#alienmetaphor

But you couldn’t complain — you were being paid very well, and managing a gallery wasn’t exactly rocket science. Whether in South Korea, America, or Cambodia, the only real obstacle was the language and figuring out what drew a crowd.

At least, that’s what you told yourself when you took the first flight to Seoul — before realizing what you were actually in for: hours of train rides to reach the small towns around the exhibition site… unless you decided to throw in the towel entirely.

You climb into the train once it finally arrives at the station, paying attention to no one but yourself — as usual — and slump into your seat. Your tablet unfolds into a laptop as you start reviewing everything you can’t do on your phone: professional emails, client accounts. Anything to keep your mind busy.

You were a virtuous businesswoman, after all — best not to forget that. Many people depended on your expertise. Even if you were in the middle of a tsunami, you couldn’t give up that easily. Though, an art gallery with nothing left to exhibit wasn’t exactly… ideal.

“- Did you know that the Japanese camellia flower has no scent? Bit strange for a flower, don’t you think?” - Yes.”

You didn’t want to be rude, but he caught you off guard, speaking out of nowhere without invitation. You barely glance up from your screen, still typing, before his deep voice cuts in again.

“- They say all things in nature are alive, but I’ve never seen a rock cry. Have you?”

You let out a slight huff and finally raise your head to look at the man in front of you — just in time to be blinded by the flash of his camera. It takes you several blinks to see anything besides dancing lights, and when you finally do, you shoot him a half-offended, half-annoyed look.

“- Since when do people take photo's of strangers on trains without their consent? - Sorry. You just looked so much like… you. I couldn’t help it.”

He can’t be older than seventeen — messy brown hair with a single green streak falling over his forehead. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in a while, and that thought alone makes your chest tighten. His clothes are dirty, his expression apologetic, and yet he still manages a crooked little smile — the kind people wear to keep themselves from crying.

You just… stare at him for a full minute.

His clothes are grimy, but his hair isn’t greasy — he must be washing it at least somehow. You can’t begin to imagine what he’s been through to end up here. Life throws people into chaos, and most of the time, you don’t even know the half of it — even if they try to tell you.

You finally close your tablet case to focus on him, nodding toward the beat-up camera in his hands.

“- Is it for school? - No. It’s for the aliens. - …Aliens? - Yeah. So they can see life on Earth isn’t all bad. Maybe they won’t want to invade after all. Not that I know why they’d want to.”

He knocks the air right out of you, and you don’t know what to say. A small laugh slips past your lips — it’s the dumbest thing you’ve heard all day, and somehow also the most sincere. The aliens? As if they’d pause at a teenager’s photo album and decide world domination wasn’t necessary.

And now you understand why this poor kid is on a night train.

“- It doesn’t bother me, you know? - What doesn’t? - That you disagree. That maybe you think I’m stupid. I’m used to it — my dad says it all the time.”

Another flash goes off, this time aimed somewhere behind you — maybe a couple, or someone else he found interesting. And your heart clenches at his words.

You feel… stupid. And you’re not even sure why. Maybe you want to apologize — and again, you're not sure why you don’t.

“- One day I’ll do an exhibit. I’ll invite you. - Oh yeah? What will you call it? - ‘A Thousand Reasons Not to Invade Earth.’ - That’s… a lot of reasons.”

He nods solemnly, agreeing with your comment as you just look at him, enveloped in a comfortable silence. And you find yourself wanting to hear more of him. He looks a little lost, and then — flash. A third photo. This time of the train window, and he stares at the image with childlike wonder, like an artist studying his own work. Then, he continues:

“- That way, when they come, they won’t invade us. - Logical. And how exactly do you plan to pull off that miracle? - Well… by showing them life on Earth, like I said. You’re not very good at listening, are you?”

Touché.

You bite your lower lip, brushing a hand through your hair, a little stung by the comment. But maybe that was one of the reasons you wanted to talk to him more — because it felt like maybe you could understand him better than this broken world could.

“- Alright then, what are you planning to show them? Just random snapshots? - Those are the most authentic. If you warn people, they freeze. They try to show their ‘best angles,’ and the photo ends up bad.” - Why would it be bad if they like how they look? - Because it’s not natural. And what isn’t natural isn’t beautiful.”

You don’t fully understand the logic behind what he’s saying, but it hits you somewhere deep. Two more flashes go off, and again, he looks at the images with a sort of quiet reverence — like an artist admiring brushstrokes only he can see.

Maybe he’s just a misunderstood kid. Or maybe he’s a little more naive than most. You shrug — more to yourself than to him — then nod.

“- So, how many photos do you have for the aliens? - Seven hundred and twenty-two. - Only?”

He shrugs this time, and your question feels out of place now that you think about it.

A breath escapes your lips as your right hand smooths down your hair — tied tightly in a bun that’s already giving you a headache. You slip your tablet into your handbag just as the train’s electronic voice announces your stop.

“- What’s your name? - Kim Taehyung. I’m nineteen. I just finished the school year and I’m spending the summer with my grandma. I wish I could stay there — I don’t like being at home. - I understand. I don’t really like being home either.” - Does your dad hit you too? - …No.”

You don’t know what else to say. It feels like a slap in the face. The train stops, and you dig into your purse quickly, pulling out your card as you rise from your seat under his curious gaze.

“- When you have your thousand reasons, call me. I’ll handle your gallery. - Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

And you step off the train with your heart lodged somewhere between your ribs and your throat. You press a hand to your face and take a moment to breathe before diving back into the storm that is your life.