The world, as Green Tea knew it, was a sketchpad waiting for colour, and Hong Kong was his favourite, most complicated canvas. To others, it was a city of vertical ambition and horizontal noise, a symphony of clattering trams and humming air conditioners. But to him, the steam rising from a dai pai dong’s wok was the breath of dragons, and the neon signs of Mong Kok were a forest of electric, glowing flowers.
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His real name was Liam, but everyone, including his girlfriend Kelly, called him Green Tea. He said it was because he was both calming and stimulating, a paradox in a mug. Kelly, pragmatic, grounded Kelly with her spreadsheets and her five-year plan meticulously mapped against the rising cost of living in Tung Chung, loved him for it, even when it exasperated her.
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Their relationship was a dance between his "what if" and her "what is." While she calculated their savings for a future 400-square-foot apartment, he would gently tap her pen as they sat on the Star Ferry and say, "Close your eyes. Just for a moment."
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And she would, a small, patient smile on her face as the boat chugged across the vibrant, oily water of Victoria Harbour. "Okay, Green Tea. I'm closing them."
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"Good," his voice would soften, becoming a conduit for dreams. "Now, imagine... the sound of this ferry isn't a diesel engine. It's the creak of timber and the snap of canvas. We're not crossing the harbour. We're Viking explorers, cutting through the fjords of Norway. Can you feel the frigid spray on your face? See the mountains, sharp and ancient, rising from the mist? The air smells of pine and ice."
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And she could smell it. That was his magic. He didn't just describe; he conjured. For thirty seconds, the scent of salt and harbour pollution would transform into something clean and wild, the chatter of tourists would become the cry of gulls, and the weight of her spreadsheets would lift.
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This was their ritual. "Imagine with me, Kelly," he'd say, and she would step, willingly, into the beautiful, impossible worlds he built for them both, a temporary refuge from the city's relentless pragmatism.
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One sweltering Tuesday evening, the air thick and heavy with the promise of a summer storm, they were squeezed onto his tiny balcony in Sham Shui Po, watching the laundry flutter between buildings like faded flags. The city throbbed around them—a cacophony of video game arcades, sizzling woks, and rumbling buses. Green Tea grew quiet, his gaze fixed on the flickering sign of a cha chaan teng across the street.
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"Kelly," he said, his voice unusually solemn, cutting through the humid buzz. "Close your eyes. This one is important."
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She laughed, putting down her phone, its screen glowing with a rental listing. "Where are we going this time? The moon?"
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"Paris," he said simply.
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Her smile widened. "Paris? In this heat? Okay. I'm closing them."
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The sticky Hong Kong night began to dissolve. The scent of drying clothes and street food was gently replaced.
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"Imagine," he began, his voice a low, steady rhythm against the distant whine of a tram. "It's early. The city is still shaking off its sleep. We're having breakfast at a little café, right at the base of the Arc de Triomphe. The croissants are so flaky they shatter at a touch. The coffee is bitter and perfect. And look... it's starting to snow. Just a few, fat flakes, drifting down between the grand, stone legs of the arch. They land on your nose. You're surprised by how cold they are."
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Kelly shivered, a genuine, physical reaction. She could feel the phantom cold, a shocking contrast to the Hong Kong humidity that clung to her skin.
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"Now we walk," he continued, his voice painting the scene stroke by stroke. "The snow is a gentle drizzle now. We reach the Eiffel Tower. You press your palm against the cold, cold iron. It's so real, so shockingly solid. I heard flowers are a must-see for lovers, so I buy a single, perfect red rose from a vendor whose breath fogs in the air."
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In her mind's eye, Kelly saw it. The grey metal, the vibrant red of the rose, the white of the snow. It was more vivid than the colourful signage of the Goldfish Market just below them.
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"We duck into a gallery to get warm," Green Tea whispered. "And there it is. An authentic Picasso. It's not just a picture; it's a feeling. The fractured lines, the bold colours... it makes me feel like I could fly. And the feeling of hugging you after, in the warmth of that gallery, surrounded by all that beauty... even the Louvre can't compare to that."
