The Whisper of Spring

I set my empty glass on the table, the faint clink pulling me back to the present. "Well," I muttered, "that's the whole glass gone."

I realized too late that I'd forgotten Ma Aye Phyu's gentle reminder—always drink slowly, savor the coolness. But in my thirst, I'd downed it in seconds.

"It's okay, Ko Soe Naing," she said with her ever-gentle smile, pushing her glass toward me. "Here, take some of mine."

I shook my head quickly. "No, I couldn't. That's yours, Ma Aye Phyu."

Her gaze softened, but she didn't pull back the glass. "Then let's share it," she said, lifting it delicately. She took a small sip, as if to show me how it was meant to be done—unhurried, graceful. Setting the glass back down, she dabbed her lips with her pale pink handkerchief, her movements calm and elegant.

It was a simple gesture, but I found myself mesmerized. Her lips, soft and untouched by anything artificial, carried a natural blush that caught the light in just the right way. They weren't just beautiful—they were perfect. My chest tightened, an ache forming that I couldn't quite name.

As I watched her, the thought struck me: How am I supposed to live in a world where someone like her exists and not lose my mind?

I looked away, turning my gaze toward the riverbank to steady myself. Across the water, the flame trees stood tall, their fiery red blossoms bright against the blue sky. They were everywhere, a sea of vibrant color that seemed to stretch endlessly along the horizon.

"Look over there, Ma Aye Phyu," I said, pointing toward the trees.

She followed my gaze, her eyes lighting up as she took in the scene. "This season is beautiful, isn't it?" she murmured. "The haze, the way the golden leaves scatter in the wind, the bright red blossoms of the flame trees... It's like everything is alive, but at the same time, there's this... sadness. It makes you feel nostalgic, even if you don't know what for."

Her words hung in the air, weighty yet gentle, much like the season itself. She turned back to me, her eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

"You know," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper, "spring reminds me of your eyes, Ma Aye Phyu."

She blinked, the corners of her mouth curving into a shy smile. "Why would you say that, Ko Soe Naing?"

"Because," I replied, my voice steady now, "just like spring, they make my heart ache and race at the same time."

Her cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink, and her smile deepened. "You're so good with words," she said, her voice carrying a note of playful admiration.

"Do you know what scares me the most, Ma Aye Phyu?" I asked, my tone turning serious.

She tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "What is it?"

"It's the thought of being apart from you," I said, my chest tightening as the words left me.

Her smile faded slightly, replaced by a quiet understanding. "Why would we ever be apart, Ko Soe Naing?"

I hesitated, glancing down at the table. "The exams are over, school is closing, and soon... you'll be in Tada-U, and I'll be back in Sakar Inn. After today, when will we see each other again? How long will I have to wait to look into your eyes?"

She laughed softly, her voice a melody that soothed my restless heart. "Tada-U and Sakar Inn aren't that far apart, Ko Soe Naing," she said, her tone light but steady. "Whether by bicycle or horse cart, it's just a short distance."

"That's true," I admitted, a small smile tugging at my lips. "But how could I possibly come to your house? Your father—Teacher Kyaw—would terrify me."

Her laugh came again, this time a little louder, her shoulders shaking slightly. Her father, a stern and well-respected math teacher, had taught me in my younger years. While he was an excellent teacher, his strict demeanor had always left me more than a little nervous.

"Don't laugh," I said, feigning a pout. "If he finds out, I'll be the one crying."

She leaned forward slightly, her smile softening. "Ko Soe Naing, do you really think this is goodbye?"

I didn't answer immediately, the weight of her question pressing against the fragile hope in my chest. Could this really be the last time we sat together, shared a moment like this? The thought was unbearable.

"Do you think we'll both pass the exams?" I asked quietly, my voice tinged with uncertainty. "Or will one of us fail? What if today is the last time we see each other? What if this moment becomes a memory we carry, but nothing more?"

The questions spilled out before I could stop them, each one heavier than the last. The flame trees seemed to sway in the breeze as if echoing my turmoil, their red blossoms a stark contrast to the ache in my heart.

She looked at me then, her eyes soft and steady. "Ko Soe Naing," she said, her voice like a balm, "you worry too much. This isn't the end. It's just the beginning."

Her words were simple, yet they held a promise. And as her gaze met mine, I felt the spring breeze carry away the weight in my chest, replacing it with a quiet hope that perhaps—just perhaps—we weren't saying goodbye after all.