someone entering and you wonder why a customer would come in so late. It’s already dark outside, a time not for business but to retreat into yourself and you had half a heart to call out that you are closed for the day and watch the customer exit but something made you stop in your tracks. Finishing up the last of your tracks, you quietly make your way to the front of the shop, your hand settling on top of the light switch that would bathe the dark shop into light.

Something makes your hand still and your eyes scrunched in vague familiarity as you take in the man with his back turned from you.

For as he continues to stare at the blooms of magnolias, chrysanthemums, and irises you had cared for in your shop, you are struck with the oddly calm sense of familiarity, like someone you have met before somewhere. You look at his hair black as the night sky you see behind him, and you’re brought to think of deep blue eyes like the iris blooming in your dreams, bright like the stars you see twinkling outside the window. You think of calm voices keeping you grounded. ‘It’s okay. You’ll be okay.’, that voice had said once upon many times ago.

You’re reminded of firm hands outstretched palm upwards in dreams just waiting for you to take, of gentle smiles that make you feel at home. You think of that promise to meet, a promise between two souls sealed with a feathery light kiss. That promise which has led you here, all these years.

You probably have never met this man, have never spoken to him, but inside your mind, one word stood out like flashing neon lights in the dark, blinking furiously at you and before you could stop yourself, you blurt out--

“Jake?”

Jake, who was captivated by the display he saw in front of him - heart still and breath taken away - stops when he hears that voice. A small voice blooming amongst the pin-drop silence amongst the flowers. He turns around, eyes wide and he sees you.

It’s you, the person who pushes him forward, the person who he has been looking for, a person whom he has never met but knew in dreams over and over again. The person behind his path to happiness, his path and his destination. He was not sure what to expect when he did see you, but this sense of ease, a sense of being complete feels almost right.

One half of him who is used to yearning for 4 years had half-expected it to only be a mirage that will disappear into that dull white-washed walls of the hospital hallway that he is used to. And yet, here you still stand, in front of him, touchable as he feels your hands in his, tangible as he sees your small watery laugh, and real as he commits your smile to memory and that feeling he gets of floating and flying at the same time, and remembers the words he so much want to say.

“I finally found you, MC.”

Jake whispers in the quiet and smiles, feeling at ease, content where he wants to belong.

There is so much to say and so much to ask, but for now this is enough. You are here and he is here. You’ll remember and he’ll remember too.

There, under his night sky and amongst your flower fields, you meet again. From where he was pushed forward from what he once thought was irreparable unhappiness, from where it had lifted you from your most broken, the place where your two paths cross now holds a whole new meaning. When your fields where he can be at ease in dreams now a testament to your hard work in chasing down happiness, when his skies where you seek solace in dreams now proof of him prioritizing himself and living each day for a reason that he wants, when the point where your two paths converge are no longer a fleeting instant disappearing in forgetful dreams but a testament of a promise between two souls finally fulfilled, you meet again but this time never forgetting and never disappearing.

More Chapters

pt i: wandering around the far ends of the sky

pt ii: weaknesses that you don't show anyone

pt iii: in the midst of time, let's meet

pt iv: a place where you can be at ease

pt v: rendezvous under the twinkling starry sky

pt vi: to return besides my beloved you

4 years later

Over 4 years ago, he made a promise to someone in his dreams, someone whom he does not want to forget, a promise that he will find her. A promise that they will meet and they will remember. And since that day, he has traveled to different countries, over different parts of multiple continents, going from commercial gardens to research greenhouses to wild forest blooms, to find the clues of the magnolias and chrysanthemums that will lead to you.

The views of the night sky that he gets from wherever he travels make the journey all the more worth it. In every country he visits, he makes sure to stay at places far away from the bright city lights that he possibly could, and every night he would look up at the night sky. He would see the stars scattered across the pitch-black canvas almost like snowflakes in one country, catch the trails of light that are the tails of the galaxy in another. These views are something he wants to see, something he wants for himself, something close to him and real, not something flashed by his hacking skills on an alabaster dull white ceiling.

And with every different skies that he is seeing every single day, his dreams become different too. Magnolias and chrysanthemums still adorn his dreams, its reds and whites now brighter and richer, but alongside slowly the number of flowers grow. 2 years ago, he saw the buds of blue irises starting to grow, much like the artificial ones Hannah gave him to keep him company in the hospital. Over the years, he starts seeing butter-yellow daffodils, golden daisies, and ivory white snowdrops. He sees shy violets and the carnation pinks, the deep blues of the forget-me-nots, and the tinkling bluebells. And with those dreams, the vestiges of emptiness that used to come from you 4 years ago, also start to dissipate. Each day he wakes up anticipating. Waiting.

He supposed that a lot has changed. The both of you have changed. Back then, it was easier to discern which ones are his emotions, and which ones were yours bleeding into his days, because you were both in different places. He used to be angry, and you used to be concerned. He used to live for others and you used to be empty. But now, the both of you feel as if there is something entirely yours that is worth fighting for. Something that the both of you want for yourselves. Something worth waiting for.

There is just that starting point that he needs to find, that clue of the magnolias and chrysanthemums. He has had doubts before, when the first 39 places he had gone to did not click with him. He’s had doubts whether he will really be able to find her, but Jake supposed he’d just have to trust the process and he’ll know when he sees it. But he’s at place #40 now, and something feels good about it.

Place #40 feels good to him, feels different, something he could not say about the previous 39 places he has been throughout these 4 years, Jake thinks to himself as he takes in the hustle and bustle of the town. There is something to be said about this particular town, an electricity that fills his vein, and a rightness that he could not describe.

The first point of convergence between your and Jake’s separated paths came at place #40 on Jake’s list. It came as he was walking to the town square from his lodgings, it came with the jolt of scalding hot coffee spilled onto his hoodie, the involuntary wince, and the alarmed apologies from the woman who just collided with him.

It comes in doses of confusion as Jake looks at the light-haired woman with the red-flushed face and the flustered hands trying to wipe down the stain probably unnoticeable against his black hoodie, confusion intensifying tenfold with the exasperated shout of “Jessy, I told you to look where you’re going!” and the heavy footsteps coming soon after.

It comes with the highly apologetic look of the man in front of him as Jake tries to politely decline the persistent woman (whom he now knows as Jessy) who keeps on insisting that Jake give her his hoodie so she could wash it anew. It comes when Jake takes a good look at the pair and realizes, with a start, that there is some form of familiarity to these two people.

“Have we met before?” Jake could not help but blurt out to the pair, who looked confusedly at him. Their bewilderment makes sense, he has never stepped foot onto this place until yesterday, and with how much he keeps to himself, Jake has doubts that both the man and the woman, here in this place literally on the other side of the world from where he lived are within any circles of people he knows.

And yet it feels as if he’s heard of them, from stories shared with a distant fondness for a faraway adventure. A story shared between whispers and quiet smiles, of unabashed appreciation recalled by someone that fades away from him into misty forgetfulness.

Jake shakes his head, cancels his thoughts, and apologizes to the two for the peculiar question, speculating that he must have the two mistaken for someone he has heard of. Jessy, the woman with the bright green eyes that are clouding with guilt, offers one more time if there is any way to make up for Jake’s clothes that she has ruined. She offers to buy him lunch, claiming that both she and the man (whom she introduces as Richy) are on the way to meet their friend to get some food for the afternoon, a tradition for their trio that Jake is more than welcome to intrude on for today.

The first crossroads between your and Jake’s path diverge that moment Jake politely thanks them after declining the invite, dismissing the accident as nothing more than a minor inconvenience. It diverges that moment Jake walks separately from the pair, him to the place he has saved in his phone where he would find the magnolias and chrysanthemums in a private garden, Jessy and Richy on to the other side to have their lunch - and no doubt recall this tale of why they were late - to you.

You are already waiting for your friends outside the building of your therapist’s office for a while, just taking in the day. It was the kind of day you like, where the sun shines cheerily and yet not overbearingly bright thanks to the numerous cotton-like clouds, when the skies are transitioning from the cold-gray of the winter into the baby blue of spring, and the days start to hit that sweet spot between warm without being hot, and a refreshing chill without the bone-biting cold.

The shop where you work is in order for the morning for you to take a half-day leave; you have made sure that all orders for the morning are already arranged, and only had to be delivered. That part, you’re very sure that the shop is in capable hands of your worker, Dan’s hands.