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She felt his arms around her then, not in the cramped Hong Kong heat, but in the imagined warmth of a Parisian gallery. It felt real.
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"And then," he said, his voice dropping, filled with a new, thrilling tension. "We board the Ferris wheel. The one at the Place de la Concorde. It spins, our little gondola, against the drizzling snow. The city lights are blurred, smudges of gold through the white. I laugh and say you've put on weight from all those croissants, and you swat my arm."
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Kelly let out a small, choked laugh, her eyes still tightly shut. Tears were beginning to form.
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"We rise higher," he murmured. "Gazing at the Nordic night sky... it's so beautiful I'm afraid you'll disappear the moment I turn. Why are there Ferris wheels? All to impress me. Why not believe it?"
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"I keep listening to your nonsense," she whispered back, her voice thick. "It's so realistic that even my hair is frozen. Frozen."
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A silence fell, both in the imagined Paris and on the humid balcony in Sham Shui Po. The noise of the Flower City, Paris, suddenly fell silent in her mind.
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His next words were clear, sobering, cutting through the beautiful fantasy he had woven.
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"You said you really wanted to marry me."
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The words landed not as part of the daydream, but as a stark, real question. They sobered her up. The truth, though real—the tiny flat, the spreadsheets, the relentless hustle of Hong Kong—wasn't as rich as the imaginary. In words, they'd already been to Paris. They'd already shared that perfect moment.
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"Why did I think of the Ferris wheel?" he mused softly, his voice bringing her back to the edge of the fantasy. "And then it would turn even more. I'll see you off. Frozen in mid-air, my thoughts. I don't know if this is happiness."
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He paused, and she could feel his nervousness, a tangible thing in the air between them.
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"If I could own a Ferris wheel," he said, his voice cracking with emotion, "I'd rather it never move. I'd stop it right here, at the top, with you, forever. I would announce my marriage with the wind."
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A single tear escaped from beneath Kelly's closed eyelid, tracing a warm path down her cool cheek. The contrast was dizzying—the heat of Hong Kong, the cold of imagined Paris, the warmth of her tear.
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"I cry," she whispered, playing her part in their shared script, her voice trembling, "and I say I do."
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She heard him shift. She could feel him kneeling before her on the rough concrete of the balcony.
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"Thanks to you," he said, his voice raw and full of love, "for fulfilling the pain of happiness."
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She opened her eyes. He was there, in his simple t-shirt and shorts, kneeling in the heart of Hong Kong, not Paris. In his hand was not a rose, but a small, velvet box. The city lights behind him twinkled, a poor imitation of the Eiffel Tower's sparkle, but in that moment, infinitely more beautiful.
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"How can I travel with you, holding your hand?" she whispered, the words from their imaginary trip now heavy with real meaning. "I've never had such good luck."
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"I feigned excitement," he replied, finishing their shared lines, his eyes locked on hers. "But the imaginary journey felt too real."
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He opened the box. A simple, elegant band sat within, catching the glow of a neon sign.
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"Kelly," he said, his voice now entirely his own, no longer a narrator but a man. "I can't give you Paris. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I can give you a lifetime of journeys. I can give you a world we build together, right here. Will you imagine a lifetime with me? Will you marry me?"
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The noise of Sham Shui Po rushed back in—the clatter, the shouts, the relentless, pulsing life of the city. But it was just background noise now. The real world was here, on this tiny balcony, with this man who saw dragons in the steam and galaxies in the neon.
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The imaginary journey had been beautiful, a masterpiece of shared creation. But this, this was richer. This was real.
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"Yes," she said, her voice clear and sure, no longer a whisper. "Yes."
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And as he slipped the ring onto her finger, she knew their greatest adventure wasn't in Paris or Norway or on a Viking ship. It was here, in the messy, vibrant, overwhelming reality of Hong Kong, with a man named Green Tea who had taught her that the most beautiful worlds are the ones you build, together, with your eyes wide open.
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and then Add to home screen.