It’s a Monday morning and Jongin looks up from his thrift shop shoes then at the white column. He does this three times before wiping the dirt on his heel on curve of the base, drawing little tiny shapes to mark his arrival.

Well, this is , he thinks and spits on the floor.


Jongin spends twenty minutes ambling down the hall with sleep on his mind until a teacher stopped him on his journey to an imagination class room and assists him to the reception like an authoritative figure he probably isn’t.

The school reception is another type of fancy – it looks more like a hotel reception, just without the little snack bowls. The mixture of mint and pine smell swims around the room, attacking his senses and makes him wrinkle his nose. He almost coughs but doesn’t, mostly because he wants to come off as polite to the receptionist lady with red lipstick on her teeth. Jongin takes a few steps towards her, a smile stretches over his face. He attempts to keep it there.

“Hi.”

Her smile widens, says, “Good morning, you must be the new student Mister Lee told me about.”

He nods, still holding the smile, “Yes, I’m Kim Jongin.”

“Yes,yes,” she says in acknowledgement, typing noisily into her computer. “I’ll print you a copy of your time table.” Her tone is caramelized, reminds him of an old people home. “What do you think of the school so far? It’s a great school, isn’t it? So pretty, it’s quite old and the students – well, they’re just splendid, top of the country, smart and well mannered.”

Jongin raises his brows, chuckles, “Sounds like I’ll fit right in then.”


Truth is, Jongin doesn’t like the school or the people in it very much.

So when he walks pass each class rooms in the building, he takes his time.

“Minhooooo”

He hears and ignores.

“Minhooooo”

Again, he hears and tries to ignore.

“Minhooooo”

He quickens his steps.

Jongin turns a corner and sees a whiff of brown hair disappear behind another. The giggles are like bells that drag him by the ear, he follows with obedience. He sees the pearl earrings vanish behind a corner. He feels his shell open up, he follows with obedience. He sees the skirt swings and flings himself at it. All he sees is brown eyes, warm cheeks, crystallized smile, sparks in the sky – red, green, brown, red, green, brown –

Color block –

Pink, yellow, blue.

“You’re not Minho.”

Her hair is neon pink, her eyes are electric blue, her jacket is sunshine yellow and when she sighs, her pink hair falls into her blue eyes to emphasizes the tired huff of breath.

“Have you seen Minho?”

Jongin shakes his head silent. “Have you seen the girl that was looking for him?”

She quirks a brow and crosses her arm, looking like a spoilt child at the age of five. “I am the girl that’s looking for Minho.”

He stares at the so-called girl blankly, blinks and turns on his heel, continues down the hall to wherever-ville. “You’re not the girl I’m looking for.”

His highest record of friends thus far has been zero. He’s always been the nice guys, just not necessary always very sociable. More of an introvert, a misfit, not that he’d mind, he always like to keep things to himself, hide in the corner and appreciate the little things most don’t.

Jongin stands in front of class, hands in pockets, hips against the door and eyes on the floor when the teacher says all the things he need to say to the class for him – Kim Jongin, new to the school, will be staying whether you like it or not, he’s no one to worry about – not like your daddy does business with him. And, oh yes, please do treat him kindly like the good, civil, friendly students you are.

They applaud, not willingly, he knows so he doesn’t smile when he sits down next to the boy with a golden smile and a soccer ball in his lap. The female students whisper about him like he came straight out of a Nicholas Spark’s novel. Jongin pretends not to hear because frankly, he does not care.

“Make your dad proud again this season, Choi,” the blonde sitting a row infront of them says without a bother to turn around, “I want to see a new trophy on the mantle, I’ll send a maid over to polish it up on a daily basis.”

The tall brunette throws the ball up and catches it with ease, chuckling, “You expect too much from me sometimes, man.”

“Faith,” the blonde corrects, clicking his finger as he swivels around in his seat and allowing Jongin to get more than a glimpse of his complexion. “There are not many things I have faith in this world. Consider yourself lucky, Choi.”

