“In the past, I mistook Noah for a girl. It was a fleeting love.”

It happens in summer, when you are visiting your grandmother, down where the weather is warm and the people are warmer. You are traversing the path between tall, pale stalks of corn plants not quite ripe, tossing a ball in one hand and inspecting your prize in the other – a little bronze coin, a penny pressed with the image of a flower – when you come across a boy, roughly your age, sitting on the side of the road. His clothes are fine and delicate, if a bit scuffed and dirty, perhaps from falling or too long spent playing out on the dusty fields. By his side is a great big sunhat, white with a ribbon tied in a neat little bow. You don’t know why he’s crying, but you know, even at this young age, that no one deserves to be sad. So with a little huff, you walk over, crouching in front of him. “Hey!” He startles, turning to face you, hair as light and airy a gold as the stalks that tower above, and you press your coin into his hand. “I’ll give you this, so don’t be sad!”

“Um.” He stares down at the coin in his hand.

“Your eyes are interesting.” You say, and they are. They remind you of honey – a warm brown that shines like fire and liquid gold. He blinks, and you watch the sun dance across his eyes as he looks up and says, voice just a little hoarse, “Yours are better.” He doesn’t look so miserable anymore. Confused, instead, maybe – but that’s not so bad, so you smile at him, wide as you can. “I’m Seiya!” His brows furrow a little, as he mulls over the unfamiliar sounds. “Say-uh?” He tries, which is not quite right, but, “Close enough!” you decide. “How about you?” He sniffs one more time, wipes at his eyes. “My name is Noah.” He holds the coin tighter, solemnly offering his other hand in greeting. You think he looks very grown up – despite the puffy redness in his eyes and the tear tracks still drying upon his cheeks – so you do your best to copy his expression as you shake his hand. The expression doesn’t last, a grin bursting out again as you stand, pulling him with you by your still-joined hands. “Come on,” you say, “let’s play catch!”

Your grandmother’s house, down here in the countryside, is surrounded by endless fields of gold, corn crops which, in the fall, will be ready for harvest and, on some plots, looming yellow flowers, devotedly seeking the sun’s light. You race each other between the stalks, careful not to disturb the plants overmuch, but perhaps not as careful as the farmers would like. The world is a boundless sea of green and blue and gold, sky on ground on plant on sky, and, as the sun begins to set, the world catches fire, brilliant yellow on vibrant hues of red and orange. Noah turns, eyes meeting yours – the light hits them just right, turning warm honey to molten gold. He smiles, resplendent haloed in the fading light, and without really thinking about it you’ve grabbed his hand, and from your lips tumble, “When we grow up, let’s get married!” before your mouth snaps shut, face burning in embarrassment. He blinks at you, surprised. “But I’m a boy.” he says, so you say, “Oh. Okay.” and let go of his hand. But, in your heart, you think that you don’t really mind.

From then on, summers pass in a haze of sepia, a blur of idyllic noon light and laughter on wind. Each fall is spent lamenting your parting, each spring anticipating your reunion. You grow up, you grow close. “Seiya, we're moving back to Japan.” And your world falls apart.

He lives nowhere near the airport you’re set to leave from, but you aren’t surprised to see him there, though neither of you say goodbye. The words feel heavy, and final, and like the children you are you stubbornly believe that, by ignoring them, they become less real. Still, before your courage can abandon you, you rush forward to kiss him on the cheek, eyes squeezed shut. You turn and dash aboard the plane immediately after. Had you stayed, you would’ve seen him valiantly attempting not to cry.

The country is strange and the language stranger, the children more reserved and the signs unfamiliar. However – however. More than that, the hills roll like waves and mountains tower – insurmountable goliaths in the distance – insignificant, still, in comparison to the splendor of the shrines, old yet mystifying – enchanting and ethereal. You are immediately enamored of the country your father so dearly calls home. It does not take long before you forget all about the boy with eyes like gold.

“If you went on a journey, where would you like to go? I’m glad I was able to come to Japan.”

Though Seiya left only three months ago, it feels like a lifetime, an eternity – waiting and waiting without end. You can almost pretend, here in the quiet lull of the space between seasons, that this is only another temporary parting – that as with the flowering of the trees and budding of the plants, so, too, will that bright boy with the sunshine smile return to you in summer. But it isn’t, and he won’t. Winter this year feels especially cold, without that brilliance – warmer than any sunlight – to await you with the coming of spring. (Summer comes and goes.)

