「 The Unreturned 」

When I was ten, I finished reading The Little Prince for the first time. Full of anticipation, I turned to the last page and found that a rose had truly grown there. “It’s perfectly normal,” the teacher said offhandedly. “Everyone who reads it carefully gets one.”

I decided to leave it in the book, letting it rest quietly in the corner, undisturbed.

The first time I saw you was in the classroom. That day, the sunlight fell like thin slices through the blinds, illuminating you. Even though you sat in another corner, I could still clearly see you bowing your head, writing something. I pretended to flip through my book but kept watching you—noticing the red petal peeking from your chest pocket, its color unusually deep, like the sun just after it sets.

Later, I realized everyone’s rose was different.

The convenience store owner downstairs soaked his rose petals in liquor; their color faded faintly like cherry blossoms. He said drinking it would let him see whoever he wished for in his dreams.

My deskmate’s rose never bloomed. I asked why he didn’t try planting it in soil. He said, “I don’t want it to bloom. Once it blooms, it will wither.”

On the bus, I saw a sister who had taped her rose to her bag with clear adhesive. The stem was stuck straight, just like her upright posture. Someone nearby said she was waiting for someone who would never return.

That day, I ran into you outside the school gate. You smiled and greeted me. I greeted you back just as happily. Even though neither of us made a sound, as if mouthing the words, I still noticed the rose on your chest.

One day in the hallway, you caught me looking at you. You lifted your head, smiled, and asked, “What is it?”

I pointed to the flower. “Aren’t you going to take care of it?”

“I do. It grows on its own, as long as it isn’t sad.”

“Why would it be sad?” I asked, puzzled.

“Well… sometimes it hears me talking to myself, and that makes it sad. If it hears too much, it leaves.” Your voice was very soft.

I opened my mouth to say something but swallowed the words.

After that, we often saw each other in the hallway. You always carried that flower. But one day, I noticed it was gone and asked you where it was. You just looked at me and stayed silent. I didn’t ask again.

Another time, I saw you sitting alone in the classroom. I walked in and sat beside you. Just as I was about to ask how you’d been, you started talking about The Little Prince on your own. We talked for a long time that day.

You said that when the little prince left, the fox should have run after him.

I said the fox didn’t chase him because it knew the little prince would return.

You smiled and asked, “But what if he doesn’t?”

I was speechless and didn’t answer. You gazed at the wind blowing through the window, the petals on your chest trembling slightly.

Later, you stopped carrying the rose. When I asked where it had gone, you said the wind had blown it away.

I whispered, “Can the wind blow away a flower?”

You nodded. “It can.”

On the day you left, you pressed an old copy of The Little Prince into my hands. The cover was slightly scratched, and between its pages was a long-yellowed petal. Your hand lingered in mine for a second, your eyes gently resting on my face before turning away.

You told me to keep it.

I nodded, but didn’t dare ask if it was your rose.

After you left, I started paying closer attention to my own flower. One morning, I noticed it had bloomed, its petals turned toward the window as if searching for something. I began to write you a letter, only to realize you never gave me your address. That day, the wind was strong, rustling the pages like someone knocking.

I didn’t touch it. But a few days later, I found it had withered, all its petals fallen between the pages. I wanted to tell you.

I opened to that page and saw the little prince standing on his planet, hands behind his back, gazing somewhere far away.

Suddenly I remembered what you once said: “What if he doesn’t come back?”

I finally answered—

He won’t be back.