Work Text:
“I know I’m the one that invited you over, but could you leave now?” Haru asked, dipping his head in embarrassment. He had had a nice dinner with company, but now he just wanted some peaceful alone time.
Sitting on Haru’s bed, puffy covers sinking in around his body, was Ryou. Strangely cut hair and a resting scowl but still managing to somehow look good, his neighbor and begrudgingly, friend, regarded him with a simple look.
“No,” he answered in a short tone. “We just finished dinner, I have to digest first. If I’m bothering you, you can just head to the bathroom.”
Ryou said it in a way a god might say ‘you may exist’ to her hapless creations. Haru knew he only did it to piss him off, which was why he bit back a retort. Ryou would not win this one.
So instead, Haru huffed and landed himself on his bed, millimeters apart from his friend. He poked Ryou’s arm.
“Haru.” A sigh. “I’m not leaving yet.”
“Please?”
“I’m digesting.”
“ Motherfucker-- ”
There’s a tiny scuffle where Haru had tried to unseat Ryou and push him off the bed. Ryou, who had been innocently relaxing, put a hand on Haru’s face in an attempt to push him away.
“Let go!”
“ You let go!”
In between infectious giggles, Haru grabbed one of Ryou’s legs and pulled. Ryou clung onto the covers around him with a death grip.
“Move!”
“I need to digest! You’re messing up my metabolism,” Ryou wailed.
“Fuck your metabolism, my mental health is on the line!”
“Is that supposed to make me pity you?” Ryou kicked out, landing a weak hit on Haru’s shoulder. “You’re always moping around, your mental health needs more interaction. Lucky for you--” a grunt, “I’m here.”
“I swear to god, Ryou. Get off my--”
“Alright, alright,” exclaimed Ryou. “But--you have to do one thing.”
“No way.”
“Then I won’t leave.”
Haru tugged on Ryou’s leg again. “You little--”
“Just read that book,” interrupted Ryou, pointing to the book he had brought over and left on the table. “Read it all the way through.”
He dropped Ryou’s leg and got up to retrieve the book. “What is it?”
When Minute and Hour Hands Meet:
Postcards of the Past
Bleu
#1 New York Times best-seller
He flipped it open. The sleeve was filled with reviews that boasted words like ‘a must-read’, ‘heart-wrenching’, or ‘the tragedy of the 21st century’. Nothing appealing to his eyes.
“What is this?” Haru asked with an offended air.
“A book about love,” answered Ryou impassively, “I thought it might teach you a little bit of compassion.”
Haru tried to whack the book over Ryou’s head but his friend blocked it with his arms.
Ryou didn’t come back for the next week.
A few short text messages from him confirmed that he was absolutely swamped with work. It was becoming a hard habit for Ryou to fight; holding back on doing his work and then cramming it in with new work.
Feet aching and eyes dry, Haru flopped onto his mattress, letting out a soft groan. He had experienced a long day at work too. A nine-hour day in a business firm could do anyone in. Numbers, files, click-click-clicking, reports, more numbers.
Immediately, when he got home, Haru fixed himself a simple meat sandwich, hold the lettuce, and promptly collapsed on his bed (see: last paragraph). He could feel his stomach churning his light meal around, making room for more later into the night. He had an awful habit of waking up at two am starving, or, better yet, never going to sleep and boredly waiting until he was hungry.
At the moment, it seemed Haru was experiencing the latter. Unconsciously, he thought of dark navy and golden trim.
The book.
It’s a simple cover design — dark navy blue, with even darker swirls, and reflective golden lettering. Haru knew, not because of his quick glance at the book a few days ago, but because he was looking at it through his bed covers and pillows. It was still laying on the table, untouched since Ryou left it.
When Minute and Hour Hands Meet: Postcards from the Past
A grandiose title if you asked Haru.
Which was why he picked it up. Only to prove Ryou wrong, of course.
Sitting on the floor, sweatpants the only thing between his butt and the wooden boards, Haru flipped through the legally binding beginning pages and stopped at the dedication.
For my Spark,
I am but a pile of lumber awaiting you to set me on fire.
He rolled his eyes and continued to the next page.
I.
You
are
my
hands, my feet, my body, my breath. Every inch of me is every inch of you. The first thing I see in the morning, the last thing I see in the evening, the only thing permanent in my brain, is you.