“Sorry, we’re late. Jessy got too excited and spilled her hot coffee all over this stranger and it was a whole mess. Luckily, the guy was pretty cool about it,” Richy apologizes as they quickly come up to you, a remark which earns a short protest from Jessy.

“I asked him to join us so I could make it up to him for his ruined hoodie, and who knows, introduce him to my pretty, pretty friend over here,” Jessy replies as she links her arms around yours and begins walking in the direction of the cafe, and you tease whether inviting the stranger is more for you or for her, which Jessy protests vehemently and says that it’s really for you when the stranger is on more similar wavelengths to you than to her. She continues, “He seemed like your type; quiet and speaks only when necessary.”

“Yeah, right. He doesn’t stand a chance with our friend here,” Richy snorts, “Not when she has that someone she’s waiting for.”

The rest of the walk is filled with Richy’s teasing you for that bright hot pink flush you have on your cheeks.

Over lunch, they had asked you how your sessions are going, and you told them, without pretense, that it had gone well. You don’t lie to Jessy and Richy anymore, that is the one constant over your journey to self-healing since that day you made that promise. You might have days when you feel like it takes too much commitment to care for yourself, that it’s much easier to let the negativity built upon years of habit consume you, but the one constant on your journey is that you reach out to Jessy and Richy with nothing but the truth all the time.

You tell them when everything is well, but you also tell them when the dark clouds catch up with you, when the intrusive thoughts get too loud. You tell them of your initial apprehension at seeing a therapist, at having everything that is wrong with you laid out over the table in front of a stranger, and you tell them of the rocky start at building a bond of trust between you and her, but you also share with them of those times when you come to a revelation within your sessions, those days when you come out of the office with a clear idea on what to do next.

It’s an active work, unraveling the threads of your self-loathing and gaining that sense of color back in your life, but you work through it one day at a time. The road to self-love is up and down, and you have days when you despair and fret over the fact that you will never attain that happiness you want. But over the years, you get better at catching yourself before the thoughts spiral out of control, you’re more in tune with yourself enough to question some of the malicious harmful things you hear inside your head, you get better at seeing happiness not as a destination, but a never-ending journey that you savor each and every day of.

It’s an active commitment, but you’re slowly getting better at appreciating the highs and acknowledging the lows. And on days when you’re riding out your lowest of the lows, it was the promise you made that pushed you to find help; that promise to keep trying to live.

Live for the you who want to see him. Live for the person you are becoming, the person who has so much love for that person who is pushing you forward, while at the same time working towards having it healthily balance with the love she has for herself. When will you see him, you do not know, and you have no idea who it is you’re looking for, but you suppose you’d just have to trust the process and you’ll know when you see it. When you look up at the night skies, thinking of that person who you made that promise to, something inside you tells you to wait, that your path will cross when the time is right.

And so you keep trying to live, fulfillingly, day by day.

The second crossroad, this time converging both your paths closer, comes in the evening when the sun is on its descent on the horizon and Jake finally stops in front of the garden gates that are his destination.

It comes with the tug he feels at his heartstrings and it comes with his breath taken away, it comes with the clumsy steps up to the gate and the way his eyes could focus on nothing but the vast garden of scarlets and whites in front of him.

The cottage itself is a quaint little thing of red bricks and white fence, quite a walk away from the main road where the buses travel, at the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. But even from afar, the view cannot be missed. Against the blue of the sea and the reds of the setting sun, lies a garden of brilliant scarlets and whites of the grown magnolias and chrysanthemums.

Jake hears himself gulp, hears the crash of the ocean, hears his heart still. He could only stare in awe at the sight in front of him. This feeling of ease, of peace inside him, there’s no mistake about it. He knows it, that voice inside him told him. This is it. This is the place. This is the place he has been looking for, all these years.

The place he sees in his dreams.

It feels liberating, like finding the treasure at the end of a journey. After all these years, all these uncertainties, the nights of questioning whether he’s making the right decision, and he’s finally made it. He finally found the place that he is looking for, and the joy that is overflowing through every fiber of his being almost made him drop to his knees.

But then, comes the questions. As he approaches the gate, the questions keep flooding in his head.

Okay, so now what? He’s come all this way and he’s found what he is looking for, now what does he do? At the end of the journey, where does he go from here? How would he know where to go next? Is MC around at all?

“She’s not here, you know,” came a voice behind him, startling Jake from his reverie, his hand stilling at the gate door.

Turning around, he sees an old woman with a basket in her arms full of fruits, still looking bright and spry despite her thinning gray hair, with wrinkled yet kind eyes full of mirth as she smiles at Jake. Jake stares back at her with what he’s sure is a dumbfounded look.

“I’m sorry?”

The old lady laughs, eyes sparkling almost as if she knows something he does not.

“The last time someone looked at my garden with that much awe in their eyes, like all their hopes lie in those flowers, it was a young lady who came to my door about 4 years ago. You were doing the same thing, young man, with the exact same look, so I can’t help but assume a connection,” she clarifies as she walks up to the gate with a knowing look. Every word registers in Jake’s ears, but he does not know how to process and respond to any of it. Wordlessly opening and closing his mouth in search of words, Jake settles on the next best thing; that is to offer to take the basket from her arms and carry it into the house, an action which made the old lady chuckle in delight.

“Well well, aren’t you a gentleman? Tell you what, why don’t you come inside with me and have some tea, and I’ll tell you all about her.”

The table was set up to overlook the garden, a small set up with a vase of magnolias and chrysanthemum arrangements in the center. As he’s having tea with blackberry pies that the old lady (or Miss Sully, as she introduced herself) is offering him, he can’t help but steal discreet glances at the sparkling ruby-reds and honeyed whites of the flowers against the sun setting in the horizon. Miss Sully, noticing Jake’s glances at the garden, smirks knowingly.

“I planted them when I first got this house with my husband. He got me the flowers on our wedding anniversary and I planted them here. I never expected them to grow so well, but now that they do, you cannot help but care for them more and more. My husband is long gone, but these flowers that came from his gift make me feel like he’s here with me.”

Turning back to look at Jake, Miss Sully grins and adds, “Anyway, enough about my story. I used to think they were a source of comfort for me and me alone. That is, until 4 years ago, a young lady knocked on my door. Back then, she was a timid-looking thing, poor dear. Looked as if she just contemplated for a thousand years just to knock on my door. But the way her eyes transform when she looks at my flowers, the way that timid thing suddenly gains a moment of confidence and bravery just by looking at them, you don’t forget about that at all.”

Miss Sully smiles to herself as she recalls that day all those years ago when she opened the door and met you looking worried and nervous, out of breath and frazzled. And yet, when you spoke, you spoke with quiet determination.

“She’s a strong one, that one. Told me that she is battling some inner struggles for long, and that looking out at my garden as she commutes to and from work is one of the small reprieves she has had for all these years. She told me she wants to take her happiness in her own hands now and that if I would let her, she would like to have some of the flowers to grow for herself as a reminder on days when she feels like giving up.”

It feels a little strange, to say the least, but when hearing Miss Sully talking about you, Jake feels as if he knows you. He cannot picture how you look physically but he imagines you being a bit flustered after making that request to the old lady, imagines your voice faltering a bit trying to calm your nerves, imagines you reverting back to your old habit whenever you’re flustered, that is to furiously pat down your cheeks as if to cool it down. It feels as if he has seen you.

“What happened? What happened to her?” Jake asks, wide-eyed and curious, because for all these years, this is the first time he has heard of you from another person. Talked of by another person like a normal human being, instead of wisps seen in his dreams and heard in his heart.

“I gave them to her, of course. Told her she’s welcome to take as much as she wanted to. She comes by often nowadays, checks up on me, and helps me do groceries. Takes care of the garden. You know these old knees cannot hold for so long. You just missed her when she came around yesterday.

“These arrangements are from her, too. She took the flowers from the gardens and arranged them here; a fresh arrangement every month and I never ever get tired of them.”

She does not notice how Jake goes wide-eyed, not hearing the leap in his heartbeat as he hears only those three words that are most important to him; she is still here. You were here where he is. The flowers in the garden, the flowers in front of him in the vase, those so close within his reach, they hold traces of you. You’re no longer only the whispers of presence in his days, no longer intangible in dreams. You’re real and within reach now.

Looking up at Jake with his dumbfounded expression, Miss Sully smiles and continues.

