His gaze stopped at the opposite side of the street, where leaves slowly fell from the trees. With every movement of the clock's hands, he would rotate the pen in his hand once, and with each rotation of the pen, dry leaves scattered around.
Akson sat with his chin resting on his hand at the lecture desk by the window, often staring outside like this whenever sleepiness took over him.
It seemed that the tree was the only thing that caught his attention at that moment.
"Keep love in your heart..."
He disliked the word "fall," but he liked how the leaves fell. It was a gentle descent, free from any pain in that moment.
"A life without love is like a garden without sunlight.
It is only withering, decaying, and disappearing."
"When the flowers wither and die..."
The professor's words called him back to look at the speaker, and just then, it felt like their eyes met. A smile appeared on the middle-aged woman’s face.
"Akson."
"Yes?"
"Do you agree with this quote from Oscar Wilde?"
"Can I have another round, please?"
"Keep love in your heart. A life without love is like a garden without sunlight. When the flowers wither and die."
The young man’s heart raced. His body trembled with fear every time he had to answer a question in class, even this one, where he wanted to tear apart each sentence and analyze it thoroughly. But in theory, he was too inexperienced to understand anything easily.
"If I were in a garden without sunlight, with dry and withered flowers that had died, no one would want to come and offer love to me or my garden, Professor."
The instructor raised an eyebrow, her eyes sparkling. What the young man had said was quite interesting in terms of communication and the state of being devoid of feeling.
"So you must go out and seek it."
"Is the love we seek truly love?" His hand continued to calmly twirl the pen. He was quite satisfied with his response, so much so that the professor gave him a slight smile and spoke words that made him pause and think.
"Does that mean you are content to stay with your half-dead garden and the wreckage of your flowers... is that so?"
Akson fell silent upon hearing the question. The professor continued to smile at him, the smile clearly indicating that we were not debating knowledge, but rather experience.
So in reality, had he always been in a garden of death and broken flowers...?
A garden without a mother's love, and the things his father gave him may not have been love. It was a rotten garden that he never tried to seek any other love from, not even opening the door to let anyone in.
"Besides, not only is the sun’s light absent, but electricity hasn't even reached my garden," he replied with a laugh in his throat, pleased that his friends also chuckled along, even though it was soft. At least he should show that he wasn't concerned with it. Nothing should disrupt him to this extent.
"It seems that the midterm exam will involve some analysis of this topic," the professor shrugged, turning back to the projector screen displaying the literary analysis lesson. Akson had no idea how the professor had connected the discussion to Oscar Wilde earlier.
The young man raised an eyebrow, his fingers—usually twirling a pen—suspended mid-motion. He then bent down to jot the earlier sentence into his notebook.
Keep love in your heart.
A life without love is like a sunless garden
when the flowers are withered and dead.
When the class ended, he walked out of the room, reaching for air faintly scented with coffee to breathe. Walking into the café in front of the building seemed the best option at that moment.
"What can I get you?"
"Iced Americano."
"Regular sweetness?"
"Two pumps of syrup."
"Regular sweetness, right?"
"Oh... um," the young man responded in a flat tone, only now realizing that two pumps of syrup equaled the regular sweetness here.
"Name, please?"
"Akson," he answered curtly, busy fishing for cash in his trouser pocket. He counted coins until they totaled the exact price of the coffee, just as the iced Americano was handed to him.
"Thank you."
He did not respond with anything except walking out the door of the shop. Today, he returned to his room with the air carrying a faint scent of coffee in every breath...
Akson walked slowly past the tree that he had been watching almost throughout the literature analysis class. The branches swayed as though waving hello as he stopped to gaze from the base of the trunk all the way to the tip of the leaves.
"Have you ever wanted to drink coffee, tree?"
Of course, his question was met with silence. But the fact that a leaf fell in front of him before he extended his free hand to catch it was answer enough for the question.
The young man stared at the lifeless leaf in his hand, feeling frustrated. The phrase "when flowers wither and die" was making his head spin. He wanted to vomit out those flowers from his thoughts, but it was good enough that this place still had sunlight.
Akson sighed, took a sip of his Americano, and then continued walking. No one dies from having letters engraved in their minds, and from now on, he would try not to think about it.
Including the two pumps of syrup, which were too much for the sweetness he wanted.
Wanting to spend as much time as possible with his coffee this evening, he chose to walk back to his dorm instead of taking a motorcycle taxi. The path he once passed had become clearer as he stopped to observe, absorbing every movement of the soft sunlight that would soon fade. Then Akson realized that the distance from the classroom building to the dorm was just enough for one large cold Americano.
"Hello."
The deep voice echoed when he closed the door to his room. Akson let his sluggish body fall onto the bed after taking off his shoes and carelessly placing his bag in some corner of the room. He was slow, even in responding to the person who had returned to the room earlier.
"Good, have you been back long?"
"A while now."
"Mm."
"You look tired today."
"Something's bothering me."
"Oh?"
Akson turned to look at the mirror. That kid wasn’t paying him much attention, absorbed in the book he was reading. Songcham was always like that—never prying but always a good listener.
"Are you reading?"
"Do you want to tell me about it...?" Songcham asked back, well aware that the other person was looking for someone to talk to.
"But I don’t want to interrupt your reading."
"I actually want a break." Songcham knew the other person wouldn’t believe what he said, but this was a clear confirmation that he was indeed ready to listen.
Akson narrowed his eyes before finally speaking.
"There’s a sentence that keeps going around in my head, and it’s confusing and disorienting."
"Is it a sentence you like?"
"Not exactly like, but it’s impactful enough."