You are my fate, my destiny.
II.
I
love
you.
I love you, so much. Before, I was a minute too late to tell you this. Now, I will be a lifetime too early.
I can still recall the first time I saw you in the crowd of passerbyers: wild hair, wild eyes, and a dangerously wild scowl. I almost crashed my car. But thinking back now, would that have been so bad? We would have met much sooner. I was utterly captivated by you, speechless.
I have never loved anyone so fiercely, so completely, as I love you. I am enraptured, enamored. It has been years and years since but I still cannot look away.
It has been a long time, so long that sometimes I have trouble remembering. But I have hope. Your light, blinding as always, will guide me home, back to you. I have hope, my love.
III.
It
was
winter.
Crackling fire in the hearth, heavy flakes in your hair. I watched you walk in front of me, confident, invincible, so sure we were headed in the right direction. Below freezing wind nipped at my ears but I wasn’t cold, never with you.
And then, there we were, back at your mother’s house. Dim candlelight on the porch. Warm colors leaking out the windows. A warm smell of baking wood.
Never once did I doubt you.
IV.
You
had
always been
Stubborn. The sun in your eyes burned brighter than all the stars in the universe, eyes that could do anything, if you so wished.
Challenging authority was your most favorite game, no matter how hard you preached the “law”. You had cracked another cold case that day. Your fixated eyes sharply changed back to their radiant selves. The next cold case, I would crack. I didn’t know then that your eyes could make such a world-shattering color as you praised me.
I wish I’d known then.
Haru turned to the next page, and to the next. His fatigue was left unnoticed as the sun began to peak out over the horizon.
XII.
I
have always
wondered
If there had been a time when you hated me. Really, truly hated me. In the beginning, I had let you down, I had let you fall by yourself. And in turn, you tried to get rid of me. Back and forth we tugged and pulled each other’s hair, it felt like a game. A few years later when you started up again, it didn’t.
You went out of your way to make sure we never spoke or caught a glance of one another, and it hurt more than all the cruel things you’ve said to me combined. I sat in a room full of people--joyful people--and yet, I felt singular, even with you there. This time you left me , and I finally understood. You threw me out like a pebble in your shoe. I’ve never felt anything more excruciating in my life; you were my friend, and then you weren’t.
I’m thankful for the days that led me back to you on a sunlit sidewalk, but I will always think of that time, and I’ll always wonder.
XIII.
I
was
not
a friend to you, not for a long time. My hands, dipped in silver, immodest, demanded with a power out of your depth. You despised it as much as I delighted in it, because you didn’t understand it. You didn’t understand me . We had grown up under the same sun yet breathed different air.
It didn’t matter to me. I wish I had told you sooner.
XIV.
I’d
always
known you
to wear your heart on your sleeve, but that day, you were restrained. Tight, pierced lips sworn to stay shut as your eyes begged for help.
So, foolishly, I did the same. We stood side-by-side, equals in all ways but one. Silence lapsed over us, neither of us cracking, neither of us saying what was truly on our minds. I wish I had the strength to tell you exactly what was running through my mind.
When you’re not yourself, it seems neither am I.
Haru rubbed his eyes, letting out a long, hearty yawn. The sun had risen by then, almost at its peak. He’d have to leave for work in a couple of hours. No point in trying to sneak in some sleep. Haru closed the book and put it back on the table — just how Ryou left it. Uncreased. Unblemished.
He stretched his arms over his head, his back sore from sitting in the same bent over position for hours on end. His legs protested as he stood up. He let out a sigh.
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day — or so they say. Haru wouldn’t say he enjoyed making meals everyday, but habits die hard. A toasted slice of bread with whatever toppings he had present was his go-to, but this morning he had much more time. Enough time to cook an egg and steam some rice.
Haru busied himself with prep, mind racing.
Every inch of me is every inch of you . An easily stitched together sentence — almost on the verge of being incoherent — yet, it grabbed at something in his chest, a soft suction making him a little breathless.
Haru braced himself on the counter, fingers curling into the linoleum, eyes squeezing shut.
You went out of your way to make sure we never spoke or saw a glance of one another, and it hurt more than all the cruel things you’ve said to me combined. I sat in a room full of people and yet, I felt singular, even with you there. I’ve never felt anything more excruciating in my life; you were my friend, and then you weren’t.