“You know, I asked her once, what was it that made her take that leap to change? What made her knock on my door when she hasn’t done so all these years? And you know what she told me? She shrugged, looked outwards like you’re doing now, and said ‘I’m doing it for me, and for someone I’m waiting for’,” the old lady recalls, holding Jake’s gaze with her knowing eyes, and then she asks the big question, “Would that someone happen to be you?”

Jake looks down, suddenly self-conscious of the question. Now that he knows you are real and within reach, it dawns upon him that this is the first time he has talked of you and in front of a total stranger too. How does one explain the intangible to the tangible, how does he describe what he has with you to a common stranger? A search across the world from voices in one’s heart and images seen only in dreams, of vestiges lost and words unproven once sleep is gone. So he does not know whether he would have any right to say anything, what relation would be appropriate to you, how best to describe that faceless, voiceless figure in his dreams all those years ago.

But then, he remembers the hope and anticipation that he wakes up to nowadays, and he thinks of the promise that keeps him going. And he pushes through, “I… I hope so?”

There is comfortable silence that envelops the both of them, surrounded by the flowers and the darkening skies that had brought two separated souls together, a knowing silence that Miss Sully has learned to savor before breaking it with a chuckle.

“Well, call me crazy but I think you are. No two people would have the same look like all their dreams center around these flowers, but why don’t you see her for yourself?”

She looks up at Jake and smiles.

“She has a flower shop now. Quit her fancy uptight corporate job a year ago, and now she’s the best florist in town. And I think if you hurry, you might be able to catch the bus there.”

Somewhere not too far away, you jump in surprise when the front door chimes that familiar ‘DING!’ that lets you know of a potential customer.

Strange, you thought to yourself, no one rarely comes at this time, not when the shop is about to close. You look up towards the front of the shop from where you were squatting by the flower pots, pushing them back to its place. Outside, the sun is already starting to set, bathing the room in a soft orange glow and hitting the newly repotted daffodils, making its white petals turn a soft honey yellow. It both delights you to see the flowers still so thriving.

“Coming, just a sec!” you call out to the front and stand up, straightening your long-hunched form and wincing when you hear your back cracking in protest. God, you really need to invest on a low stool here if you don’t want your bones to hate you.

Stretching away the kinks in your muscles, you look at the flowers surrounding you; the room washed in a rainbow of sunflower yellows and rosy reds, of carnation pinks and forget-me-not blues, of shy violets and daisy whites, a symphony of colors made muted pastels from the dimming sunlight that leaves you at ease. There are buds waiting to grow into blooms, there are younglings, there are seeds and you smile to yourself, wishing the flowers to grow well as you exit the back room.

The man waiting at the counter is a bushy-browed and respectable-looking man, standing straight with shoulders wide. He greets you formally albeit a bit stiffly, and you laugh sheepishly, feeling slightly uncomfortable and awkward in front of this stranger. You still struggle to talk to people, still sometimes second-guessing whether you’re saying the right thing, and you still overthink sometimes whether you’re saying or doing something wrongly, but you’re also more conscious whenever you do it and are actively working to be kinder to yourself.

“Can I um… help you?” you ask quietly, and the man straightens himself, and looks at you.

“Sorry for coming in so late. My friends said you’re the best florist in town, and I have a quick order,” he says gruffly, but his eyes are nothing but cordial.

Oh.

The man, Det. Alan Bloomgate, as you later found out, is a police officer who works in the area, and he needs immediate help finding flowers for his wedding anniversary. Seems like he’s a bit late to the promised anniversary dinner and would like an arrangement to make it up to his wife. You nod in understanding, this kind of last-minute request is not uncommon; you have seen the occasional flustered teenager who was trying to buy flowers as an apology or the old man who decided to gift a bouquet to his partner on an impulse on their evening walk.

You ask whether he has any specific flowers in mind that he would like to be included. Det. Bloomgate responds in the affirmative, requesting that the bouquet include white roses, his wife’s favorites. Further making small talk, you smile to yourself when you hear the stoicism drop in the detective’s voice as he talks in adoration of her and their lives together, and you deftly pick the flowers to make the bouquet while listening to the man talk about his beloved.

As you are arranging the flowers, you ask Det. Bloomgate about his work life, how work as a detective had been for him, and what his most memorable case was. You won’t get many exciting cases here when this small town has only about 5,000 people, he begins, but he has to admit that one of his most memorable times in the police force was when the international police came to set up a temporary office in their small station about 12 years ago.

“Apparently some vigilante hacker’s proxy servers were triangulated somewhere around this area, so they thought he’d be here. Sent some officers, the type you’d see in those spy movies with how little they would talk. From what I heard, that hacker is some type of genius that they had been pursuing for some time now,” Det. Bloomgate continues, recalling the cold calculation and eerie efficiency with which police who work in massive organizations operate, only viewing breach of civilians' rights as collateral damage in pursuit of this man.

Your ears perk at the story, interest piqued.

"Oh, and did they ever catch this hacker?"

"Not that I know of. I think they found out it was just a dummy proxy he used to confuse them. They got pretty mad and left soon after. From what I heard, the hacker was never caught."

"Wow, he's that good, huh?"

"The best, I heard. He uses the name Nymos, and apparently was responsible for some of the biggest security breaches, and also some of the biggest exposé of international crimes and political scandals. They say no system is safe from this guy,” the detective carries on, looking on as you begin to wrap up your completed arrangement.

You hum in interest at the tale, more so on the fact that these extraordinary feats could have had come from just another commonplace person, an unassuming face that people pass by without even sparing a second glance. In fact, you could have met the person so skilled and so well-known amongst law enforcement, you could have bumped into Nymos sometime in your life and you would not even have known it, and the prospect of such possibility made you chuckle to yourself.

Finishing up the final few details to the arrangement, you catch sight of the flash of awe and wonder in Det. Bloomgate’s eyes as he looks at the finished product, a sight that injects you with a sense of pride. To you, each flower tells a unique story, speaks a different language and by arranging them, it gives you a chance to write and interweave your customers’ stories. And in Det. Bloomgate’s hands, the bouquet of white (admiration) and red roses (true love), white carnations (faithfulness), and red daisies (beauty unknown to the beholder) with a few placements of ivory snowdrops (hope), are what you hope could come close to the love story of him and his beloved.

“My friends were right, you truly are the best,” the detective remarks when you ring up the flowers at the counter, and you feel your cheeks heat up at the unreserved compliment. It feels good to be acknowledged but you could never get used to it.

You watch as Det. Bloomgate exits the shop, flowers in hand and a small smile on his usually stoic face, and as his retreating back slowly becomes smaller in your view, you catch sight of the arrangement of magnolias, chrysanthemums and irises by your cash register, and you smile to yourself. Every customer who walks in here has a story that they want to be told by the different languages of flowers. You do too.

The small arrangement of colorful scarlet, white and blue that you keep fresh on your counter every time are not just an eye-catching centerpiece, but it tells them of your and his story. A story of hope and perseverance, of happiness and love. Your mind begins to wander to the detective’s story of Nymos, and like how he could be anyone you pass by and you would not even know, you wonder whether you’d recognize that person whom you have been waiting for if you see him. You hope you will, because you are trying every day not just for you and for your friends and family, but for him too.

The third crossroads comes definitively at the break of night, when the curtains of day pull back into the richest of blues and purest of blacks, when the sun retreats and the stars come out and the town is closing down and retreating into the comforts of their homes. It comes in his heaving breaths, the burning he feels in his strained lungs as Jake rushes in front of the small florist at the edge of the town, the pit-a-pat of dread that beats a mile a minute in his heart when he sees how dark the shop is. It comes in worry of being unable to catch you in time that dissipates with a spark of light hope when he catches a sliver of light peeking out from a small room from behind the counter.

It comes with the anticipation of pushing the door and finding it still open, of hearing the tell-tale ‘DING!’ of the door chime in the background, an anticipation that mixes with awe as soon as he enters the shop and feels himself surrounded by the tell-tale silhouettes of flowers. None of the lights are on at the front of the shop, but the small line of light coming from the backroom, as well as the light coming from the stars and the moon on the night sky outside filtering through the large shop window shows him buckets on the floor and hanging on the wall, a safe haven full of blossoms, of butter-yellow daffodils and golden daisies, of shy violets and carnation pinks, of ivory snowdrops and cerulean forget-me-nots. There in buckets hung in perfect symmetrical lines on a rack, he sees the biggest collection of pillow-white magnolias, scarlet red chrysanthemums, and deep blue irises.

