@โงห p. chaeyi Flowers are beautiful because they are meant to attract.
There are a very small number of times that Kim Mingue has ever felt like the study of plants has ever been able to explain what is happening to him in real life.
Mingue was watching the crowd milling about the gallery, each patron moving from one exhibit to another with a contemplative expression or polite murmur. He usually preferred the quiet solitude of his greenhouse to social gatherings like this, where polished strangers exchanged courteous nods and practiced smiles. The plants in his care required no such performative grace, only gentle hands, and patience, but tonight was different. Tonight, his work was here on display, and he had been persuaded to step into the public eye, however reluctantly. This reluctance is reflected in how he was dressed, disheveled, in a brown ill-fitted tweed suit jacket.
He remained by the edges of the crowd, his gaze drifting to the herbarium display that had, over the years, become a deeply personal project. Each dried flower and pressed leaf within those glass cases held a story. They were remnants of seasons long past, preserved in paper. He knew displaying them like this was a mistake. It feels too… personal. Like having your diary read aloud in a public area.
And so, Kim Mingue was restless, until it happened.
From across the room, his gaze fell on a young woman standing before his exhibit. She seemed captivated. She was looking at his flowers and she looked like she was able to read him.
Mingue’s gaze lingered as he caught sight of her fully, the pastel pink of her gown like the soft blush of the first sakura bloom against the cool backdrop of spring. The dress seemed to ripple around her ankles with every step, layers drifting like petals caught in a gentle breeze. His breath stilled for a moment, an unfamiliar pulse of wonder filling the quiet spaces within him. She was like a flower herself, effortlessly drawing him in, as if she, too, belonged in a meadow surrounded by life, rather than this polished gallery surrounded by dead things.
Imagine being a bee, amidst the concrete hell of the city, only to find a single flower blooming at a crack on the street. She was everything. It struck him how fitting she was, surrounded by flowers—alive, fresh, breathing in contrast to those in his glass cases.
He had spent his life studying flowers, marveling at their intricate forms, each one a delicate masterpiece with a singular purpose: to attract, to draw others near, through beauty. It was a principle so foundational in botany—this notion of attraction—that he often spoke of it to his students as the heart of a plant's existence. Yet, standing here, observing her, he found himself caught in that very pull as if he were a pollinator drawn to a bloom’s vibrant allure.
It felt almost cataclysmic. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd been struck this way, as though seeing beauty itself for the first time. It was a quiet sensation yet intense, a call of color and light that touched something deep within, stirring memories, desires, and thoughts he'd long buried beneath his quiet routines and solitary days in the greenhouse.
What Mingue didn’t realize, as he watched her with that breathless awe, was that he had known this girl once—long ago, in a different life almost, back when he was young and full of dreams he’d barely begun to understand. They had crossed paths in high school, fleeting moments of youth shared under different stars. But now, years later, he didn’t recognize her; time and experience had painted new brushstrokes over their memories
“Hello.” He managed to say as he stood beside her, hands clasped behind himself, looking at the same herbarium sheet she was looking at. “You've been here awhile, do you have any questions about this specimen?”
@โงห k. mingue As Rosé entered the art gallery, she exuded an effortless grace, each detail of her appearance thoughtfully chosen for this prestigious evening. Her honey blonde hair was swept up into a loose, elegant chignon with a few soft tendrils framing her face, adding a touch of softness to her refined look. Silver chain rested delicately against her clavicle, adorned with a single pearl that matched the subtle glint of the diamond studs in her ears. The pastel pink gown itself was a masterpiece— its light layers flowing like petals around her ankles with floral embroidery climbing up the bodice and lending a soft texture that seemed to mirror the evening's theme.
Stepping into the grand hall, Rosé felt the quiet sophistication of the evening settle over her. She took in the crowd around her, a blend of dignified guests in tailored suits and expensive gowns, their voices weaving together in a soft murmur. Crystal glasses clinked softly and a delicate fragrance of jasmine and rose petals lingered in the air, mingling with the harp music drifting from somewhere beyond the marble columns.
Each step deeper into the gallery revealed a new exhibit, each piece celebrating the fleeting beauty of flowers in different forms. She paused to admire a watercolor of vibrant irises and a sculpture of wild roses crafted in glass. But then the herbarium display caught her umber eyes instantly, setting itself apart from the other pieces as if it was demanding reverence. Encased in glass were rows of preserved flowers, each one dried, pressed and meticulously arranged, their colors softened over time. The petals held intricate patterns, faint lines like veins marking the passage of time, their hues now muted to sepias, dusky pinks and faded greens.
Rosé moved closer, captivated by the delicate, fading beauty within the glass. She could see each tiny detail— the frayed edges of petals, the fragile stems, the shadows cast by the soft lighting. As she touched the cool surface of the glass with her fingertips, she felt an inexplicable kinship with the flowers inside. They too had been vibrant once, offering their beauty freely, only to find themselves preserved, quietly fading but never forgotten. They were a reminder of life's fragile beauty and resilience.
Rosé exhaled a soft sighed, shifting her gaze wondering who create such beauty and immediately batted her lashes. The name of the creator was engraved on a small brass plaque beside the installation: Kim Mingue. The name seemed to stir something faintly in the back of her mind like a forgotten memory just out of reach. She knitted her brows, eyes narrowing slightly as she tried to place it but no matter how hard she searched her thoughts, it remained elusive. Kim Mingue. The name felt like it belonged to someone important, someone familiar. Yet she couldn't recall the face, the connection or even where she might have heard it before.