Choi seems to be oblivious to his eavesdropping action, the other one isn’t. “Anything we can do for you, newbie?”

ongin doesn’t reply and spins to his left, an empty seat greets him – there’s no such thing as a positive side to this place.

At lunch, he takes a walk in the glamorized garden that took some cues from Greek mythology – where are the Hesperides? He jokes to himself, listening to the sound of freshly cut grass crunching under his feet. No ordinary garden, it seems, a maze is more like it. The green block of nature closes in on him and soon enough, he’s suffocated by the wonder of something so majestic.

Jongin encounters a dead end, he takes five steps back and allows himself to open up to options – left or right. The difference, there’s none. Left lures him in and three steps he takes towards it then –

“Psst.”

Stops. Spins to the source of noise, spins to his right. “Hmm?”

Red, green, brown.

The nymph flashes a smile and his response is a dull one, lackluster even, “I saw you this morning.”

“I saw you this morning too.” She replies in a small voice, almost shy as she hides behind the hedge, looking like a Thumbelina. “You’re new. I’ve never seen you around before.”

“What’s your name?” Jongin asks, his feet rushing towards her in fear she’ll vanish yet again.

A whisper of ‘Jinri’ and she stumbles backwards, he knows it was on purpose but follows like a moth to the flame nevertheless. Well, he never could really resist a good, old mystery anyway.

His eyes are one with hers, looking into the depth of her soul when he asks, “Where are we going? Why right? Not left?”

A brief pause, then her fore finger on her lips in a child-like manner just as her words are, “I like roses. There are roses here – red, pink, white.”

“Yellow?”

She shakes her head, a coy smile playing on her lips. “No, never yellow.”

Jinri is not a girl. She’s a ghostly presence that haunts his subconscious and this is a sweet dream where she leads him into a sanctuary where only they know. Jongin closes his eyes and smells the cotton candy air. When he opens them again, he is on another dimension. It is beautiful, she is beautiful and when she grazes his hand with hers, it’s realer than anything he has ever felt.

Rose bushes hugging the Sistine Chapel of a fountain. The water pouring within it is not clear, it’s almost green from algae and he likes it that way.

“Close your eyes.” Jinri whispers, her voice sweet as the nectar, her nails grazing his wrist in the most sensual manner.

Jongin obliges. No questions

He feels a breeze.

Open.
Blink.
Blink.

Coldness in his hand and when his eyes finally adjusted to the warm sunlight, he sees the cold, hard shiny, emeralds – the only piece of evidence to prove she was ever here, with him, in this maze of everything that was nothing.

He ditches Math but goes to Science, purely for chemistry.

The bell had gone, Jongin doesn’t remember how long time passed but when he entered the class – sliding the glass door open, his dirty fingers leaving a print on them – he was greeted by unkind looks, especially by one in particular – pink.

She’s standing there in a matching lab coat with soccer champ by her side. Her hand is in his, her eyes are on Jongin.

The teacher, professor or whatever gives him a mean look, tells him to join a group – points finger at the couple with no chemistry, literally. His feet sag with every steps, Jongin feels the dread running through his system like he had a bad sandwich.

“Hi,” the brunette greets, all sunshine grin and offers a hand like a true gentleman that he is. “I’m Minho. I know that you’re…uh…new and you’re in my class and everything but yeah, sorry man, I with names.”

“Doubt he’s anything memorable.” The pink hair girl quips – miss mean in her teen.

Minho rolls his eyes at her little insult but cover it up with a forced chuckle. “Sorry about that, Krystal takes a while to get used to new people.”

“It’s Jongin.” He says ignoring her snide comment, letting himself immerse in the strong hold of Minho’s handshake. “And yeah, Krystal, you might find me memorable after I help you out with chemistry.”

“Minho and I are well off, thanks.”

