49. AND HE LEFT

HANA

I looked at the photo of Bash and smiled to myself. He stared at it for more than ten minutes last night. I took it when he was taking out an invitation card from an envelope, capturing his hands and his chest behind. Nothing on his face is captured in the photo except for his sharp jaw.

"You should think about switching your career," He told me. "You capture moments."

"It's too late for me," I told him.

"You are just twenty-three."

"I feel like I am fifty."

Bash shook his head, still staring at the photo of him, "There's a child in you. Never let her go." His eyes bore into me as he held my gaze.

"Why does it feel like you are giving me life lessons right now?"

"Maybe I am."

I didn't like it a bit. Because people tend to give others advice when they are going to leave. In our case, it is inevitable.

As though he understood what I was thinking, he stretched his hand and scooted to him. Like this, I feel so small.