You were tidying up the backroom and were just about to close up shop when you heard the faint chime at the door. Confused, you catch the glimpse of someone entering and you wonder why a customer would come in so late. It’s already dark outside, a time not for business but to retreat into yourself and you had half a heart to call out that you are closed for the day and watch the customer exit but something made you stop in your tracks. Finishing up the last of your tracks, you quietly make your way to the front of the shop, your hand settling on top of the light switch that would bathe the dark shop into light.

Something makes your hand still and your eyes scrunched in vague familiarity as you take in the man with his back turned from you.

For as he continues to stare at the blooms of magnolias, chrysanthemums, and irises you had cared for in your shop, you are struck with the oddly calm sense of familiarity, like someone you have met before somewhere. You look at his hair black as the night sky you see behind him, and you’re brought to think of deep blue eyes like the iris blooming in your dreams, bright like the stars you see twinkling outside the window. You think of calm voices keeping you grounded. ‘It’s okay. You’ll be okay.’, that voice had said once upon many times ago.

You’re reminded of firm hands outstretched palm upwards in dreams just waiting for you to take, of gentle smiles that make you feel at home. You think of that promise to meet, a promise between two souls sealed with a feathery light kiss. That promise which has led you here, all these years.

You probably have never met this man, have never spoken to him, but inside your mind, one word stood out like flashing neon lights in the dark, blinking furiously at you and before you could stop yourself, you blurt out--

“Jake?”

Jake, who was captivated by the display he saw in front of him - heart still and breath taken away - stops when he hears that voice. A small voice blooming amongst the pin-drop silence amongst the flowers. He turns around, eyes wide and he sees you.

It’s you, the person who pushes him forward, the person who he has been looking for, a person whom he has never met but knew in dreams over and over again. The person behind his path to happiness, his path and his destination. He was not sure what to expect when he did see you, but this sense of ease, a sense of being complete feels almost right.

One half of him who is used to yearning for 4 years had half-expected it to only be a mirage that will disappear into that dull white-washed walls of the hospital hallway that he is used to. And yet, here you still stand, in front of him, touchable as he feels your hands in his, tangible as he sees your small watery laugh, and real as he commits your smile to memory and that feeling he gets of floating and flying at the same time, and remembers the words he so much want to say.

“I finally found you, MC.”

Jake whispers in the quiet and smiles, feeling at ease, content where he wants to belong.

There is so much to say and so much to ask, but for now this is enough. You are here and he is here. You’ll remember and he’ll remember too.

There, under his night sky and amongst your flower fields, you meet again. From where he was pushed forward from what he once thought was irreparable unhappiness, from where it had lifted you from your most broken, the place where your two paths cross now holds a whole new meaning. When your fields where he can be at ease in dreams now a testament to your hard work in chasing down happiness, when his skies where you seek solace in dreams now proof of him prioritizing himself and living each day for a reason that he wants, when the point where your two paths converge are no longer a fleeting instant disappearing in forgetful dreams but a testament of a promise between two souls finally fulfilled, you meet again but this time never forgetting and never disappearing.

More Chapters

pt i: wandering around the far ends of the sky

pt ii: weaknesses that you don't show anyone

pt iii: in the midst of time, let's meet

pt iv: a place where you can be at ease

pt v: rendezvous under the twinkling starry sky

pt vi: to return besides my beloved you

The aftermath of waking up was a blur that you could not remember well. For close to two weeks, doctors kept you under close supervision. Psychiatrists came and went, treatment plans were planned, medication was given and physical recoveries were made, but that’s just the thing. The whole journey towards recovery or better management of your illness will not start until the linchpin is removed; that is, you need to want to talk about it.

For two weeks, doctors have tried, but you gave minimal answers. Not silent enough that they would have a reason not to allow you to be discharged, but not open enough to start tackling the problem. For you, at that time, just having woken up, the leap was far too great, one that you are still scared to take.

But, for two weeks, Jessy and Richy never left your side. It was either one of them or the two of them, but every day they would come and stay with you. You had asked them not to tell your parents, a request that dismayed them as they had wanted your parents to know. You need help, their experience for the past two weeks had attested to that, but you pleaded with them.

You reasoned that you want to take this one step at a time, and telling your parents falls quite down on your list, one which you are not ready for, and they begrudgingly acquiesced. On the day of your discharge, Richy and Jessy made it a point to come over and stay the night. You had protested but they would not take no for an answer, driving to your house in Richy’s car, whose trunk is almost bursting open with how bulky it was with snacks, drinks and blankets, and a laptop for movies.

Now as you sit on your bed, you stare at Jessy and Richy as they fuss about your room, arguing over blanket placements and the technicalities within their heroic quest of trying to set up a blanket fort in your mostly empty room. They are pretty much aware that you did not bother to put up anything here (something that Jessy made a vow to take you out furniture shopping and to spend more time together putting more life in your place), but they had insisted on coming to spend the night, and said they will make do with your bare-bones room.

From where you sat at the higher vantage point that is your bed, it seems as though Jessy is fighting in favor of getting Richy to get thumbtacks from his place so that they can stick them to the walls as a holder to hang the blankets, and Richy is fighting hard to save himself from the inconvenience and lay the blankets on the floor and forego the fancy fort for a more classic wrap-yourself-in-a-blanket-burrito style.

If one were to just observe how lively (and heated, you can’t help but chuckle to yourself) the conversation is going between the two of them, they would have never been able to guess that these two people were just put through the most traumatizing weeks they had ever been through. But in moments where everything settles down into the quiet, when the pretense of noise makes way to more honest silence, then you’d be able to notice the dark circles or the tear tracks under Jessy’s eyes or the slight falter in Richy’s laughter.

And who could blame them, you thought, when it was them who had found you in your apartment barely clinging on to your life. When it was Richy who broke down your door and the one who drove you to the hospital, when it was Jessy who came to you every night and prayed that you would wake to see them again. When it was the both of them who saw you at your final moments before you fell into a coma, and it was the both of them who you saw first when you woke up weeks ago.

You know they’re walking on eggshells, worried to set you off and yet not wanting to let you go out of their sight.

You feel unbearably guilty towards them and that voice inside you whispers with hateful words that you are being an inconvenience towards them, that you had put them through so much trouble, so much trauma and for what? For you to keep on being a burden to them, for you to give them more baggage if you were to tell them of the dark clouds, the self-loathing, and all the tangled problems that is your sense of self. Why put them through that?

What happens if it gets too much for them? What if your problems with yourself just never get solved and supporting you becomes much too exhausting? Will you be able to handle them leaving you?

But a part of you that trusts them, a part of you that loves them with all your heart and have the utmost faith in them tells you that if they still did not give up on you when your life was hanging by a thread that week back in the hospital; if they are still here, they still want to be here even after all the uncertainty and despair, then maybe, maybe, it is okay to ask them for one more selfishness.

You are a lot of work, a tangled mess that you cannot make sense of heads and tails. You agree with that voice in your head BUT...

They’re your friends. They’ll be here.

Maybe you can start working on each thread one by one, one day by one day, one thread after the other. Maybe instead of fearing what tomorrow will add to your tangle, you can try living and working through it one today after the other.

Over Richy’s and Jessy’s head and out your window, you see the skies darkening, the last threads of orange now disappearing and making way for inky blues and jet blacks, the spattering of stars coming out and twinkling one by one. They look the same as the skies that appear in your dreams, the inky black skies with the twinkling stars, and the small flower pot filled with irises. There used to be a person in your dreams too, a person whose name you cannot remember, whose face you cannot see and whose voice you cannot hear. A person who holds out his hands for you to take. You see him in your dreams every night for close to two weeks since you woke up, but now he’s not there anymore.

You wondered why you cannot remember that person’s face. You wondered whether he has hair as black as the midnight skies that you’re seeing and eyes bright like the stars that adorn it, colored deep blue like the iris blooms you see.

The night sky gives you a sense of calm, almost as if it is a place that allows you solace. It is almost as if it is telling you that it’s okay, reminding you of a promise you hold to yourself.

There is a promise. An important promise to someone.

“Promise me you’ll keep trying to live.”

A promise to keep trying. Keep trying to live, keep trying to untangle the threads.

And the first thread in front of you is asking for help, feeling like you are worth it as a person to have people be there for you. And as long as there is still one reason to try, then maybe it’s worth it to push forward. Maybe it is okay, you tell yourself, trying your best to take that hardest first step.

“Jessy…? Richy…?” you call out to them, nervous.

