Why must we all suffer? Oh golly. Now that's a phrase I haven't said in a while.

  I grabbed my wallet and payed the driver. Oh, I didn't say this, but there's a festival right around here. I dropped down after the 30-minute drive. Okay, I'm ready.

 I went up toward the people celebrating the festival all together. It reminds me of home.

 Their lamps, tinted with orange, lighted their way into an upsurge of welfare and well-being.

 The frisky atmosphere almost caught me tearing up. I saw a few groups of friends talking viscerally: reminds me of good ol' characters hanging out together after a hard fight or tough time.

 I closed my eyes. Friends like those are too much to give up, let alone your own tender soul.

 "Savor the moment, but don't let it pin you down," was what I typed down on my collection of original poems. Philosophies like these are never read again. It only helps me immerse myself in the everyday without getting sidetracked.

 I walked around the parameter. I wore my hood and put on my earphones for a mood. My walk was undisturbed, peaceful, and thoughtful.

 I couldn't deny it, but I saw Rino. She was sitting on a bench away from the crowd, but watching nonetheless. I didn't know if she was lonely, or she liked her atmosphere that way.

 I walked up to her with arms remaining at my sides.

 She raised a hand in greeting.

 I was astounded by her dress. I didn't think she'd go here with no one to be with, especially with her outfit. "Hey Sasha," I replied.

 "Uhh, what, do you have anyone with you?" She raised her eyebrows, brushing her hair back to place against the rushing wind.

 "Oh, I don't."

 "Well, want to sit beside me?" she whispered, still staring at me.

 "Oh sure," I replied. We both looked down and back at the crowd of people enjoying the festival together.

 "Uh . . . I was walking just a while ago—it helps me think. . . . How about you?" I asked, still staring elsewhere.

"Oh, yeah, I was, yeah, you saw me. I don't have much friends around here. I was, just enjoying, myself here. . . ." she blurted, wiggling unconsciously.

 "Oh. Aren't I—you know—y-your friend?" I stuttered. Eeek! Am I her friend, though? I thought to myself.

 "You stopped coming to my house," she continued. "I thought you hated me or something."

 I reassured her: "What? I don't—Oh. I did stop coming. I didn't know you saw it that way. I don't hate you. Not at all."

 "Oh, want to go around or something like right now?" she insisted, standing up voraciously.

 "Sure!" I agreed, taking the first step to wherever we were going.

 After a minute of silence, we didn't realize the storm brewing above us. We stopped at a convenience store to refresh ourselves.

 "Do you have an umbrella?" She was putting down her things onto the table while I sat down, looking at the fresh apples.

 "Hey, you want an apple?" I asked at the same time as her, but my voice was louder. I realized what she said a few minutes after.

 She had finally sat down, looking at me then replying, "Oh, uh, is that fine?"

 "Don't worry: I like apples," I assured her. "I was also planning to buy anyway."

 She looked at me with surprised looks.

 I noticed and asked, "Why?"

 She was slumped down on the table, staring down like she was in deep thought. She heard me and replied, "Oh, it's just that I eat apples too. It's my favorite. Well, my second favorite.

 "My first favorite's mango. I like the sweet flavor."

 "Oh okay—cool."

 The next minutes was me and her eating pineapples because it had "apples" in its name and was color yellow like a mango. I don't know why we didn't eat apples. No, my apples!

 I remember this taste. It was when my mom bought me this when we traveled to a convention. She's normally the reason I eat many things I didn't previously like. I love them now.

 When it comes to pineapple though, I rarely ate it when I was young, so I rarely bought it. Maybe I should try buying one of these, but they're pretty expensive. I'll just stick to apples instead.

 We finished the pineapples, but some dropped to my shirt.

 "Hey, do you want a napkin?" Her hands are very soft. Okay. Why did I just think that?

"Oh sure!" I didn't want to prolong the silence, so I wiped the mess up immediately and handed it back to her.

 Sooner or later, the rain ended, we didn't have to stay and wait, but we did. The silence is nice: no pressure. Ha. I don't know why, but she's not awful. Oh, wait. Is that a bad measurement?

What I'm trying to say is: "She's really nice."

 We went back home through the same way.

The festival program already ended by the time we left, but there were people still wandering about, talking with friends and partners. It was indeed a refreshing, good night.

