The streets were quiet, some apartments were still lit, and Aeri smiled at the sight. She arrived in town with a small suitcase and a heart too full of silence to tell anyone why she’d come.
She told the gentleman to whom she rented her apartment to that she was here to find a muse, someone or something that would rekindle the flame burning inside her. She wanted to paint the city the way it was, alive. The atmosphere reminded her of stories she hadn’t painted yet.
On her third night there, she found Jimin, or maybe Jimin found her.
She had sat down in a café in a district far from the center. The lights were warm, jazz was playing in the background, and the espresso she had ordered was a bit too bitter for her liking, but it was part of the experience.
She had been sketching the scene unfolding before her when Jimin sat down across from her without asking. She wore a grey hoodie that was way too big for her, and her eyes carried something unreadable, like she had lived too many stories.
“Your hands,” Jimin said softly, looking at Aeri’s sketchbook, “you draw like you’ve been through a lot.”
Aeri blinked and arched a brow. “And you?” she asked, gesturing at the notebook on Jimin’s lap.
Jimin’s lips curved into a small smile. “Well, I'd like for people not to forget my name when I die."
That was the first thing they said to each other; it wasn’t small talk, because they both knew that it was futile. It was just two souls that had met and recognized each other, in a place where the broken ones ended up.
They parted ways after their discussion, but they saw each other again the next day, and the day after. Aeri knew that chance didn’t exist; she was bound to cross Jimin’s path.
They met again near the river. Jimin was holding a camera, and Aeri a cigarette that she was barely smoking.
“You followed me,” Aeri said, taking a drag.
Jimin tilted her head, a faint smile on her lips. “I just go where beautiful things are.”
Aeri didn’t know how to respond to that, so she looked away, her gaze landing on two women laughing.
Jimin walked beside her silently. Aeri didn’t mind, because it meant that she was not alone. She had someone to share her loneliness with. Someone with whom she could observe the city, afraid that it might disappear the day after.
Jimin never asked about Aeri’s paintings, and Aeri never asked about the notebook Jimin carried. They wandered through the city together like two souls that couldn’t afford anything permanent.
One night, after too much wine and too little time, Jimin’s head rested on Aeri’s shoulder. They sat on a rooftop, looking up at the stars.
“I hate the stars here,” Jimin said quietly.
Aeri turned her head slightly. “Why is that?”
“Because they look close enough for us to touch them,” she murmured, “but they’re still light years away.”
A faint smile appeared on Aeri’s lips, and she rested her head on top of Jimin’s head.
By their second week of quiet meetings and understanding, Aeri started to notice the bruises. Jimin always wore long sleeves, even when the weather was hot enough for people to start complaining.
She had noticed it when they were buying groceries in the city’s market. Jimin had reached to grab a tomato, and her sleeve had rolled up just enough for Aeri to notice.
She never brought up the subject, and Jimin never said anything about it. They simply continued to pretend, because an illusion was better than what might have been hiding beneath the surface.
Aeri started painting her more often. At first, it was by memory, then by sight. Jimin would sit on the edge of the bed, reading out loud lines from her book that was damaged by the passage of time. Aeri captured every detail as though trying to preserve something that was already fading.
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