Their arguments cease as they look at you. Were they still arguing over the blankets, or did time not pass at all just now? You felt as if it had been forever since you were fighting with yourself here on your bed. They walk on cautiously towards you, Jessy sitting beside you and reaching out to grasp your hands, Richy cross-legged in front of you.

Strange, it felt as though someone had held your hand like this before. Somewhere sometime eons ago. And back then, you had felt as if it was okay too.

“I-I have a lot to work through. Why I did what I did, my intrusive thoughts, it’s a whole package of problems that I want to work through. I want to stop fearing waking up tomorrow, I want to stop fearing my own thoughts,” you start, palms sweaty and throat dry. But you push yourself to take that leap. Take that leap and reach out your hands.

Untangle the first thread. Keep trying to live.

You have a promise to keep.

“But I need your support. I want to ask for help, and I want to start by asking for yours.”

When Jake woke up, twelve days after being put under, he remembered feeling like a steamroller had just gone over and flattened all of his limbs, while a cat had just used his windpipe as a scratching post. He sees Lilly at his bedside - the ICU only allows one visitor at a time and it was apparently it's her turn to visit him that day, as he later learned. Lilly was very methodical in her care. Water first, then call for doctors. And during the commotion of the checkups, quietly slip outside and inform their family.

Lilly was very precise and stoic in that sense, but Jake does not miss the relieved look in her eyes when she looks at him, and he certainly didn't miss how she discreetly wiped her tears outside as she fished out her cellphone.

The doctors call him waking up a miracle. As he later learned, the first round of antibiotics was ineffective and for six whole days, the infection showed no signs of letting up even just a little bit. It was difficult for his family. At some point, they had even considered the worst possibility of not being able to see him again.

On the 8th day, the doctors introduced a new experimental antibiotic as a last measure, and to be honest, even they were not confident whether it would help. His family, feeling like they already had nothing more to lose, consented and prayed for the best. Like a miracle, they began to see improvements in his health, and the bacterial infection gradually receded before it was completely wiped out on the 10th day. They kept Jake under for one more day to monitor his health, before slowly weaning the anesthesia to let him wake up.

Jake remembers waking up to the commotion of the doctors, the visits from his parents, his sisters. But he doesn’t understand the anticipation he has for something else. It’s like he’s expecting, no waiting for someone to come see him and the feeling of disappointment and emptiness when he sees that that person did not show up is unfamiliar as it is unpleasant. He feels out of place here, but not like he feels unwanted here like he did years ago. It’s more like he feels like there is somewhere else he needs to be.

But where? And who exactly is he waiting for?

His mind wanders off to the place with the magnolias and the chrysanthemums, and of that person whose face he does not remember and whose voice he does not register, whose name he only remembers as MC, that faceless, voiceless person who turns towards him from amongst the field of flowers, who fills him with so much warmth and…

There is a promise.

“So you promise me you will live on and find me.”

He looks out at the hallway, as if expecting that person to be there. But all that greets him is the empty white-washed hallways that he is so used to.

It’s been a week since he woke up from his coma, and Jake is already feeling the frustration creeping in. He’s in his last week’s stay at the hospital because the doctors would like to monitor his health a bit more before releasing him, and to be honest, he’s already quite bored of staying here. Also, his search has taken longer than he had anticipated, and Jake notes at the half-empty bag of sweets, hospital pencil, and his fingernails all of which have been unconsciously chewed so thoroughly to keep his mind running. Yet the rate of his progress is close to being laughably abysmal.

Jake closes his laptop tabs for what he feels like the 75th time of the day, and it's really not helping with his frustration.

Since this morning, he has been on his laptop, deep-diving into commercial satellite data and university research databases, cross-checking places where scarlet chrysanthemums and white magnolias grow together, and pulling up images after images of thousands and thousands of places across the globe.

But working just on memory, and only the vaguest of memories at that, is already not a good start to begin with. He’s probably looking at hundreds of thousands of locations that will be triangulated if he’s only basing it on his flimsy criteria. And even then, there are a lot of uncertainties to factor in.

For starters, he does not know if such a place with the magnolias and chrysanthemums even exists, or is just a product of MC’s imagination. And say he does find that one place, suppose after combing and traveling, by some sheer stroke of dumb luck, he managed to find that place, he cannot even guarantee that MC would be within range of that place. Maybe she’s going to be within 100 meters radius away from that place, then great. But what if she’s situated 10 kilometers away? Or worse, she’s not even in the same country as the flowers, then what?

There are too many holes, too many uncertainties, too many things left to chance in this quest of his. He doesn't know what it is he's trying to achieve, and it's not often that he's doing things recklessly.

But there is the promise that burns inside him and he thinks searching for that place that he sees every day in his dream is as good a start as any.

Dear God, Hannah will never let him live this one down, Jake thinks to himself. The methodical, cynical asshole (her words, not his) who covers all of his bases to make sure each plan, each action is foolproof with no loopholes and nothing left to chance, and look where he is now. About to dive head-first into a mess of uncertainties and loose threads and hope that chance, or God, or fate, or maybe even MC leads him out of said mess.

“You’re doing it again,” his reverie interrupted, Jake looks up. Lo and behold, speak of the devil, there she is standing in all her smug glory with Lilly beside her holding up a clear bag he sees are filled with sweets and candies.

“Doing what again?” Jake asks, eyebrow raised in question.

“Being a beaver and chewing through every single thing you can get near your mouth. Poor pencil’s been bitten through, might as well make it a toothpick now. That tells me something is bothering you,” Hannah replies, casually sitting and making herself comfortable beside him on his bed.

Lilly doesn’t even bother putting the bag of sweets on his bedside table, she knows him well and she knows it wouldn’t even last two seconds before Jake is reaching for it. Instead, she unceremoniously drops it on his lap and takes the chair beside him.

“Ah, searching for your beloved, I see,” Hannah muses when she catches sight of the codes and dozens of images and the numerous red-eye marking the map of the world. She’s not even trying to hide her grin, that knowing, shit-eating I-told-you-so grin. Shit, he’s much more familiar with being on the giving end, not the receiving one of that irritating grin.

Jake does not even bother replying to his sister, but it’s definitely of his own doing and not because he’s just been caught red-handed and definitely not because he did not have any comebacks.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take that silence as acknowledgement - all signed, stamped, sealed and delivered - that I’m amazing and I’m great.” It feels great to gloat, and there are not many chances when you can find her brother speechless, so Hannah plans to savor this victory down to its last sweet drop.

After a few beats of silence, comfortable silence, Jake decides to break the news.

“I’m planning on going.”

He adds, “I’m going to these places. I have a list of places that look most promising, and… once I’m discharged, I’m going,”

It’s ludicrous and it’s crazy, he knows that more than anybody. The uncertainties are too many and the risks are too high. But he has been toying with this idea ever since he woke up, ever since he keeps looking at the hallway every day; expecting, hoping, waiting for that person to show up.

Hannah whistles, impressed. “Can’t say we’re surprised.”

Jake looks between both of his sisters on either side of him, Hannah who has this smug knowing smirk, and Lilly who looks the least bit surprised. Leaning back on her chair, Lilly shoots him the most unimpressed look and suddenly Jake feels like he is in trouble.

“How many places are you shortlisting?” Lilly asks.

“About 150,” Jake replies, suddenly cautious with how he chooses his words.

“All around the world?” she continues.

Jake answers with a silent nod. If he is not careful, he would fall into a trap, and then he will wind up in a scenario where Lilly lectures him. He would like to avoid that as much as possible.

Without missing a beat, Lilly prods further. “How’s your checkup? What did the doctor say about your lung function?”

“The infection did quite some damage there, so I’m averaging 40-45%.”

“...and your updated life expectancy?”

“If I take good precautions, clear my airways daily, all those physical therapies, natural decline should take about 12-15 years.”

Not a second pass before Lilly shoots him a raised unimpressed eyebrow and delivers her checkmate move.

“And if a repeat of that infection happens again?”

Ah, there it is. Shit. She got him. He hesitates a little bit, knowing where this conversation is going. He fell for it, hook, line and sinker, and here it comes. The Lilly lecture. Feeling slightly guilty, and slightly embarrassed, he looks at Lilly with a sheepish smile.

“We could be looking at a quarter to half of those years taken off. Give or take.”

Minutes pass as the room plunges into silence as the implication of his statement starts to sink in. With only a maximum of 15 years left to live, Jake, whose lungs now only retained forty percent of its function, could not risk that serious of an infection again or risk having that short time cut much much shorter.

