park

Music was the only time that it didn't hurt.

The instruments clashing with the lyrics filled Park's chest with warmth, melting away the ice cube that seemed to have lodged in his chest ever since…

Ever since her.

Eleanor.

Park practically itched for her. His heart ached. His nose wanted desperately to smell something, anything like vanilla.

And that postcard… the one that Eleanor had sent him. It was still tucked carefully under his socks in his drawer.

It is over.

The three words that still haunted Park's mind, thrumming in his head during every waking hour, every minute.

What is over? He thought through the music. What is over, Eleanor?

eleanor

Music was the only time that it hurt.

The instruments, the sound in her ears… it all brought her back to the same place.

To Park.

She didn't want to, no, couldn't think about Park. It hurt too much. It was a solid axe, lodged in her heart.

She was determined to forget.

First love never lasts, she reminded herself. Everywhere, she said that to herself. While she was asking Maisie to pass the peas. While she struggled through the school day. While she sat by herself, in the back of the bus, her side cold without Park sitting next to her.

It is over. That was what she had told Park. Because it was. Because it was over. They both had to forget, and it wouldn't hurt anymore. It wouldn't feel like her life was being stretched taut, tight.

Eleanor looked out the screen of her window. The lukewarm spring air tossed strands of her hair out of its neat bun.

She was wearing a crisply pressed shirt and jeans.

No weird stuff on her wrists.

Nothing about the past.

Nothing about the old me, she thought. That's over.

It's all over.