The Flowers He Gave Me |Kim Namjoon|

04. the man with the flowers

– the man with the flowers –

A BREEZE ACCOMPANIES BINNA AND ME between the fields of grass and many kinds of sown flowers. My locks dance with, twirling around in the air as the breeze wishes. I slowly stroke Binna's hair as her head's resting upon my lap. She's staring at the wonders of the sky above us. Her eyes show me hundreds of thoughts flooding her. Yet, she stays utterly silent, watching the clouds pass.

My mind's somewhere else–with someone else perhaps. Though I am enjoying the birds' song of their own unique chirping, I tap my pen upon the notebook, which is gently placed on a bed of grass, writing a song of my own.

Pink.

Purple.

White.

I definitely cannot think of the wildflowers surrounding us. They're not the flowers that are resting in the pocket of my woollen jacket. They're not the kind he's given me. Somehow... I feel the weight of the three specific Clematises in my clothing. They don't weigh anything, and yet, they outweigh any of my other thoughts. Their giver does, anyway.

Tap tap tap

"What are you thinking of?" Binna asks quietly. I'm not sure if she's even aware of the question she asked herself.

"Flowers," I reply instantly–not a lie.

"You're writing about flowers?"

I turn my gaze to the words written on the yellowish paper.

The man with the flowers.

"Sort of."

Binna's finger touches a white and purple petal of a gorgeous lily. The delicate flower moves backward, her human strength too harsh for the plant. "Which flower?" she asks eventually.

My lips remain a line as I watch the palette of colours surrounding us two. If I could paint or draw, I'd paint this picture a thousand times over. With the sun high up the sky, it looks like a place one can only dream of. It is magical with its music created by nature and colours coming from the many flowers.

My friend turns; her eyes fall on me. there's a devious smile lighting up her face. She notices my unmistakable inattention. She grabs her chance and folds her fingers secretly around the notebook that belongs to me. The words that I've put into songs, the texts written when I needed to write down my story are bare now, for her to read. I see it all happen, but I let her. There's no untruth imprinted on the pages. There's nothing to hide from her.

"Stars all over the place," she begins reading out loud in nothing but a bare whisper. She smiles, then. I can't read the exact emotion behind it. "Clematises," she states after a couple of more seconds. "In a whole field of flowers you're writing about the one flower that does not grow here." Her head turns my way again. I keep on staring in front of me, at the beauty of it all.

Binna and I come here regularly. If it isn't to spend the day writing songs, it's to ramble about our lives. Sometimes we scream at the top of our lungs. It's the only place where we can and are allowed to. Nature doesn't scolds us for doing so. It understands.

"There are several here with us, though," I tell her. My hand reaches into my pocket. My finger explore the soft fabric until they find what they're searching for–three clematises. They rest in the palm of my hand as I bring them out in the open. My fingers uncurl, and Binna watches closely as the sunlight falls upon each and every one of them.

In the warmth and light of the sun, the three flowers look sorrowful to the eye. They've begun drying up already. They're dying.

"He's gotten into your head, huh?"