You sit; gnaw on your lower lip, fingers hesitate over the keys. You type the sentence and immediately regret it, erase it. Type it again three times. Hover over the send button. Your phone rings. It’s a text, from a friend – but not the one that matters. You read the invitation and send back, ‘Okay, meet you there in ten minutes.’ You’re out of the house in five.

The email remains unsent, a single line waiting, lonely and accusing, at the end. ‘I miss you.’

Your melancholy leaves you listless and flighty, unwilling to devote yourself to any one thing – but music is eternal, and he’d always liked your voice, so you think, not this, not yet. You continue to sing, you learn to play the guitar and, eventually, you make new friends. Friends across the ocean and across the world, separated from you by birth and by distance, and in this, of all things, you find security. You cannot lose what you never had, and so you throw yourself wholeheartedly into your music, into their companionship.

Your group of friends, being scattered on all ends of the globe, are not capable of all being online concurrently very often, but, occasionally, on weekends, when some of you awake very early and others remain very late, the five of you manage. The conversation soon turns from music to idle fancy, ideas of meeting, of never parting, of coming together. But it is, perhaps, not as unreachable a goal as it seems, though daunting in its scope. Someone suggests coming together for high school or, more likely, college, and the idea is not a bad one. Another asks, “But where would we go?” and almost without conscious thought you’ve moved to reply,

Noah: Japan

The more you think about it the more you want to go, and despite seeing the little ‘Lucas is typing…’ message on the bottom of the window you’re already getting up and leaving the room, head filled with plans and calls that need to be made. You want to go, you want to see Seiya again. (You want to see that smile.) He is your oldest, your dearest friend, and you would move mountains, if it meant you could once again bask yourself in that light. A single ocean is no real obstacle, and you are not certain why you ever believed it so insurmountable. Behind you, the chat window blinks furiously, unread messages demanding attention.

Lucas: Wait, what?

Rabi: I don’t mind, but why Japan?

Leon: none of us speak japanese tho!!!

Rabi: Wouldn’t it be easier to meet up in a country at least one of us is familiar with?

And, on the side, a little private chat tab lights up with a single message.

Li: I am sure your feelings will reach him.

The following years are a frantic rush of preparations, lessons and planning and more lessons. Lucas takes to learning yet another language with the characteristic seriousness and dedication you’ve come to expect of him, and the others keep pace, if some (a certain Englishman, perhaps) with more complaints, then still willingly enough. Though your parents are perhaps not quite ecstatic with your decision to uproot and move to another country entirely, they are, at the very least, glad to see you out of your years long depression, and proud of your methodical planning.

The time soon comes, (sooner than you would have expected, when you’d thought the last months barring your meeting with that boy would drag on and on and on) when at last you are to leave. Tickets have been purchased (despite the others’ protests) out of your own pocket, flights meticulously chosen to touch down, barring delays and scheduling errors, more or less at the same time. And if your own departure happens to fall on the six year anniversary of your parting with that golden child – down to the very day – well, no one has to know, and you have always been a bit of a romantic.

When, finally, you find him again – he does not remember you, he does not remember you, and for one heartrending moment you fear that this will be the end, but you smile, and say, “Perhaps you’ll remember if you hear this song?” and you sing for him, as when you were children, as in those halcyon days that come not back. And when his eyes shine in recognition, star bright, you feel the weight of regret and longing lift and vanish like smoke.

You haven’t been here long, but home is where the heart is, and Seiya has always felt like home.

“The type I like? Obviously, it’s the type of person who would make me fall for them.”

Seeing Noah again was a surprise, but what’s a bigger surprise still is the bouquet of flowers upon your desk, quietly and eagerly anticipating your arrival. They are sunflowers, cut from the stem, vibrantly yellow and intensely nostalgic, even with the years stretched long and thin. The little card sitting innocently in front of them reads, “ ‘but I’m a boy’ isn’t really an answer” and, on the back, “meet me in the gardens when you have time.” Your eyes shine like a million points of light, and if your smiles are a little wider for the rest of the day, that’s not so unusual.

The moment classes end, you head for the gardens. The setting sun spills across the grounds, alighting the world in shades of red and gold. It’s not really the same, but, as Noah turns to face you – smiling and resplendent in the fading light – and says, “In America, we could be wed.” you think that, perhaps, this is better. This time, you kiss him on the mouth, and stay long enough to see his smile turn soft and warm.

Wedelia – Sunflower

adoration, loyalty; I only have eyes for you