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Produce 101/Wanna One: Lai Guanlin
Playlist: Ghost of you by 5 seconds of summer
Preview:
“I like you.” You tell him as a compliment; however, he had taken this in seriousness by such childish innocence and literariness. At his young age he blushed vehemently later developing a liking to you and this he believed was of his admiration towards you of both intelligence and beauty.
If there had been nothing but noise in the vicinity, then there would’ve been no point in naming the plants in the field by your campus; yet both of you decided to waste your time on recalling your memories of when you were fifteen.
“Daisy.” He says softly catching your ample attention, “You always liked Daisies, but you never held one.”
“They’re very fragile, Guanlin.” He hums in agreement with you before turning his head enough to see you stare into the void. He notices the nostalgia lingering in your gaze when you wave your free hand over your eyes as if to shade yourself from the bright light. He then recounts his memory of you lying asleep on one of the benches, hiding from the teachers and skipping a class. You told him something incredulous, but trivial and that he believes you. “There isn’t much of knowledge that can suffice you for the harsh reality of this world; you study, learn, cheat, finish, and so what happens next? Death awaits you—he opens his arm as an embrace for you to accept as reluctantly—yet you bring yourself forth, because there isn’t much choice for you anymore.”
“Would you know?” You had asked him, but he had been distracted by the light illuminating your face and had almost created a halo around you. He tells you only when you look at him, “There’s little I know of this world, and I wouldn’t dare question the advancements of death; it’s an order and we do it in a cycle, because man has beliefs and it hinders his desires and needs that maybe knowing is better than nothing—only that much I know.”
You smile slightly whispering to the wind, “I like that answer: man has beliefs and it hinders his desires. No one seemed to know what to say.”
“Perhaps, they don’t know anything either.” He suggests till you disagree, “You seem to know.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” He questions you, only for you to shake your head, “I skipped it not because the lesson was boring, but merely that I already know so much about it; the philosophies of Jean-Paul Sartre. According to him, life is only meaningful to the beholder and thus can he alter it on his own and no one else—I believed him, but life was questionable at most that even its meaning was useless for me.”
He dismisses the fact that you’re skipping your literature class despite being the intelligent student in the specific class; he knew this as he was your classmate, but he hadn’t known if you ever knew his appellation. This stops becoming a burden to him when you let him confirm this, “Are you Lai Guanlin?”
“Yes.” He answers shortly out of habit and of his nervousness and stuttering behaviour.
“I like you.” You tell him as a compliment; however, he had taken this in seriousness by such childish innocence and literariness. At his young age he blushed vehemently later developing a liking to you and this he believed was of his admiration towards you of both intelligence and beauty.
He hadn’t drifted far from you even after you left for a better education because you had demanded to keep your connection with him deeply till he found himself lying on the grass field with you in attempt to skip another class of yours like before.
“It’s about ancient China now, fine arts to be more specific. Ever heard of fore-edge paintings?” You ask him as you pull aggressively on the grass and this he sees as your coping mechanism of anger. He shakes his head as an answer before you proceed, “Okay, we have to go to the library, small ass.”
“My butt isn’t small,” he defends.
“It really is, but it’s cute.”
He follows to not appear lost in the campus that had a rather complex structure and design. He lets you lead him into a brown building that had been secluded, but was still operational—he noted. The library had been short only two storeys long and been nearly a century old that it had gathered enough webs to cover the window turning it translucent. But inside the library looked anew; books were perfectly set in the shelves ranging from subject-based to fictional novels, there were new arrivals delivered at the moment, and information centres by the side of the room.
You pull him excitedly in between the shelves and selected a book which he reckoned was published during the medieval to victorian era where arts was a highly paid entertainment for the rich. You open the book, fanning the pages to reveal the image of a Chinese form of art. He was shocked to say the least, but had willingly leaned closer to you.
You admire his interest turning your head towards him, and despite this you don’t immediately pull away from him when you brush your lips against his cheek. Instead you smile to which his chest jumped and hadn’t questioned it at all—he liked it was there more to ask—so he looks back at the hidden art. He grins at that with all sensibility lining his features and this he admits was all the answer he needed for life to be meaningful.
