A Place Called "Love Village"

The sun blazed fiercely overhead, its heat almost unbearable. But I didn't mind. The thought of seeing her face—the gentle curve of her smile—was enough to make the whole world feel cool again.

She was coming on her bicycle, while I walked briskly, the rhythm of my steps steady but eager. I wanted to get there first, to be waiting for her, to savor the sweet anticipation of her arrival. There was something strangely comforting about the quiet excitement of waiting—standing by the road she'd come down, feeling the warm thrill of knowing she was on her way.

Finally, I arrived. The spot was just as perfect as I remembered: a quaint little tea shop nestled by the cool, serene banks of the Dula Waddy River. Its emerald canopy of trees provided a natural embrace, with lush greenery encircling the place like it was plucked straight out of a dream. I had long since named it "Love Village" in my mind, a title fitting for its quiet beauty and the memories we'd shared here.

I made my way to a secluded table under the shade of an old mahogany tree, known by the locals as the "Elder Tree." Its branches stretched wide, offering a deep, soothing shade that wrapped me in a cool comfort. A gentle breeze drifted in from the river, drying the sweat on my brow and carrying with it the scent of water and earth.

"What will you have, Ko Soe Naing?" a young waiter asked, breaking my thoughts.

I held up a hand, smiling politely. "Not yet. I'm waiting for someone."

He nodded with understanding, a knowing grin flashing across his face as he walked away.

I glanced at my watch. The time was almost here. By now, Ma Aye Phyu was likely handing in her answer sheets. I could picture her carefully stacking them, her delicate hands brushing the papers smooth as she prepared to leave. The image brought a smile to my lips.

Leaning back in my chair, I turned my gaze toward the river. Its wide, tranquil surface shimmered under the sun, and in the distance, a lone boat glided slowly across the water. There was something almost poetic about the way it moved—unhurried, steady, as if carried by the whims of the current.

The sight stirred something within me, a quiet urge to capture the moment. I reached into my bag, pulling out a blank notebook. Flipping past the last few pages—already filled with scattered poems and half-finished thoughts—I found an empty sheet and let my pen hover.

My eyes wandered back to the boat, imagining her there with me. I could see it so clearly: Ma Aye Phyu sitting beside me, her hands unfolding a sail as we let the river carry us wherever it pleased.

"A small boat, a humble sail,

Let's drift away, my love, without fail."

Would she come with me? Would she have the courage to leave the world behind and trust in the pull of the unknown? A smile tugged at my lips as I thought of her bold spirit.

If you truly love, you must have courage. That's what they say, isn't it? To face the vast waters, the waves that rise and crash, the winds that howl and push against you. To step into the unknown, hand in hand, and let nothing stop you.

The river stretched wide before me, endless and inviting. And in my heart, I knew—I would cross it with her, no matter the storms or the tides.

The soft hum of a bicycle broke the quiet, drawing my gaze toward the entrance of the tea shop. My heart leapt the moment I saw her—Ma Aye Phyu. A wave of relief and happiness washed over me. She had arrived.

Her friend, San San Kyi, had brought her here, pedaling alongside and offering her company until now. As San San Kyi waved and rode off, I couldn't help but feel grateful for her understanding—a good friend who knew when to step aside.

I rose from my seat as Ma Aye Phyu walked toward me, her bag slung casually over her shoulder. Her presence had an air of effortless grace, her fair skin glowing under the shade of the mahogany tree. It wasn't just her beauty that captivated me—it was the serenity in her demeanor, the kindness in her heart. She wasn't simply Ma Aye Phyu by name; she embodied it in every way. To me, she was perfection—someone I admired, cherished, and loved beyond words.

She reached the table and placed her bag down beside mine. Then, after a moment of consideration, she chose a seat—not directly across from me, but at an angle, to my left. It was such a small, seemingly inconsequential choice, but it felt deliberate, like everything she did had a quiet thoughtfulness behind it.

"Did you manage to do well, Ko Soe Naing?" she asked softly as she settled into her chair. Her voice carried a note of genuine concern, as if my success mattered to her as much as her own.

I nodded, hoping to ease her worry. The truth was, I couldn't care less about the exam anymore. But for her, I gave my answer with sincerity.

Just then, the young waiter from earlier returned. "Ready to order yet, Ko Soe Naing?"

"Yes," I said, gesturing casually. "Two glasses of lime juice—make it tart. And don't crush the ice. Just add the cubes."

It was her favorite, and I ordered it without hesitation.

"What about you, Ma Aye Phyu? Did it go well?" I asked, though the question felt mechanical. I didn't care about exams anymore, not in this moment, but I knew it was what she wanted to talk about.

"I tried my best, Ko Soe Naing," she said, her lips curving into a faint smile. "But you know what? I don't want to pass alone. If I'm going to succeed, it has to be with you."

Her words lingered in the air, their warmth filling the space between us. She looked at me then, her eyes steady and sincere, and I felt my breath hitch. It wasn't the words that affected me—it was the way she looked at me, her gaze piercing yet gentle, drawing something out of me that I didn't even know I had.

Her eyes were her most extraordinary feature. They sparkled with a brightness that was almost otherworldly, like they held the light of a thousand stars. I had seen them countless times before, but they never failed to take my breath away. And in that moment, as her gaze met mine, I felt the same flutter in my chest that I always did—an uncontrollable rhythm of admiration and longing.

"Look over there, Ma Aye Phyu," I said, breaking the silence as I pointed toward the riverbank. In the distance, a lone sailboat drifted lazily on the current, its movements calm and unhurried.

She turned her head, following my gesture, and her eyes softened as she took in the view. But I couldn't tear my gaze away from her. As she watched the boat, I watched her, caught in the quiet beauty of her profile. In her eyes, I imagined another boat—a small one, just for the two of us, sailing into the unknown, carried by nothing but love and courage.

"Here," I said, handing her a notebook. "Take a look at this one. I haven't finished it yet."

She took the notebook, flipping to the back pages where my poems always lived. She began to read, her expression softening with each line.

I wasn't a professional poet. My verses were scattered thoughts, scribbled on the blank pages of old school notebooks. I'd never sent them to any magazine or shared them with anyone. Ma Aye Phyu was the only person I ever let read them. She was my sole audience, my muse, and the quiet inspiration behind every word I wrote.

As she read, I watched her intently, every second etching itself into my memory. In her hands was my heart, spilled onto paper in fragments of poetry. And in her eyes, I saw the reflection of everything I ever wanted.