The silence is broken when Lilly shoots off into a ruthless breakdown of his plans, and this time Jake finds himself with no way to run. Checkmate, game over, utter annihilation.

“So let me get this straight. You, knowing that you have a 40% working lung, a genetic condition that declines your lung function AND makes you more susceptible to infections, are going to fly. Literally fly all over the world in an airplane, where the air is thinner and harsher on your lungs and in what basically is a metal tube full of germs trapped together, basically a marketplace for all possible infections---”

“I mean, it’s technically safely doable, given enough precautions?”

“--to go to a place you don’t even know where, to find someone who you cannot remember the face or the voice, and the only thing you remember of her name is MC, and that’s not even her real name----”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules on what I forget and what I remember when I wake up.”

The deadpan look Lilly shot him shuts Jake right in his place.

“Oof, God bless. So you’re hoping some deep… what? Bond between the two of you will act like a homing device and tell you if you’re getting warmer or colder?”

Ouch, Hannah looks between her youngest sister and her eldest brother who just got his ass handed to him with the coldness of a strategist and the accuracy of a sniper. It even makes Hannah wince a bit because when she puts it like that, there’s really no way to spin it to make it look better than how it is.

At a loss for words, Jake settles for a defeated shrug and mumbles a small, “... yeah, essentially.”

Safe to say, Lilly is not impressed.

“Look, I know,” Jake deflates and shuts his laptop. “I know it sounds crazy. Trust me, I’ve been trying to find places where I can patch the loopholes and uncertainty, and even I know this plan has as many holes as cheese--”

Lilly snorts. “It sounds like the kind of thing Hannah gets herself into.”

The indignant squawk from Hannah goes deliberately ignored.

There’s really no way to go around it. He knows. He knows it’s crazy. Knows that if the tables were turned and it’s his sisters who said they wanted to travel without a destination while knowing the high health risks they have, he too would be skeptical. He too, would caution harshly against it. Lilly is doing what a normal worried sibling would do.

But, deep down somewhere, he knows. And he knows that Lilly knows it too, because she notices the way his eyes shift to the outside world. Looking at him with earnest eyes, Lilly shakes her head and places a comforting hand on his, already knowing what he is thinking.

“...but you still want to do it,” she says softly.

Jake nods and sighs. “Yeah.”

Despite everything, he wants to try. Wants to at least try and see. Knows that if he just lets this opportunity go by, goes on without even trying to at least move an inch towards fulfilling that promise that keeps ringing in his ears, that promise to meet, he knows he would live a longer life but regret it. He’ll just continue living in this place where his heart is not.

The plan is crazy, he knows. But then, so is the notion that his recurring dreams of years and years are not just dreams, not some convoluted form of psychological projection, but that there is an actual person connected on the other side, and look where he is now.

There is a promise he had made and he fully intends to keep it.

“I’ve got to try, at the very least. I feel like I have so much to lose by not trying,” he starts, opening the laptop lid. The laptop, which he had hibernated not a few moments ago, sprung to life, the red eyes of Nymos blinking on various locations on a map of the world. One of these markers lies the place which he is looking for.

“And it doesn’t mean my illness is an end all be all. Life expectancy is just that; a prediction. I could surpass that. And a lot could happen within 12 years. We’re talking new medications that’s more compatible with me, or maybe, a whole lung transplant. I’ll do whatever I can to outlive the numbers, you know that,” Jake assures Lilly, smiling slightly and lightly returns her grip on his hands.

“Come on, Lil. You know this kid won’t take no for an answer once he makes up his mind. He’s stubborn to a fault,” Hannah chides.

“Learned that from the best,” Jake retorts, turning to Hannah and seeing her roll her eyes.

Lilly looks at her elder brother, sees how he looks at red blinking eyes scattered around the map, each one another risk, each one another health scare, for something that could just amount up to nothing but a wild goose chase. But each one of those dots is another possibility, a place he yearns for. A place not here, a place somewhere holding something he wants for himself.

So she closes her eyes, nose crinkled in annoyance, and sighs.

“It’s a risky plan. I’m not on board with you actively trying to worsen your illness unnecessarily...

But when she opens her eyes and looks at Jake, it is not with disappointment but with conviction and reserved delight.

“...but for the first time in a long time, you’re doing something because you WANT to, not because you have to. Something to do for yourself. So I really cannot fault that.”

She smiles at her brother.

“What do you mean?” Jake asks, looking at Lilly, who only chuckles knowingly.

“Well, I know you’ve always wanted to travel, but you’ve been staying here for so long. And I know it’s not because you’re scared for your health, but because you’re worried that the syndicate, that the men without a face will somehow get to us while you’re not here,” Lilly answers without even a pause.

“Why do you think I bought you that projector?” She continued, looking at the small projector peeking from behind potted irises on Jake’s bedside table. “I know you wouldn’t be able to resist using it with your hacking skills, so if anything I thought it would help.”

Lilly smiles to herself, looking at the well-used projector; tiny and inconspicuous, yet holds all her heartache and her hope towards her brother. A projector representing Lilly’s small hope of making it up to Jake, hoping that he could use it as a substitute for his decision to stay for them when he wants to leave. The projector that has shown Jake the night skies from all over the world as an escape, the gift Lilly bought with the heartache of seeing her brother constantly putting them over himself intertwined with the hopes that one day he will do things as he wanted to without worry.

“You say you WANTED to stay, that you’re happy to stay, but be honest. What you WANTED was to protect us, that’s why you stayed. You stay because you’re worried, but also because you feel like it’s some form of penance you deserve for what you did that you have to put our needs before yours first.

“You stay because it’s what you believe we need, and you equate our needs to your happiness, which could be true, but it makes you forget the fact that you’ve always felt like you belong somewhere else. Out there. I don’t know where, but not here,” she continues and Jake is amazed yet somewhat exposed at how she managed to hit the nail so directly on the head.

Sighing, Jake argues, “Well, they got Hannah because of me. The torture they put you two through... I refuse for them to get to you two again--”

“And it’s been over 7 years. They’re gone, you dismantled that organization. We’re okay. The security protocol you put over our phones, our computers, in our house would literally put the Interpol to shame. You did the best you could,” Lilly intervenes firmly.

“We don’t need anything more. We just need you to put yourself first. So this thing you’re doing, it’s risky and you and I both know how many holes this plan has. But if finding this person, this MC of yours, if it’s driving you to do something for yourself for a change, find YOUR something that makes you happy then... I will never say no to that,” she finishes earnestly and squeezes her brother’s hand encouragingly.

There are emotions in that grip, the same emotions reflected in her eyes as she holds her brother’s gaze, the worry of letting him go and the anxiousness for his health, the creeping trepidation of the multiple what-ifs. What if something goes wrong and he’s all alone? What if this search turns out for naught? But above that anxiousness lies a small delight, a wonderful acceptance that she wants this for him, wants him to find the place he feels at home, wants him to go and find out instead of staying here and never knowing.

It moves Jake, a realization so far away from the anger he felt on that day ten years ago, when he found out about how his sisters had hid his illness from him. A realization that he might not have arrived at had he continued down his path of self-loathing and self-destruction.

That his sisters always want what is best for him. Sometimes their decision backfires, but it was never done out of malice or of pity. They’re trying to do their best to have him, to be with him and support him. They may get some decisions wrong on the way, but they’re trying their best.

They have grown up, and maybe it’s time to allow himself a bit of selfishness, close that chapter that ties his todays to his past, and instead live day by day finding that future he wants.

After a while, Lilly heaves a sigh of annoyance and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Do yourself two favors. First thing - and I cannot BELIEVE I am actually condoning this - I know you’re still hesitant to use your Nymos network, but I know hacking into more publically inaccessible, probably illegal, classified information helps you patch some holes in that shoddy plan of yours and shave off a bunch of places,” she suggests and looks at Jake with the most deadpan look he has ever seen from her.

“Once you’re discharged, wait and recover fully. In the meantime, I’ll find out about the medical facilities in those places you’re going to, if you need to bring oxygen, things that will help you make the trips less risky. Second favor, absolutely don’t bring that projector. Forgive and prioritize yourself and watch the night skies across all those countries with your own eyes, like you always wanted to. Take care of yourself and go find her.”

With his sisters behind his back, Jake isn’t worried about anything. He smiles to himself, thinking of that first step he is taking towards that promise.

