But as you walked back home, you couldn't figure out what scared you more.

How you forgot Heeseung, or how you didn't seem to mind forgetting him.

How not a single tear slipped across your skin.

How not a single voice mentally tore you apart inside out.

How could you?

How could you let yourself live?

Just how could you let yourself live without the pictures, the memories plaguing your very existence?

How could you not allow yourself to be a mere mosaic of ink and tears?

Swallowing your manually-implanted guilt- you look up to glance at the sky.

You gazed intently at how the clouds chewed upon the very wind that gave them the freedom to float however they pleased.

Maybe, just maybe, you don't mind when the line between 'is' and 'was' finally starts to blur.

But as you walked back home, you couldn't figure out what scared you more.

How you forgot Heeseung, or how you didn't seem to mind forgetting him.

How not a single tear slipped across your skin.

How not a single voice mentally tore you apart inside out.

How could you?

How could you let yourself live?

Just how could you let yourself live without the pictures, the memories plaguing your very existence?

How could you not allow yourself to be a mere mosaic of ink and tears?

Swallowing your manually-implanted guilt- you look up to glance at the sky.

You gazed intently at how the clouds chewed upon the very wind that gave them the freedom to float however they pleased.

Maybe, just maybe, you don't mind when the line between 'is' and 'was' finally starts to blur.

But as you walked back home, you couldn't figure out what scared you more.

How you forgot Heeseung, or how you didn't seem to mind forgetting him.

How not a single tear slipped across your skin.

How not a single voice mentally tore you apart inside out.

How could you?

How could you let yourself live?

Just how could you let yourself live without the pictures, the memories plaguing your very existence?

How could you not allow yourself to be a mere mosaic of ink and tears?

Swallowing your manually-implanted guilt- you look up to glance at the sky.

You gazed intently at how the clouds chewed upon the very wind that gave them the freedom to float however they pleased.

Maybe, just maybe, you don't mind when the line between 'is' and 'was' finally starts to blur.

Your friends and peers told you it would happen when it's time. You always believed it was out of sympathy, but you're grateful to prove your past wrong. In the end, you know you'll never truly forget Riki. Sure, your skin will forget his touch, and your lips will struggle to pronounce his name, but you've learnt how the heart takes longer to forget. You've accepted his departure, and perhaps you'll be okay with cherishing him from afar. You'll be okay with being a streetlamp, flickering from time to time, as opposed to a star, his star that shines so brightly.

You'll be okay.

The pages in betweeen Riki's arrival & departure will be a remembrance. A remembrance to what? That you do not know, but something to remember nonetheless.

And one day, maybe tommorow or the day after—

He'll just be a stranger you know everything about.

Your friends and peers told you it would happen when it's time. You always believed it was out of sympathy, but you're grateful to prove your past wrong. In the end, you know you'll never truly forget Riki. Sure, your skin will forget his touch, and your lips will struggle to pronounce his name, but you've learnt how the heart takes longer to forget. You've accepted his departure, and perhaps you'll be okay with cherishing him from afar. You'll be okay with being a streetlamp, flickering from time to time, as opposed to a star, his star that shines so brightly.

You'll be okay.

The pages in betweeen Riki's arrival & departure will be a remembrance. A remembrance to what? That you do not know, but something to remember nonetheless.

And one day, maybe tommorow or the day after—

He'll just be a stranger you know everything about.

Your friends and peers told you it would happen when it's time. You always believed it was out of sympathy, but you're grateful to prove your past wrong. In the end, you know you'll never truly forget Riki. Sure, your skin will forget his touch, and your lips will struggle to pronounce his name, but you've learnt how the heart takes longer to forget. You've accepted his departure, and perhaps you'll be okay with cherishing him from afar. You'll be okay with being a streetlamp, flickering from time to time, as opposed to a star, his star that shines so brightly.

You'll be okay.

The pages in betweeen Riki's arrival & departure will be a remembrance. A remembrance to what? That you do not know, but something to remember nonetheless.

And one day, maybe tommorow or the day after—

He'll just be a stranger you know everything about.

Your friends and peers told you it would happen when it's time. You always believed it was out of sympathy, but you're grateful to prove your past wrong. In the end, you know you'll never truly forget Riki. Sure, your skin will forget his touch, and your lips will struggle to pronounce his name, but you've learnt how the heart takes longer to forget. You've accepted his departure, and perhaps you'll be okay with cherishing him from afar. You'll be okay with being a streetlamp, flickering from time to time, as opposed to a star, his star that shines so brightly.

You'll be okay.

The pages in betweeen Riki's arrival & departure will be a remembrance. A remembrance to what? That you do not know, but something to remember nonetheless.

And one day, maybe tommorow or the day after—

He'll just be a stranger you know everything about.

Or how his lips curled upwards whenever the mention of tiramisu was involved.

How he'd use to the edges of your notes to make paper stars.

How Sunghoon despised wearing turtlenecks since the fabric clinged to your neck.

How he never squeezed toothpaste when it ran out because its 'borderline psychotic.'

How he preferred daffodils over daisies.

You still find him in the gaps between your essays, or the flame you so desperately try to put out.

Because this isn't a love story, it never was. But as you write, you still think of what could have been.

Or how his lips curled upwards whenever the mention of tiramisu was involved.

How he'd use to the edges of your notes to make paper stars.

How Sunghoon despised wearing turtlenecks since the fabric clinged to your neck.

How he never squeezed toothpaste when it ran out because its 'borderline psychotic.'

How he preferred daffodils over daisies.

You still find him in the gaps between your essays, or the flame you so desperately try to put out.

Because this isn't a love story, it never was. But as you write, you still think of what could have been.

Or how his lips curled upwards whenever the mention of tiramisu was involved.

How he'd use to the edges of your notes to make paper stars.

How Sunghoon despised wearing turtlenecks since the fabric clinged to your neck.

How he never squeezed toothpaste when it ran out because its 'borderline psychotic.'

How he preferred daffodils over daisies.

You still find him in the gaps between your essays, or the flame you so desperately try to put out.

Because this isn't a love story, it never was. But as you write, you still think of what could have been.

Or how his lips curled upwards whenever the mention of tiramisu was involved.

How he'd use to the edges of your notes to make paper stars.

How Sunghoon despised wearing turtlenecks since the fabric clinged to your neck.

How he never squeezed toothpaste when it ran out because its 'borderline psychotic.'

How he preferred daffodils over daisies.

You still find him in the gaps between your essays, or the flame you so desperately try to put out.

Because this isn't a love story, it never was. But as you write, you still think of what could have been.

Or how his lips curled upwards whenever the mention of tiramisu was involved.

How he'd use to the edges of your notes to make paper stars.

How Sunghoon despised wearing turtlenecks since the fabric clinged to your neck.

How he never squeezed toothpaste when it ran out because its 'borderline psychotic.'

How he preferred daffodils over daisies.

You still find him in the gaps between your essays, or the flame you so desperately try to put out.

Because this isn't a love story, it never was. But as you write, you still think of what could have been.