 I put on my clothes: pants, white shirt, and sweater. I'm a chill kind of person. I value my comfort very much, thank you!

 She was cooking up some food by the time I arrived. This looks wrong. Am I a dad now?

 Replace my guitar with a suitcase and I'll be your average corporate slave. Please don't take that offensively. This person's opinions do not matter in this world.

"Hi!" I made an effort to cook up some food for you, you piece of trash! That's what I'd say if this was a romantic-comedy.

 I gave him the meal. He liked it. Of course he liked it. What would he like if he didn't like anything in this world?

 Everything's going to be fine, I think.

 We started playing like just now. I didn't want to ask like I didn't know, but his flyer was open. This is totally still not a romantic-comedy.

 Once he played the song, I almost forgot, but I told him about his flyer. He quickly zipped it up like nothing was wrong. Wow, I wish I was like that.

I asked him if he wanted a duo. He agreed.

 We sang my song like he requested. He said he listens to my song every now and then to be inspired. My mind was like, Oh my gosh, kill me now.

I know what it's like to be praised by someone, but when someone says it in person, it's a whole new experience.

 For sure, this guy's going to blow up. For sure. Well, he did blow up, but as in blow up, blow up. You get me?

 "Hey, I was thinking." I have a plan, but I'll need to look for comrades.

 "Yes?" Her voice cracked.

 "Ah, do you draw? Or write? Not songwriting, I mean, write stories?" I didn't know how to ask without sounding insistent.

 She thought for a moment, then replied, "Yes, I do! I write many, many! And draw too!"

 "Oooh, oooh, oooh! That's great!"

 I stared in silence for a second, almost forgetting what I wanted to say. "Hey, uh, I do those, too!"

 The air strangled me: I don't want to be here in the awkwardness.

 "Do—you—want—to—do them together?" She looked at me with that smile. I felt like I've seen that before. Oh, it was when I first sat down with her on the bench. . . . the awkward smile. . . . that's it.

 Our first drawing session was on one-portrait character illustration. I told her during the stretch: "I've always drawn characters like this. It helps clear my mind of questions that repeat itself."

 The next round of comic creation was the character's background including the setting itself. We needed a fun yet meaningful story. I suggested a society of rebounds. A instance where the very idea of rebound resided until none could remember the difference of "dating" and "rebounding". I continued to propose the protagonist's place in the story. She, or he, could be part of a group of single adults. She could be an ambitious innovator who doesn't associate herself with small talk. She's dedicated to her happiness.

 Until one day, an intellectual gentleman comes along with a slight interest in her. He's intrigued by her sincere passion to life. He manages a huge corporation and meets her due to business matters. She ends up making a partnership deal with him which allows him a reason for talking to her.

 They end up as "friends", or how do I say this? Either debating, arguing, or agreeing, they engage in intellectual conversation: philosophy, politics, psychology, religion, and science-fiction that could come true.

 All the while this is happening, they loosen their guard and begin revealing their casual side, which resulted in an awkward self-awareness.

 I asked Rino about this. She agreed with the premise and helped piece out the story line, expounding the possible story line.

 We've been drawing on our tablets all this time. I drew with my nifty stylus pet, but Rino used her mouse. I was dumbfounded: I had to stare at her hands every now and then to see if they haven't broke yet.

 "Hey, can I check your mouse?" She nodded, moving out of the way.

 I handled the mouse. It was very light. Huh, I guess a heavier one is needed to break any hand, I thought.

 "Rino, do you want music while writing?" I asked, putting out my phone.

 She clapped her hands and replied, "Okay, I like dystopian music. How about you?"

I snapped my fingers and acknowledged, "I listen to rain sounds most of the time, but we can do dystopian music this time."

 She grabbed her phone, connected it to the speakers, and played a dark ambience mix that resembled the "bad place" dystopias are known to be.

After several more shots at the comic, we arrived at a satisfactory spot and took a break. I asked her what she does whenever she needs to calm down like this. She answered, "I listen to songs or just lie down and close my eyes."

 I laid back and closed my eyes, pressing down against my eyelids. "I see."

 "Do you want some apples?" She was lying down on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

 I tugged at my shirt collar and massaged around my neck. "Oh, yes please!"

