Atlas
How does he know I'm crying when I'm already drenched by the rain?
"How can you tell I'm crying?" I ask him.
"Your tears," he says. "I can see your tears."
Even though the rain is still pouring beneath the tree, we stand there, unmoving, until it finally stops. It's a good question—how does he see my tears through the rain? But I can never explain to him why I'm crying. And I never will.
When the rain stops, we walk away.
My mother is still upset with me. Nothing new there.
My father, on the other hand, always stood by me—at least, until he started fearing her too.
"Where have you been?" he asks the moment I step inside.
I don't answer.
As I head to my room, my mother calls out, "Come have dinner."
I'm starving, but I say, "I'm full."
Lying. Again.
I go to my room, get changed, and throw myself onto the bed.
Later, there's a knock on my door. "Are you in?" my father asks.
I sigh and open it, letting him in. He pulls me into a quick embrace.
"Are you okay, Dad?" I ask.
He chuckles softly. "I should be the one asking you that."
"I'm fine," I lie again. "Everything's fine."
Like always, he says, "Your mother just needs some time. She truly loves you."
"I know," I answer automatically.
He nods. "Good night," he says before leaving.
My father never yells at my mother. I guess he loves her a lot.
My mother, on the other hand, yells at him all the time.
She wants me to be someone else. But I've always been the exact opposite of what she wants. She tries to change me—scrutinizing my hobbies, my friends, my choices. Over the years, she's told me things like, You should do this. You can't be friends with him. You can't eat, drink, or wear that.
I thought that by the time I reached college, she would finally let me live my own life. But she's still the same.
The next morning, I talk to my father.
"I want to rent a place near my college," I tell him.
My mother refuses instantly.
I promise her that I'll be responsible, that I'll take care of myself. But in the end, it's my father who convinces her.
One week later, I move into my new place, finally away from home.
I don't know much about the park near my rental. I don't usually go to places like that. Most of my time is spent watching Japanese movies in my room.
But after settling in, I decide to visit the park again.
It's the same place where I met him—the guy who held my hand in the rain.
The park is crowded today. People are walking, chatting, enjoying the fresh air. As I wander through, I spot him.
He's walking ahead, earbuds in, lost in his own world.
I don't call out to him. Instead, my feet move on their own, keeping pace with his steps.
A few moments pass before he suddenly stops and turns around. His sharp eyes lock onto mine.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"Nothing," I reply casually.
He shrugs. "Alright." Then, he turns away and keeps walking, music still playing in his ears.
I follow him again.
This time, he notices faster. Stopping abruptly, he spins around to face me. "Are you stalking me?"
I smirk. "No."
His gaze lingers on me, unreadable. Then, without another word, he ignores me and keeps walking.
"You don't remember me, do you?" I call out. "You were the one who held my hand a few days ago in the rain. Am I right?"
He stops.
Before I can say another word, he closes the distance between us in two quick steps and presses his hand over my mouth. My eyes widen.
"Shut up," he hisses.
I pull his hand away, exhaling sharply. "What's your problem? You could just talk to me politely, you know?"
His jaw tightens. "Do you know my name?"
I frown. "No. You never told me."
"Good," he mutters. "And I don't want you to."
He takes a step forward, then pauses. Without looking back, he says, "Don't talk to me again."
Then, he walks away.
I stand frozen, watching his retreating figure.
He must be in a bad mood.