Haru could almost feel the anguish of the author. Pained looks. Gut-clenching, heart-wrenching sobs. Friends to strangers--it was almost nostalgic in a sense. Bleu really knew how to breach the subconscious. It was terrifying how Haru thought he could relate to the letters, contrary to never experiencing anything close to what they were about.
The scent of black eggs and overcooked rice swallowed Haru quickly. He choked on the cloud of burnt food. Rushing to fix his already destroyed breakfast, he waved his hands around manically, trying to air out his apartment.
Fuck Bleu and fuck that book.
After leaving home on an empty stomach, Haru had slaved through the day, tired and hungry. An office job at a large conglomerate always promised chaos; if only Haru had known before applying.
He sank into a booth seat. It was a light brown (fake) leather. People milled around him gossiping, planning, consuming their lunches, which was exactly what Haru was going to do--eat his lunch. He had purchased a Greek wrap, tasty, cool, flavorful. It was something new compared to the soggy Italian he had been buying.
He had twenty-one minutes.
It was a clean cafe, not too well known, small with limited seating. Through the windows, Haru would watch other business workers stroll about, all released for lunch at the same time. As time passed he noticed that a lot of people stuck to one place to get their food.
Eight minutes.
Haru gulped down the rest of his wrap and crumpled the slick paper wrapping in his hand. He dumped it in a trash-can on his way out. Before reaching the exit though, something caught his eye:
When Minute and Hour Hands Meet: Postcards from the Past
#1 New York Times Best-Seller
Available Now!!
It was a small cafe display meant to draw in customers: just a little table with the same dark navy cover and gilded letters, some stacked on top of each other while others stood up on their own, pages waving open. The display was a stark comparison to the light colors of the cafe, standing out in all the right ways. It drew him in, itching the back of his brain to pick up a book.
And buy it.
Haru left the cafe with a small bottle of banana milk and a brown paper bag with a navy blue cover sticking out.
Numbers bled into the next. Words upon words were swallowed whole. Eighteen. Twenty. Twenty-seven. Thirty-four. Forty-eight. Haru turned the pages one after the other, lost in time, hungry for more.
Then, he got to fifty-six.
You
will
be
forever. Stardust and planets, fossils and forests. In the never-ending spin of this world, you and I will be forever.
In the grand scheme of things, we may be nothing but a lost penny under an old piece of furniture, we may not be much, but to me, we are everything. With every turn on the earth’s axis, I understand. I remember.
Our validation--the validation of others--is sublime. I know, through time and space and contingency, that we belong together.
But sometimes, I wish I didn’t remember at all. I wish I could forget the times when we’ve said goodbye.
Haru stared at the page.
“The times when we’ve said goodbye,” he repeated. His fingers lightly brushed the text. It left an odd feeling, like he just missed a train he’d been running to catch.
He closed the book, trying to riddle it out in his brain.
But, sometimes, I wish I didn’t remember at all.
Haru sighed at his wall and stood up, knees creaking.
The hollow chattering of people brought him to. It sounded distant and far away but as he opened his eyes there were numerous people walking by, their figures blurred and stretched, as if they were background characters.
Bright lights shone down on Haru, making him squint. Colors blurred together.
The only constant in the messy haze of people was a single man dressed in black. His outfit looked steam-pressed, fancy cut, sleek and smooth. Same with his hair — sleek and smooth. His back was turned to Haru.
Groggily, Haru stood up from his bench, not steady on his feet. He wobbled over to the man, reaching out his hand.
“Look at me,” he said.
The man in black turned, face focused on Haru’s outstretched hand. The colors surrounding them were too bright, they cut through Haru’s vision, splitting the man’s features into shards.
Haru reached out more, wanting—needing—to make contact. His fingers found a solid wall. His bedroom wall to be exact.
His hand fell back to the mattress with a muffled thump. His room was dark, save for a slit of light slipping through the bottom of his blinds.
Look at me .
He had to get up for work.
Again.
LXII.
It
starts
with
a short, vivid memory. I was at the office, sitting on one of the awful metal chairs you scolded me for complaining about. We got a call-we never got calls--about an accident at a construction site. It involved fallen beams, a cement mixer, and a pack of spectators.
