I look around for something, anything after spending few hours at the shore.

I squint my eyes to see a bar in my line of sight.

I feel my stomach growl so I stand up and slip into my shoes and walk towards it.

The planks of wood creak under my weight as I clutch the strap to my bag tightly, the building getting bigger and bigger as I get closer.

From here, I can tell it's a restaurant cluttered with people. Some sit at the tall tables set up along the pier, giving them the perfect view of the beach, and an even better one of the Yellow sea.

It's like breathing in fresh air.

Taking a step closer to the railing, I close my eyes and lean my head back to soak in the sun's warmth. My fingers curl around the chipped white paint of the railing, picking at it before exhaling and letting my eyes wander.

Love Maze in purple is painted along the white panels leading up to the open takeout window, the natural wood ledge perfect for bags of food being picked up.

A small sigh falls from my lips as I trail my finger along the edge of the rail until I reach the front entrance. Sunlight bleeds in through the tall windows—it's the perfect beachside restaurant.

No need for artificial lighting with the room bleeding in warmth.

My eyes trail the window until they land on the white and green 'We're Hiring' sign in the window.

As soon as I step inside, I'm met with years of history written on the walls in old signs and aged license plates placed up as decoration.

The wooden beams and strips of wood line the roof with pillars of support sectioning the floor. Not everything matches, but it adds character.

I scan the dining room for a hostess stand but find a sign letting customers know to find their own seat.

I take a tentative step forward, looking for a place to sit and find the perfect booth in the restaurant's corner near the front with the perfect view.

Sliding onto the wooden bench, lined with a soft cushion, I slip the strap of my bag over my head and set the bag securely next to my side.

My fingertips are numb against the smooth finish on the wood as I reach for the menu in the silver rack holding cutlery, condiments, and salt and pepper.

My eyes walk over the menu, each item sounding more delicious than the last. Peering around the restaurant, I take in the details of the room; the staff, tables, and chatter of families in for dinner.

Everything about this place feels cozy, reminding me of home and the place my family always used to go before my dad left us.

Everything changed after that.

"I'm here, I'm here!" My head turns at the commotion and the surfer from the beach walked in.

His blue hair is still damp from the sea water, and he's taller than he looked on the surfboard.

Much taller.

From here, I can see his boxy smile spreading across his lips as he shakes away the water from his hair. His smile is like a lightning rod. His hair...smooth like the ocean waves.

I sink further in my chair as I turn away from him, letting my sight land back on the menu set out in front of me. I try to focus on the items on the laminated sheet, but I'm distracted by his voice.

It's low...smooth and warm.

While I try to ignore the pit of nerves that fill my stomach at the thought of talking to him, I can't. But when he walks up to my table as he ties a coffee-colored apron around his waist, I have no choice but to face them.

"Hey there." He smiles brightly. "Sorry about the wait."

"It's fine." I shake my head, brushing off his apology as I look up to meet his gaze.

If I wasn't sitting down, I might just fall over. He's the definition of an angel on earth.

His eyes, the kind you can fall into—deep...deep ocean. The most intriguing part was the colour of them. It reminded me of the sea, the exact green of the sea. His hair to his eyes to his face...He looked like coming home.

But what made me unsettling was the look of curiosity that crosses his face when our eyes meet, and it quickly drops as his lips curl into a smirk.

"You aren't from around here, are you?"

I lift an eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"

"I grew up here, and it's a small town," he says with a shrug as he digs into his apron for his notepad. "I'm pretty familiar with everyone around here, and the tourists are usually all the same. You're different though."

"Based on what?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I'm going to figure it out," he promises, narrowing his eyes before flashing the same charming smile as before. "Where are you from?"

"Does it matter?" I ask.

"Not one for the questions, huh?" He hums out his assumption before nodding to himself, as if making a mental note. "How about I just take your order then?"

"I'm not sure what to get yet," I tell him. "Everything sounds really good."

"How about I make you a deal? You let me pick something out for you, if you don't like it—it's on me, but if you do, you tell me something about yourself."

I search his face to see if he's being serious or not, before deciding to give in.

"Deal."

"Excellent. Any allergies?"

I shake my head.

"Fantastic...I look forward to getting to know you," he teases as he tucks his notepad back into his apron pocket and excuses himself to put my order in, leaving me alone once again.

I resist the urge to turn in my seat and watch him as he walks away, forcing myself to look out the window and the waves crashing along the shore.

The longer I focus on it, the easier it is to ignore my curiosity.

Deciding to distract myself further, I undo the flap on my bag and pull my diary out. The cover is worn in from the last three months of using it, its soft cream coloured cover.

I trail my fingertips over the engraving of my initials at the bottom corner and exhale slowly.

For the last three months, it feels like my journal is the only thing keeping me sane. I have placed every piece of my soul on these pages in one way or another.

No one understands the way I'm feeling, no one but myself, and I know if I were ever to tell anyone—they'd think I'm insane.

It's not normal to talk to your de@d boyfriend.

It's not normal to be holding out hope for them.

Yugyeom is de@d. Had been for almost a year now. But his memories are still as fresh and flowery as I remember it like yesterday.

I've tried to remind myself of that, over and over again, but then again he's here. He is always with me everywhere and it's like he never left.

Things are different, but he's not gone.

Not completely. I can still see him.

I can still talk to him, and maybe that's enough.

Maybe I never have to move on.

Maybe I never have to let go.

"Alright, here we go—one of my favourite things on our menu."

I set my journal to the side when he sets a bowl of noodles in front of me.

The cream sauce coloured with cooked spinach, perfectly pink shrimp, and bacon.

Next to it, he sets a stemless wine glass filled with fresh fruit and peach liquid.

"What's this?" I point to the glass.

"Rum runner."

"And if I don't drink?" I tilt my head. "How do you even know I'm of age?"

"Wild guess?" He hums. "Also, it's non-alcoholic, so you're good either way. Enjoy."

I wanted to say something smug, but it looked delicious.

"Thank you."

"Welcome," he says with a smile, making butterflies appear. "My name's Taehyung, if you need anything else."

"Umm..Taehyung. Can you tell me about this mud festival." I ask rather distracting him.

He raises an eyebrow, "So, that's why you are here." I don't reply but look at him. When he waits for some kind of response and I give none he continues, "Well you see what's better way to be near our origins and mud is just like our next clothing. So, it's just a celebration to promote benefits of mud and all."

"Okay," I say as I reach for a fork, lifting my head again when I notice him lingering.

"So." He grins rather sheepishly.

"So?"

"Umm...You know, usually this is where you tell me your name, not ask questions."

My lips curl up into a frown. "If only you were that lucky."

"Guessing game, huh?" He hums. "Okay, play it that way."

Even if there is a slight annoyance in his voice from my lack of transparency, I still see the corners of his lips curl up as he turns to leave.

The silverware is cold in my hand as I twirl a piece of pasta on the fork, bringing it to my lips. The flavours flow together, and I squeeze my eyes shut to savour the moment before leaning my fork against the side of the bowl and reaching for my journal.

I untangle my pen from the sheets and open to a fresh page, trailing my finger along the blank sheet of paper.  Moving my bowl aside, I rest the tip of my pen against the side—repeating the motion of the digits on the sheet until the lines are thick.

My lips part as I trail my fingertip over the marked up letters and inhale as my eyes shift to the window. The sky suddenly dark, and it takes one glance around the room to notice the lack of people.

The once packed restaurant is now practically empty. I reach into my bag for my phone to check the time and realize I lost not just minutes, but hours of time.