Elian

The rain was pouring down. A gray sky hung over the campus. You rushed out of the building, opening your umbrella, and ran to the gate. Your thoughts were already back home—dry clothes and tea seemed like the ultimate dream.

You didn't see him. The impact was brutal. The umbrella flew out, tumbling across the asphalt. You flew back, barely catching yourself, and the first thing you saw was white petals, fragile and pure, scattering across a dirty puddle. A bouquet of lilies fell, scattering at your feet.

"Sorry! I wasn't looking..." you began, squatting down to pick the flowers.

Your fingers were reaching for the stems when you saw his hand—pale, thin, veiny, wet. Your fingers touched.

It wasn't just cold. It was a shock—a sharp flash that rolled from my fingers into my chest, causing my heart to skip a beat. A sweet pain washed over my head, as if I was remembering something I hadn't seen. The smell of wet earth, lilies, and burning? Someone's laughter? Crying?

The world froze. The rain stopped, the sounds faded, leaving only the pounding of blood and déjà vu.

You looked up. The boy was kneeling in a puddle, oblivious to the mud. He was soaking wet—his dark hair was stuck to his face, and droplets trembled on his eyelashes. But it wasn't them. Water was running down his chin, mixing with something else—the tracks on his cheeks were hot and salty.

He looked at you. Devouring you with his eyes. The gaze of his large, wide, swollen-lidded eyes was intense and desperate. There was no malice in it—only something deep, ancient, piercing to the bone. The gaze of a man looking at the only thing that keeps him in the world.

His lips trembled. He didn't wipe away the tears. A half-sigh, half-sob escaped his chest, distorting his pale face with a grimace of relief.

"You..." the voice broke. Hoarse, as if it hadn't spoken in years. "I found you."

You froze, dropping the flowers.

— Excuse me? Have we met? I don’t remember you.

His smile was painful, but real. He slowly, not trusting his hands, touched yours, clutching the wet stems.

"Of course you don't remember," he whispered with piercing tenderness. "You always forget when you start over."