As soon as I heard, I thought of you. You who had called just half an hour ago, telling me about a missing child and a pit-stop you had to make after rescuing her. I laughed at your retelling. You said you’d continue your story when you got back to our department.
You should have gotten back by now.
Soon enough, I arrived on the scene, called in by the First. I had to suspend my need to confirm you were okay.
There were metal beams of all sizes scattered around, the smell of hot pavement and something metallic hung in the air. The first ambulance arrived, the medics working diligently. I was assigned to locating the source of the accident.
Where were you?
Shouts and cries of the injured and spectators swirl like a hurricane. In curiosity, I look back. Shattered glass, unidentified faces, blood, shredded limbs.
Where were you?
A slow head sweep and I spot your car--or, the department’s car and what’s left of it. Some of the beams had traveled a ways to land on your hood. Of course, I’m not here for you, I’m here as a detective--my job.
I rush over anyways. You always clenched the steering wheel too tightly, you always slammed the brakes too quickly. I find you conscious with blood on your face and pieces of glass embedded in your chest. Your silly green tie is a much darker color now, saturated in blood--your blood.
I open the door and call your name, not your last name, your first name. Your eyes are unfocused, rolling in and out, looking at and then past me. Your breathing was shallow, but you recognize me. That’s enough. I was going to save you. You were going to be fine.
But you point a shaky, lacerated hand over my shoulder and my stomach drops as I turn my head.
Several feet away there’s another car. Two people are laying on the outside and a small hand twitches from inside. A child. Her hand is light compared to the black car and navy beams.
I understood. I knew what I needed to do. I knew what I had to do. But it didn't make anything less painful.
I yelled for the closest medic and together we ripped the car door open and lifted the girl to a stretcher. She was alive, squinting up at the sun. A broken rib, a twisted wrist. She will live.
But not you, my love. When I ran back to you, you were already gone.
I wish I had run faster.
“Whatcha reading?” Kamei asked. They’re on break. Fifteen minutes of relaxation in front of large ten-foot windows looking down at traffic. “You look like you just sat on some tacks.”
Haru whipped his head up, eyes wide. He moved to hide the book but Kamei was already a step ahead.
“Wait, I know that cover! It’s that, that—“ he snapped his fingers repeatedly. “That minute hands book. Right?”
Haru’s face had tinted pink. “Yeah, it’s — whatever.”
“Oh man, Sa-Chan has a copy too. She binged read it in a day, I think. I caught her crying over it last week. How is it?”
“I’m only halfway through it so — I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It’s weird.”
Kamei leaned back in his chair. “Isn’t it a romantic story? Did not take you for the pining and whoo-ing type.”
Haru scowled, slightly offended. “It’s not a novel, just a bunch of letters.”
“Huh. Love letters?”
“Yes,” Haru sighed, exasperated. “Love letters. But it’s weird. Here—”
Haru flipped a few pages back to fifty-six.
“Read this.”
Kamei took the book in his hands and did as he was told.
“Huh,” he said.
“Weird, right?”
Kamei shrugged, handing back the book. “How do you feel about reincarnation?”
“I don’t know.” Haru frowned. “Never really thought about it — it’s just fiction.”
Kamei snickered, holding back a cough. “No wonder you find all that weird. I think it’s a nice sentiment, y’know? To know that no matter what, you’ll always end up with that certain someone.”
Kamei’s look turned wistful. “Like, Sa-Chan.”
As Haru headed back to his desk, Kamei’s words flitted through his head.
You’ll always end up with that certain someone. You know, like destiny. It’s a comforting thought.
LXVI.
Everything
carries
me
to you, as if everything that exists, were meant to bring us together. We will go through the waters of time as a pair, just you and I. Hand in hand, souls connected, finally — finally — together again.
But you are lost to me now and I don’t know how much time we have left.
LXV.
I
told
you
once that I trusted you. Not in those words, I could never piece the right words together around you, but I’m sure you understood. Actions speak louder than words they say.
It hadn’t been long since we’d officially become partners. There was a hostage situation on a bullet train — of all things. You were so sure you were right; the kid wouldn’t hurt someone, he wouldn’t actually go for the kill. There was no real danger.
You were angry. I could have put my life in danger, you said. I could have died, you said. But I had trusted your word and here I was; still standing, still basking in your golden light.