"Write it down," Songcham said. "You told me yourself that a writer expresses the letters that are stuck in their head through what they write." He put down the book and turned the chair to face the other person seriously about this matter. However, the senior classmate just shook his head, still lying in the same position, staring at the ceiling.
"But I'm not a writer."
"You said you wanted to be a writer. If you don’t start writing, then when will you be one?"
Akson went silent, blinking as if holding his worries for just a moment before sitting up on the bed to face the younger boy directly.
"I don’t know how to start, Songcham."
"Try it first," Songcham encouraged.
Akson lowered his head, avoiding eye contact for the first time.
"The truth is, I don’t even know who I’m writing for."
"For you," Songcham replied. "You just want to write."
"A piece of writing that no one reads is like a writer talking to themselves."
Songcham thought for a moment. He should have a better reason to console and encourage someone, rather than just saying something casual. This time, he had made his decision.
"For me, then. I want to read it."
"For you..." Akson was considering the possibility of writing. Even though he had given up on it several times before, it had never mattered because no one was expecting anything. But this time, it was different. "You’re the first person who wants to read my work."
"Is that so?"
"What do you expect to read from me?"
"Everything that you write..." Songcham replied with a smile, before going back to reading his book immediately once the other person nodded in agreement, taking out a notebook and jotting things down on his own.
But Akson still didn’t understand and wasn’t sure how much he would have to hurt himself in order to write something. He had grown up with his mother’s book drafts, dozens of them, each one a fragment that his mother had told and retold countless times. He couldn’t understand why someone would be willing to mutilate themselves for their own work like that.
Akson stared at the figure still sitting in the same position. He had heard that studying medicine wasn’t easy, but seeing Songcham reading so intensely every day made him worry even more.
Or maybe everyone was consuming themselves in the same way...
The balcony, with the curtain left open, was turning into a large picture frame. A painter, or perhaps more than one, was painting today’s sky a deep pink. The brush dipped down to the sun, which was slowly setting. Akson closed his eyes, soaking in the feeling of this evening, a place where he existed, where the sky was without sunlight and flowers might fall and die.
Kreeeed~
Everything hung suspended in that moment when his phone in his pocket vibrated with a notification from the department’s group chat. Everyone was talking about a novel Akson didn’t know. Of course, he didn’t have to pay attention to it, if not for the title that appeared in the link.
'Akson in Memory'
It shattered the stillness of the day completely.
He clicked on the novel page immediately, expecting it to be a coincidence that had both his and Songcham's names in it. But the coincidence no longer seemed believable since the moment they met in that mirror.
And yes, including right now as well.
Akson's eyes widened. His finger, scrolling through his phone screen, trembled with a strange feeling that rushed in. Every sentence he read confirmed the existence of this novel.
How could this be...?
The novel titled Akson in Memory was truly about him and Songcham!
He looked up at the sound of a call. Songcham, holding several vinyl records, furrowed his brow. The young man looked troubled about choosing a song today.
"Help me pick a song."
Akson was still confused by the events that were intertwining into a knot in his mind right now. He stared at Songcham for a moment before jolting when the other snapped his fingers loudly.
And everything returned to the real world...
"Uh-huh," he replied softly, shaking off the various thoughts and walked to the mirror to help choose the vinyl record they would listen to together. But believe me, as he was considering the appearance of the records, his mind was still lingering on the page of the novel.
"You’re taking so long," Songcham said.
"This one will do." Akson randomly pointed to the first record, then smiled awkwardly at the young man, who nodded contentedly at the choice.
"This song is perfect for dancing." Songcham immediately went to play the music. The melody that filled the air didn’t make Akson lost in the rays of sunlight as much as the tall figure that came to bow in front of the mirror.
"What?"
"Dance with me for a song, please."
It wasn’t clear whether it was the smile or the playful eyes of the young man that made Akson nod in agreement, unavoidable. He gave a slight bow before they both danced together in front of the same mirror. The flowers in the garden slowly bloomed...
Their laughter echoed alongside the music playing. With awkward movements and a dance that couldn't bring their bodies together, it wasn’t easy at all.
"You've never danced before, have you?" Songcham asked.
"Why? Do I look ridiculous?"
"Well, if we actually danced together, you’d probably step on my feet many times," Songcham said, half-joking. But the other person laughed at this, and that made him smile.
"I like this song."
"I like it too."
Akson made eye contact with the reflection in the mirror. Strangely, he no longer remembered the words of Oscar Wilde clearly, because there was something far clearer than that.
That was the first meeting of two people, through a mirror, and we were not in the same place!
The tagline in that novel...
"You look absent-minded."
"I know, Songcham."
"Is it about that bothersome sentence?"
"That's part of it." Akson sighed, stepping in rhythm with the music as the two of them looked at each other. "Lately, it's all been strange things."
"Like us, right?"
"That’s the strangest part."
"For me, it’s a strange thing, but not entirely bad."
Akson nodded in agreement. While he didn’t think that meeting each other was a bad thing, if Songcham found out about that novel, would it make things worse?
Because if it did, he didn’t want Songcham to know.
"Why do you want to be a doctor, hmm?"
"I’m not sure either."
"That’s great. Even though you don’t know, you’re still putting everything into it. You’ll definitely grow up to be a great doctor," Akson gently stroked the mirror, his fingers feeling the cold surface of the object instead of the warm, soft skin of the future doctor’s face.
"Your hand is warm."
He knew Songcham was lying because the large hand pressed against the same spot on the mirror didn’t make any change to the temperature of his hand. But for now, Akson chose to believe that his hand was warm.
"Your hand is warm too."
Our conversation ended there, before the music became the lullaby for the quiet, lonely room and the two owners of the room returned to their own spaces, spaces where the sun slowly cast its light in a hushed manner...
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