Her glare seems to glint with a hint of smile.

Jinri is like a sweet dream.

He’s not surprised that she appears in his.


They perform a high school ritual on him and assign him to a locker.

A lock and a key are given to him. Jongin swings his sewn together backpack over his shoulder and carries a pile of second hand textbooks he won’t be flipping through up the stair, to the fifth floor, third block — wherever that is.

The class bell hasn’t gone yet, first period is still yet to come and students, his classmates roam around the school making noises in attempt to communicate with each other like human beings that they are not. There’s a couple in between the locker blocks, trapping themselves in-between, tongue exploring each other’s caverns on a Thursday morning.

Jongin looks away, possibly because his idea of love isn’t teenage flings.

He stops when he reaches the end of the stairs, from there on it splits into other two stair ways. The paper he glances down upon doesn’t tell him which one to take. He stands hunched back and plays eenie minie moe.

“Jongin!” makes him straightens himself.

The curls of her hair bounce in excitement as she pushes against the glass barrier of the staircase on his right. There’s eagerness within her starry gaze and it his ego, feeds it with the prize of affection and melts his defrosted exterior.

“Morning” she greets with a small wave.

Her smile is like the sunshine and it tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Morning”

“Ooh, you’ve got a lock.” She observes the gleaming silver object tight in his palm. “I sure hope it’s close to mine.”

“Third block, fifth floor.” He says quickly. “Any close to you?”

“Hmm…” Jinri ponders to herself as Jongin takes several steps up the stairs to reach her where she’s standing. “Close to me, closer to Krystal.”

“I –“

“I’ll take you.” She says abruptly, cutting him off mid speech and grabs his wrists. The warmth of her hand, sending shivers down his spine.
 

And she takes him away. She laughs a little – almost coyly and Jongin knows he has lost, he’s lost to her now. Jinri has taken a piece of him, rather a big one, the one he wants her to hold in her hands and sink her pretty, little nails in. Jongin’s flying on cloud nine with an angel, it feels just like being on an airplane and he hopes they never land.

Crash.

Kaboom.

 

“Sulli, Sulli, Sulli.”
 

It’s a common knowledge that frequently gets passed down the hallway – Lee Taemin knows everyone’s business. How? No one knows, no one questions it but they are weary of when he comes to collect.

His head is full of swept back blonde hair, his half smile is full of hidden secrets and his eyes gleam mean at Jinri. He’s a painting of the Lucifer, he breathes in smoke and exhale curses.

“You think I wouldn’t find out about this, really, Sulli?”

Biting her at her bottom lip, Jinri says in a small voice, “I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t,
Taeminnie.”

Taemin doesn’t look at Jongin throughout his enquiries; he doesn’t look at their interlock hands. He stares down at his lighter in a grudge filled manner, switching it on and off, watching the flame goes up and down. His eyes wander to Jinri from time to time but it was always venomous, not the accusing kind he’d expect but the cold, careless kind – not one friends would give to each other.

Finally, he sighs and pushes his black rimmed sunglasses down from his head to cover his brooding, black eyes. “Have you seen Krystal?”

“No,” Jinri or Sulli or whatever, shakes her head and pouts just like a displeased child. “Jongin and I have to go now, he just got a locker.”

She pulls Jongin by the tie like an owner to an obedient dog and when he s around again, Taemin was already gone; only a faint smell of cigarette is left in the air to attack his lung.

“So,” he begins, “Are you Sulli or Jinri?”

But she only grins. “The real question is; who would you like me to be?”


Socialites are often portrayed to be cruel creatures of wasted youth with trust fund money to support it. Of course, there are evidences to support this in the morning paper every couple of months so the claims can never be fully false. Now he’s in their territory, wearing their uniform, sitting in their classroom next to Lee Minho whom he pretends not to know under false pretence of having no interest in and Choi Sulli, having rather a tearful resulted spat at the gala last month or the report of Jung Krystal and him holding hands during some fashion related ball on page seven of last week’s issue of gossip daily or even, first page news of Lee Taemin, the heir of the biggest train business in Asia, not turning up to his own engagement party. Jongin rather thinks the captured picture of his father’s contained frown and knuckles turning white from gripping the serviette so hard was rather a nice touch on the column’s part.