I still trust you. Even if I haven’t met ‘you’ yet.
Sharp whispers cut through Haru’s ears. He flinched at every lisp, every vowel spoken. It hurt. The sounds bumped into his body, shoving him along with them. Flowing with the current shouldn’t have been so uncomfortable.
He watched them reverberate off of nothing and come shooting back at him, colors of yellow and blue. A spot a few meters ahead of him was left untouched by the movements. There, a singular body stood, hands in pockets, casually waiting in a bubble of silence.
Haru swallowed, his spit feeling thick and heavy. He moved towards the person, languidly, feet slowly carrying him forward as if stuck in quicksand.
Another round of noise shot off, cutting through his shoulder and calf. Haru lurched forward, his hands catching his weak body before slamming into the floor. His head just barely protruded the bubble. As his body was attacked, his head remained calm in the comforting silence.
He tilted his head, looking up at the figure. He was the same as before. Sleek black.
“Look at me.”
“Why do you look so down in the dumps?”
Haru lifted his head just a little--enough to peak over the sleeves of his jacket. Ryou sat on the other side of the table, eyes examining. He probably did look like shit-- yes, he’ll admit it. Haru had stayed up late again, reading the godforsaken book. He almost couldn’t put it down during work hours. Pathetic.
As if Ryou could see his thoughts: “You read it, didn’t you?”
“Read what?” Haru said, feigning ignorance.
“ When Minute and Hour Hands Meet . You read it.”
“I haven’t touched it!”
Ryou turned his head towards the book. Honestly speaking, Haru hadn’t touched it since he put it back the first night. There was no need, he had bought a separate book. Ryou’s eyes slowly tracked back to Haru’s head laying on the table.
“I can see that.” In his tone, it was obvious he didn’t believe Haru, not in the slightest. He picked the navy colored book up, flipping through pages. “Did you like it?”
“I said: I didn’t read it! It looks superficial.” Haru glared at Ryou, who had already been lost in the book. From the amount of pages in his left hand and the amount in his right, Haru would guess he was around letter ninety. Haru hadn’t gotten that far yet.
“Then I guess you won’t be needing it anymore?” Ryou closed the book and set it back down.
“Nope,” he gritted out, annoyed. As if Ryou knew everything — he didn’t.
LXXX.
I
had
a dream.
It was a few weeks ago, maybe a month, yet I remember it so vividly. You were there; it was so nice to see you again. Your steady shoulders, your mop of a head, that burly jacket you always wore.
I wanted so badly to reach out and touch you, to feel you under my fingertips once more.
There you were, standing in a park — I think it was “the” park — flowers everywhere, trees sprouting behind you. You were like the deity my mother always spoke about. Breathtaking. Gorgeous in every way. There was a breeze, gentle and warm, lifting your hair and lazily tossing strands. I could almost smell your scent.
The sun was so bright — or maybe it was just your presence — I had to shield my eyes to even glance at you, your beautiful mass. Reaching out to touch you was a mistake. You’re too far away. The dream broke and I woke up in a bed much too big and much too cold, a sinking in my chest.
“Helllooo? Earth to Haru.”
Haru blinked his eyes violently, waking up from his daze. Kamei stood above him, waving a hand in front of Haru’s face.
He slapped it away, grunting out a, “What?”
“Jeeez, I just wanted to show you a news article.” Kamei stepped back and collapsed into his swivel-chair, turning to his computer. He clicked the mouse a few times and brought up a report. “It’s on that book you’re reading.”
Haru pulled his chair into Kamei’s workspace, setting his elbows on the desk and scanning the screen. It was an article from a top news outlet — reliable.
“You want to listen?” Kamei asked, offering an earbud.
Haru waved him off. He could read perfectly fine.
As Kamei slowly scrolled with the mouse, Haru became more and more confused. The article went on and on about conspiracies surrounding ‘Bleu’, how some say they’re a romantic hypocrite while others say they’re a pained author plagued by unrequited love.
Author, Bleu, published their first book only three months ago in March. And yet, it’s already a critically-acclaimed nationwide success. Translated into ten languages and over two million copies sold, “When Minute and Hour Hands Meet: Postcards of the Past” may just be the book of the 21st-century.