“Promise me you will live on and find me.”

He has a promise to keep.

“What do you remember of your dreams when you wake up?”

Jake had asked you once, back then, when the both of you still had not woken up. The two of you were sitting beside each other much more comfortably, knees touching amongst the bushes of flowers under the starry night skies.

Caught by surprise at the question, you turn to Jake who was still looking out at the flowers with a reserved and serene smile. Seeing him so relaxed and peaceful gives your heart a sense of calm.

“I remember the night sky full of stars, and a small flowerpot of irises.”

Jake hums, thinks of the two treasures from his sisters, the two treasures that he cherishes most currently on his bedside while he’s currently unconscious. He wonders whether this means that whatever image was left of their dreams when they wake up are the things most important to the other, and as he looks to the fields of the wilting flowers now starting to regain their colors back, he thinks back to HIS dreams and wonders why these magnolias and chrysanthemums mean so much to you.

“They’re like you, you know.”

Your remark broke Jake out of his reverie and he turned to look at you. You look much much better now than you did when you broke down in front of him moments long ago, and the small smile you had as you gazed up at the sky had Jake staring at you much much longer than he realized.

“The night sky and the blue irises. They’re a lot like you,” you repeated. Jake tilted his head in confusion, eyebrows raised and lips pursed, prompting you to giggle and explain.

“People always think the night is scary, but I find it calming. It’s comforting, a constant presence that takes your breath away. Of course, the sun and the skies are bright and beautiful, but during the day you forget because there’s so much to do, so much to think of, people to be considerate for, business to get done. But at night, everything dies down and everyone retreats to their own selves. At night, I don’t have to wonder if I’m saying or doing the right thing, I don’t worry how I’m seen, and I just get...to be.”

You gazed upwards, almost dreamily and earnestly, looking at the sky where it seemed as though you’re surrounded by nothing but only night; and yet instead of fear and dread that is commonly associated with darkness, it is calm and welcoming.

Turning back towards Jake, you asked him.

“And did you know that in the language of flowers, the blue iris means hope?” you smiled at him.

In a way, you explained, the skies and the irises are everything he is and everything he had become to you. He is that calming presence behind you, never loud and attention-grabbing, but always there. Jake is like the night sky that you look up from your room every night, the sky whose stars comfort you when you cry on your worst days, and cheers for you on your best. He is the presence that reminds you that someone is there, that someone wants to listen, on days where you cannot even recognize yourself.

And the way he lives his days, how he is never afraid of what tomorrow will bring but just living every of his today to the best that he can, how he hopes that he would not go without any regrets should today really be his last, that hope that never dies like the blue iris by his bedside has bled through to you through all these years.

Everyday, when you wake up, you are left with the brief lingering aftertaste of hope that came with your dreams, hope that came from Jake somewhere far away as he lives his every days. And that small feeling of hope and wonder, no matter how brief and how fleeting, has provided you the reprieve you needed to try and hold on through all of these years. You figured that without that brief fleeting hope, you would have let your numbness and dark clouds consume you much, much sooner than you did.

“You’re like the night sky that’s my solace, and my hope.”

You turned towards him and that gentle grateful smile was suddenly directed at him, that shy smile with the crinkles around the eyes that Jake would never get tired of seeing, and for a short moment, Jake wished for a day when he’d be able to see that smile in person. To remember how you look when you’re happy, to remember the butterflies in his stomach when he hears you laugh, God, he could almost be angry at how cruel it is that he’d forget all of these when he wakes up.

“What about magnolias and chrysanthemums?” Jake asks, gesturing towards the flowers which meant so much to you, the flowers that have accompanied him in all his years.

“In the language of flowers...what do magnolias and chrysanthemums mean?”

You chuckle and look out, and you touch briefly the chrysanthemum petals, sees the flowers still fighting to thrive, slowly fighting back to gain its former brilliance of scarlet and white and you whisper its meaning to Jake, how they represent all that you think you’re not, all that you want, and all that you’re trying to be.

Happiness and perseverance.

You think they’re important to you because they remind you of what you are not yet. Jake thinks that the meaning of the flowers couldn’t describe any more accurately how you are to him.

If anything, there is no one he can think of more that suits the happiness of chrysanthemums and the perseverance of magnolias more than you do.

Because he is thinking not only of how you have been coping with your struggles and fighting for your happiness, he also thinks how it was you who was there for him with warm whispers of it’s okay every single day back when he isolated himself from everyone else. He thinks back to those years back then, how every night that the dream you must have had were stormy skies and angry clouds and furious lightning, and yet your first instinct was not to cower in fear but to reach out to that sludge of anger and bitterness he has flowed, how you persevered and try to comfort this person whom you have not known.

He thinks of the times when you pushed him towards finding his own happiness, how he felt you in all moments where he needed strength and courage, how you never gave up on him. He thinks of this moment when he sees you, how your smile feels like home. How it should not have made sense how happy he feels whenever he sees you given the fact that he has never met you anywhere but here, and yet he still feels like flying every time you look at him and it makes him more determined to see you in person so that he’ll actually remember this feeling, over and over again.

“It suits you. A lot more than you think,” Jake replied almost without thinking, amused as he sees you turn the slightest bit of pink, embarrassedly rubbing the back of your neck while trying to quickly justify how that’s not true. It’s endearing how you’re still not used to compliments, but Jake would not have any of it.

‘You’re the reason I want to be happy, and it’s you where my happiness will be,’ he thought to himself, but decided at the very last minute against saying it out loud. He’s keeping it to himself, because at that moment is when Jake decided that he’s making you a promise to find you so he’ll be able to say that in person and remember, and he can only hope that you’ll be able to wait for him.

Over centuries, songs and sonnets were written that of soulmates, souls of stars with people names that gravitate towards each other, who will find each other no matter where they are. Soulmates who are supposed to complete one another. The meeting of soulmates that were supposed to be a big turning point in their lives; a clear and permanent division before and after two paths crossed.

So then, what song would be written about you and Jake? What poem would be written of the two souls who have crossed each other over and over and over again only in dreams, and yet end up alone with only the barest of traces of the other? What would be whispered of the two souls who only wake up to the vaguest afterimages of the things most important to the other, but an image which never includes them?

Jake’s and your paths have crossed again and again, inadvertently and unknowingly, never intentional and never permanent, each meeting creating only small ripples in the stream that are your lives.

But then again, if one were to look at it, what is life but a collection of small decisions? Those ripples, small as they are, have amounted to massive turning points of your life, and the both of you find that after each time your paths have crossed, the two of you have come out wanting to change, wanting to be a better, happier version of yourselves.

And what better soulmates can you get that those who help the other be better, accept the other as they are, those who complement the other without completing them. What better than soulmates who accept and believe in you as you are, and yet still inspire you to seek out the best version of yourselves?

You look out into the night sky from your window, your bedroom now more warmly decorated thanks to Jessy, pictures and furniture littered across the room. Your cherished mini garden of blue irises is placed on your window sill (you insisted on growing iris buds when Jessy brought you shopping), and on your tabletop, a sticky note with the name and number of a therapist who you will be calling for an appointment tomorrow.

Out there somewhere, Jake packs his travel essentials, looking at the map on his laptop now with only 70 places marked. Just as Lilly predicted, tapping into more classified military surveillance data allows him to cross off many more places, a hefty shave from the original 150, but with his condition, it would still take a considerable time to check off each of this list. In his hand, a backpack containing all his medical essentials and documentation (courtesy of the more pragmatic Lilly) and around his wrist, a charm bracelet with the charms of tens of white magnolias and red chrysanthemums (courtesy of the more romantic Hannah).

Tomorrow, you begin again with hope of being a better person for yourself. Tomorrow, he is prioritizing himself and begins to find happiness for himself.

And everyday, your paths cross only in the place of dreams, one soul asleep while the other awake, but with every step you take, you draw closer and closer until the day comes when you will return beside each other.

More Chapters

pt i: wandering around the far ends of the sky

pt ii: weaknesses that you don't show anyone

pt iii: in the midst of time, let's meet

pt iv: a place where you can be at ease

pt v: rendezvous under the twinkling starry sky

pt vi: to return besides my beloved you

MC followed suit, trust fated her bond with Jake long ago. Secrets became a foreign phenomenon to them, tying both of their souls tighter together, day by day.

“Jake! Careful!” MC shouted. In the heat of his eagerness, Jake had picked up his pace and almost made him and her tumble to the ground. “You’re gonna hurt yourself!”