Jongin imagined they would be ordinary in real life.

How wrong he was because the closer he gets, the more magnetic they are.


Jongin sees pink in the dark every time he swivels to the opened door of the abandoned class room he spends his lunch time in.

“You can stop hiding now, Krystal. I know you’re there,” he says dully, rotating around on the desk he’s been sitting on.

She bristles a little as she looms closer, mutters under her breath,

“Let me guess,” she huffs, crossing her arms on her chest, “It was the hair.”

He nods and she looks down on her Marc Jacob’s oxfords, tracing the black and white pattern with her blue eyes. Without a word, Krystal drags the chair from under where he’s sitting and took a seat herself, taking a berry flavoured gum out of her pocket and starts to attack the wrapper with her perfectly manicured nails.

“This is my usual place when I need to clear my mind,” she starts, then popping the thin strip of magenta in . “I don’t like sharing it, so I’d appreciate if you get out.”

Jongin scoffs. “Yeah…I’m not getting out. So you can either stay here and we’ll ignore each other’s presence or you can make it easier for me and leave yourself.”

Krystal stares at him with that pinched look of hers, seemingly baffled with his response. A girl like her – so rich, so pretty, he’d bet no one had ever refuted her before. The thought that he might be the first, washes over him in a vainglory wave while it graces her porcelain complexion with a frown.

After a while, “Kim Jongin,” Leaves her cupid bow mouth, making him jump a little. “I’ve never heard of that name before so that means you’re a no name.”

“So what?”

She shrugs and begins to tap her fingers on the desktop. “Since you’re an outsider, you probably still have some honestly left in you – you think Minho and I are pathetic, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about you and Min –“

She cuts him off sharply, almost with aggression. “Oh please. I saw you reading the tabloids this morning during business.”

Jongin gulps, something building within him. “You guys have been together for a while now –“

“Since we were 12”

“Or a long time,” Jongin continues. “It’s understandable if one of you or even both of you, are trying to make things work.”

Krystal contemplates this for a moment, leaving only silence in the room and the sound of her gum chewing activity. He doesn’t look at her during this period of time, whether its pity or fear, he wouldn’t know himself.

Then sullenly, she mutters, “Well, Minho doesn’t have the patience or the care to put any effort into ‘fixing’ things. He smashes things up and leave it people to clean up his mess.”

He doesn’t say anything and she looks the other way, almost ashamed to be so bare and vulnerable to a mere ‘peasant’ he is deemed to be in this society they live in.

“And…” she stops almost as soon as she started, taking a small breather before another word can slip out of her dry mouth, “Everyone knows, it’s always going to be Sulli – isn’t it?”

Jongin doesn’t tell her this is new information for him when she makes a point to scrape her chair back upon her exit.


Sulli lets him call her Jinri.

So it’s in the morning, before class that he says Jinri to see ‘Morning’ back. It’s after lunch, between the last two periods where he says ‘Jinri’ to experience her tiny, waves of greetings. It’s after school that she brushes pass him and touches his hand for a brief second, her own way of saying ‘Goodbye’.

Not today, there’s no farewell.

Minho’s on the soccer team, he’s quick on his feet and apparently, quicker than Jongin because red vanishes into the lab, letting out a small squeak when Minho abducts her but she was a willing victim and Jongin shouldn’t be surprise but admittedly, he is. 

It’s only when the green door slams with a ‘bang’ to wake him up from his twisted reality that he sees Krystal standing at the opposite end of the hall – bitter, bright pink forever stuck in the purple shadow of blaring red.

And for the first time, Jongin looks right at Krystal.