As beautiful and mystifying as the letters are, fans have turned their attention towards the author. Unnamed and with no face, Bleu is a walking mystery -- that is, if Bleu can walk. Fans have quickly immersed themselves in discovering Bleu’s real identity but no one has dug anything up yet. With such vast intelligence at the tips of our fingers it is quite the enigma. Which leads others to ask, “Who is Bleu?” and “Where did they come from?”. The only….
“What is this?"
“It’s about the author—“
“Yeah,” Haru interrupted. “I caught that much. Why is The Japan Times even humoring it?”
“Because the book is so popular! I should probably check it out…. No one knows Bleu’s actual identity, usually, you can easily find the person behind a psuede, right? Not with this guy. It’s a mystery.”
“Okay?”
“C’mon, Haru.” Kamei’s voice turned whiny. “Doesn’t this pique your interest in the slightest? Look, the only lead they can find is from, like, two-hundred years ago.”
“‘S creepy,” Haru said, rolling back to his own desk.
Kamei grinned. “Yeah, real spooky. It’s like he’s immor—“
“I meant, it’s creepy how people obsess over a person and try to uncover their entire lives.”
Kamei rolled his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. “Never mind, then.”
Haru turned back to his work, a half-written note laying in the clutter. He couldn’t remember what it was for.
CXV.
No
one
else
will sleep in my dreams. No one else will live in my head.
Of everything I have seen, it’s you I want to go on seeing. Of everything I know, it’s you I want to keep on knowing. Of everything I have felt, it’s you I want to keep on feeling for.
I love your laughter. I am moved by your morals.
What am I to do, love? I don’t know what else to do than love you.
Loving you, missing you, it’s who I am.
Haru closed the book, dazed. That was it; that was the last page. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at his clock. Four thirty-six. He had read straight through lunch, too immersed in the book to notice his growling stomach. His under-eyes felt like they were being stretched out.
In short: he felt like crap.
Haru moved to get up, leaving the “best-seller” on his floor.
“I finished it.” Haru nervously tapped his pointer finger on the table. It was sticky — the table, not his finger. Probably from a cheap cleaner a waitress sprayed on it.
“Did you?” Ryou responded, not showing a lick of surprise. He went to pick up his glass, water with a lemon slice. “What did you think?”
“I don’t know…” Haru rolled the thoughts around in his head. Nothing seemed clear anymore. “I feel pretty empty now.”
Ryou smiled into his drink. “That means you liked it.”
Had he? It was strange and hard to grasp, like a piece of math he couldn’t figure out. The instant Haru thought he understood, he’d think too hard and lose it.
He sighed, caving. “Maybe.”
“Great.” Ryou clapped his hands together. ”You owe me dinner.”
Haru shook his head in fondness because of course he did. The bill had already been set on the table, in between Haru’s demolished Itamemono and their shared dessert. He sorted through his wallet, finding the exact change, and placed it on top of the bill.
“Ready?” He asked.
Ryou gave a short nod and slipped out of the booth. Haru followed suit, finally escaping the sticky table and crowded plates. He smoothed out his jacket as he stood up, brushing off any stray crumbs that may have fallen in his lap.
“Okay, let’s go.” Haru nodded to himself. He was clean.
“Haru, watch out—” Ryou warned, reaching to stop him.
Haru shot him a curious look and stumbled into someone, almost falling over. His elbow cut into their chest, heel stomping on a tough material.
“I’m so s—“ Haru’s words stuck in his throat, choking him of air. A violent wave of nausea crashed into him, his stomach plummeting and his mind reeling. He was falling, farther and farther. A tempting nostalgia gripped onto his mind like he had just eaten a childhood candy but couldn’t remember when or where, the memory far away and blurry. His head felt fuzzy, it was a knee-buckling funny feeling.
“Uhhuhg.” An embarrassing sound slipped out of his mouth.
“I’m sorry about my friend here. I don’t know what’s come over him,” Ryou apologized, holding tightly to Haru’s shoulders, grounding him.
The only thing there was, was blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. A shockingly unique shade that haunted his recent dreams and ignored his pleading calls.
And Haru knew. His instincts screamed at him, yelling the name over and over in his head. He’d never be able to explain how he knew -- he just did.
Standing in front of him -- slick black hair, fancy attire, shocking eyes -- was the author who had managed to captivate the world with only the first few words of his lengthy plea of love. Bleu.