She poured a glass of water and handed it to me. "I didn't know you were into art."

 I took the glass and drank it whole. "Yeah, I'm. I'm into creative stuff."

 She put her hand to her mouth and burped. " 'You like writing,' you said? What kind of genres do you write?" she managed to say.

 I licked my lips, thinking of a clear answer. "Oh, genres? Uh, hmm, anything, I guess? Anything except romance and comedy."

 She undid her ponytail and shook out her hair. "Oh, that's nice. I'm more of a dark psychological thriller kind of person. I don't like too much "happy-go-luckies".

 I stared at her as she moved back to her seat, then stared at the empty glass.

 She rested her chin on her left arm. "It's just not for me, I guess. The horror genre also describes my interests in a way. But the sheer horror of dark, morbid things makes one delve deep into his soul and think."

 I sat upright, giving a bitter laugh. "I see."

 "Why? You're not into horror I'm guessing?" She tilted her head toward me.

 "Oh, no, not at all. I'm a fan of the ones you mentioned: horror, psychological, thriller. I just didn't think anyone would . . . like those things too, you know?"

 We continued the comic until sunset, taking a few breaks. We stretched from time to time, even having to get up from our seat to get our body in peak condition.

 Before I walked through the door of my home, I asked her if she wanted to hang out at my house this time. I told her it wasn't spacious but it was enough for us to hang out.

 The next morning, I got up, put on a sweater, and walked out the door with a couple bucks to buy my irreplaceable serve of goodness—apples.

 I took off my dark-blue cap, entering the store and asking the girl behind me,"Do you have a cat?"

 She yelped, "You noticed? Yeah, I do. Didn't you see it?"

 I grabbed a few items, specifically apples, apples, and apples, handing them to the cashier. "No, not yet. What's he like?"

 Slowly, she described her pet friend: "He's handsome. He's, he's a cat. He's also a cat. Why do I need to explain?"

 "D-d-don't you care about what he looks like at least? Not everybody has a cat you know!"

 "Oh yeah, he's color blue. Oh, oh no. I mean his eyes are color blue."—I showed her my arm hair, rubbing it to point out what I meant—"His fur? Well, That's for another story. See you next time on Daily TV for addicts!"

 "Uh, yeah. I-I gotta go." I humorously got up as if to leave, sitting right back down.

 She had grabbed me, laughing. "I was kidding, come on!"

 I put my soul into it, hoping to find an answer worth something. I couldn't tell what the feeling was, but it was certainly something I could imagine. I tried my hardest, but nothing came out. I asked Rino what she thinks I could be missing. She said, "Oh, probably the end style of it."

 "Wha . . . end style?" I gesticulated, a little bummed that she said it without hesitation.

 "The 'end style' is defined by the connecting of the dots when it comes toward or for the end and how you do it. That's all."

 On leaving the store, Rino told me she wanted to buy something from the market.

 "I understand. Should I go as well?" I asked, suggesting I accompany her. "I haven't been to the market or anywhere for that matter since I transferred."

 We strolled down a lane not far from the convenience store, but deep enough for me not to have noticed. I was ecstatic at the flower arrangements that piled up on the fronts of stores. The "market" in my head was not at all as beautiful as this. I was very pleased with the color schemes.

 Since I was a kid, it all cornered down to me having to get a life after all the frustrations I've been through.

 I didn't reckon there was such a life waiting for me if I stood my ground to get out and check. I didn't much like socializing and being outside, so it became a nuisance to me. I'm here now, aren't I?

 Most of the people stared at me as I trudged through. I've forgotten how distinct I am outwardly in contrast to the majority of my peers.

 I was mistakenly ominous by the people I've been with at military training. It wasn't pleasant.

 I bought a few flowers and brought it home with me. I lay down on the bed, raising a hand to cover my eyes.

 I wonder why I went home. "Oh, yeah, it was because she told me: 'What are those flowers for?' "

 I didn't know why I bought flowers in the first place. I don't know. Maybe it was for her, but I shouldn't just give flowers whenever I like.

 I wanted to give them to her, but then, I remembered. I want to live—alone. Gosh, I can live happy with her anyway. I should just tell her how I feel. I don't care any more.

 I removed my shoes. It was time to say it. But first, we're going to finish what I came to do.