As they ventured along the coastline, she pictured all kinds of places Jake could take her. Fields filled with flowers, a deep blue deserted bay, a waterfall they’d share a long and passionate kiss under.

Although, her imagination was beyond underestimating the extent of the beauty she would witness in mere seconds.

The sacred sight of a cave’s entrance struck Jake’s vision, making him smile like a foolish child. It was everything he wished to do, introduce MC to all the beauty hidden behind the face of earth.

Fatigued light coated the entryway. MC’s interest was piqued, her eyes, curious as a puppy, inspected the way Jake was leading her along, the place he likely was aiming for.

One final glance back, one final grin, shot through Jake’s face as he turned around. MC couldn’t stop the small laugh inside her throat. His face shone with so much excitement and happiness, it reminded her of a young kitten chasing a ball of tin foil.

Colorful lights crossed their way as they stepped foot into the translucent cave, a gasp resonating from MC’s direction. With carefulness and a pleased smirk Jake led her along the trails made of stone. The walls and ceiling were lined with hundreds and hundreds of luminous crystals, large as trees. A place long forgotten, long untouched by humanity.

Serene ocean waves sang their gentle songs through hues of pink and blue. MC’s gaze wandered in awe, mouth agape, eyes wide open and breath captured inside her lungs.

Jake maneuvered her through the cave with ease and confidence, determination edging his frame.

His gaze constantly fell behind, an act of assuring himself of MC’s comfort and safety. Each time a smile would climb onto Jake’s face, feelings of love and affection dawning back on him, exactly like the day MC first admitted her interest in him.

Memories of their first meeting flared inside Jake’s mind, every so small detail invading his subconscious senses. The way MC’s confident and cheeky self fell into a shy and held-back demeanor, the way it matched so well with those other aspects he fell in love with.

One moment would always linger along this memory. MC’s voice broke off the first time she laughed in his presence, causing his own to erupt into a fit of laughter. It was such a small thing to her, yet it kept a safe and dear place inside his heart.

The image made his skin tingle with happiness.

Jake stopped on top of a bridge nature has carved between two cliffs. He turned around, dedicating every fiber of himself to MC. Her smile was comforting, eyes so soft and excited it made his stomach feel bubbly.

With all gentleness he was capable to collect he caressed MC’s cheek, making new sparks ignite inside her chest. She understood they were thinking of the same day, the same faithful evening. Those colors the crystals were illuminating enlightened Jake’s face and irises with a capturing trance. MC savored every piece of this moment, imprinted every shade and detail in her head.

The gap between them closed and their eyelids fell shut. MC combed her hand through Jake’s hair before letting it rest on his cheek, lightly pulling him closer. Thunder rang inside their hearts and veins, every kiss they shared felt like the first one over and over.

They broke apart. MC chuckled, closing in to rest her hand and head on Jake’s chest. He pulled her into an embrace, holding her softly as a thin piece of porcelain.

After eons he pulled away. He led her farther into the cave, walking on and on as MC followed him suit.

The crystals formed a harmony of blue, pink and grey the deeper they went, the more they dove into the secrecy of this hidden place. Eventually a large, clearing like area laid ahead. Sparkles on the floor shimmered in the colors of the shining stones around. A glowing, ashen like shine entwined the place, the calmness of the moon seeping into Jake’s and MC’s frames.

In the middle of it all Jake peacefully pulled MC down with him, observing her reaction with attention and excitement. She seemed happy, awestruck.

Both sat in lulled silence, listening to the harmony the ocean melodies were offering.

Once more Jake looked aside, expression falling at MC’s now faded smile. She didn’t resemble an image of confidence anymore, more so she looked unsatisfied and drifted away in the wrong thoughts. She tugged on her crop top and attempted to pull her already high-waisted jeans higher.

Jake examined her with caution. No long after he recognized the root of the problem. A sting made itself present inside his chest, the thought of MC minimalizing herself to something so small, so natural ached him.

He scooped closer to her, wrapping his arm around MC and placing his hand under hers on the crop top.

No muscle of hers moved, no word of hers was spoken. Jake placed a kiss on her temple. Offering reassurance to someone wasn’t one of his core strengths.

“Hey, look” He whispered, pulling back from MC and greatening their distance vaguely. Her focus parted away from her invalidating thoughts, briefly finding serenity inside Jake’s voice.

Jake pulled his shirt up, squeezing the rolls his belly now had due to sitting down. “I have them too!”

A surprised and grateful smile slithered onto MC’s expression, contaminating Jake to join in. He remembered all those times she comforted him on his darkest of days. Somehow she had always managed to demonstrate him he wasn’t alone, proved his emotions weren’t suffocating him with no opportunity for escape. The least he could do was attempting to pay her back the exact same way.

They laid back down onto the ground, a deep breath passing MC’s lips and leaving Jake to wonder. Was his attempt enough?

The moon shone brightly onto their faces. MC reached out, fingers stretched out and arm extended, longing to touch the moon, longing to take off into the sky and leaving behind nothing but scattered memories and insecurities. Desiring to take Jake’s hand and walk the moon’s cold surface.

Her daydream was interrupted by fingers intertwining with hers. Jake softly pulled her hand down to his mouth, placing light kisses on its back over and over until he rested it on his chest. His eyelids fell shut to quiet giggles of MC, a soft breeze of fresh adrenaline rushing through his veins.

Peaceful silence, nothing but waves and their thin breaths were heard.

A quiet weep took MC off guard. She drew her attention to Jake, rolling onto her side and gaze lingering on him with a worried, unfelt touch. A tear on Jake’s face betrayed what his mouth wanted to say, rendering him silent instead of telling excuses.

“Love…?”

One word. One word was all it took to disarm him. A smile, soft as the silver light, formed on Jake’s lips at MC’s innocent whisper.

His reaction evermore confused MC. Jake’s hand increased strength and pressure around hers, pushing it even further into his chest. He swung his free arm to cover his eyes, a low laugh crackling from his mouth and warming MC’s senses.

Jake’s head turned to look at her. Her breath hitched, a warm sensation running over her body as MC looked into his mellow gaze. His eyes gleamed with admiration, void of all the saddened emotions she expected to see.

No words were exchanged.

Yet both souls understood.

Jake’s thumb tenderly brushed over MC’s on his chest. Lost in lights of silver, blue and pink on her face, his brain froze the moment and relished and memorized every inch of MC’s features. Her grace dimmed the light of the crystals, made them look like child’s play, like a flower amongst many. So ordinary, so normal.

“I cannot believe I found someone like you.” A soft mutter ranked through Jake’s voice. MC chuckled, cheeks heating up with the bliss his words brought into her spirit.

“Likewise”

For minutes they laid on the crystal dusted ground, doing nothing but gazing at one another. Their hearts fluttered inside their chests as subtle shivers and trembles crept through their bodies.

Overwhelmed by emotions Jake looked skywards, vision grazing the lenient moonlight. The illusion of a small cottage on top of a cliff, blacked out by the bright shine of a full moon appeared in front of Jake’s inner eye. Outside he’d sit with MC, stargazing, holding hands and enjoying nothing but the night and each other’s presence. The home he had dreamed for both of them.

Sudden movement interrupted his imagination. MC laid curled up beside him, her head rested on his stomach and her hand still firmly held onto Jake’s on his chest. A sight so divine, so angelic he desired to never move again.

MC’s gaze lingered on their hands, the beauty of a million cherry petals on top of a flowing river sparkling inside her eyes. She made him feel at ease, made him feel like he doesn’t need to fantasize about a perfect home. Any place with her was more perfect than the most gracious of mansions, the most comfortable of apartments and more home than any house could provide.

Jake laid his head back down, closing his eyes and snaking his free arm around MC.

Their souls were at peace. A tranquil moment they shared, enough to tighten their bond, their trust, to a point unfathomable by human mind.

A tranquil moment, enough to erase the rest of the world out of their heads.

-----

Disclaimer: In which a day of doodling my favorite anime and listening to my favorite EXO song brings me to pull a WandaVision, where I took the Duskwood characters and make them star in my fabricated AU. Mess galore. The characters does not belong to me, however all writings are mine. Potential T/W: This fic includes themes of illnesses (both physical and mental) and non-graphic implications of attempted suicide that could be distressing. Read at your own discretion.

Masterlist

pt. i: wandering around the far ends of the sky

pt ii: weaknesses that you don't show anyone

pt iii: in the midst of time, let's meet