I’m too early for Songwriting so I wait on one of the benches outside the lecture hall. I sit with both my feet up and tucked beneath me, my back wedged against the corner between the backrest and the armrest, headphones on and listening to the best of my adolescent years. It’s bubble pop as bubblegum pop goes: cute, fluffy, and unapologetically saccharine. It’s nothing like the music I write— I don’t want to hear anything like it, afraid that it might affect my creative process. The last thing I want is to sound like someone else especially because I have no idea what I want to sound like. So I listen to anything else. Literally anything else. Usually I listen to alternative rock, or even hip-hop and RnB. But today feels likes one of those days.

Listening to pop oldies now feels like an open act of rebellion against the the underground system that demands originality and authenticity. Maybe this is what it really means to be punk rock: buying into the system, acknowledging and accepting what makes you feel good and not giving a .

Jae might know a thing or two about that.

But the truth is I’ve had more not-conversations with Jae to last me a lifetime. Despite Jae always having too much to say sometimes, neither of us were comfortable talking when it matters. Never when it counts. We’d both rather ignore the situation than have honest and sincere conversation. Sometimes, when the silence has taken over, I begin to think we’re having mental conversations about the things we’ll never say. I appreciate that he never asks, but one day I just might end up a mess of word-vomit and I know he won’t know how to take it. And it’ll be awkward.

In my head, I’ve already had this conversation with Jae.

“Do you think I’m taking too long to move on?” I’d ask. We’d likely be at the studio, in our designated spots. Jae would have his guitar across his lap, and I’d be curled up in my executive chair.

Jae would shrug. “Do you think you are?”

“It’s been almost a year.”

“A year is a long time.”

“So you do think I’m taking too long to move on.”

“I’m not saying that,” Jae would say. “I’m just saying a year is a long time for things to happen.”

“It’s also a long time for things to not happen.”

“I really don’t know what you want me to say, Kitty Kat.” And he’d be right.

Sometimes I’d have this conversation with Namjoon. Seems like he’d have a better grasp of the situation.

Namjoon would be across me, in Jae’s usual spot, but he’d crouch forward. As always, he’d be dressed in black from head to toe, like a ghost or a shadow. Most nights, Namjoon broods while I study. On the nights he’s on the verge of a philosophical bull episode, the best thing to do is just listen to him. I imagine our would-be conversation would go like this:

“It’s only as bad as you let it be,” he’d probably say. “Life is the choices you make. It’s hard now, but eventually you’ll have to drag yourself out of your dark hiding place.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“Making this about me won't make your problems go away.”

I’d like to argue that I have no problems, but my issues have issues. Besides, I thought the idea was to stay away from what gives you pain and go towards what makes you happy. “I’m fine now. I just have to stay away from the place.”

“The place? Or the whole gig?”

“Look, I’m just not ready.”

Namjoon would, then, give me a look that’s neither stern nor patronizing. “There is no ready. Only willing.”

From my periphery, I see a familiar set of broad shoulders emerge from the corner. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but when I see Sungjin’s always friendly face in the hallway, I instantly feel the heaviness I’ve been carrying all day lift off. As if I were a soaked kitten getting dry and warm and toasty under the sun. I pull down my headphones.

“I was just about to text you,” he says as soon as he’s a mere three steps away, and decent hearing range, from me. His smile is bright as always, but today his hair is kept in place by a baseball cap. “But I realized I don’t have your number.”

“What for?” I ask, crushing the ridiculous ideas, each increasingly more ridiculous than the last, sprouting from the question. Most of it variations of I  just wanted to see you. Ridiculous.

“We still have to work on your song. It’s due on Tuesday.”

“Right.” I don’t add that I haven’t finished writing it yet and that I’m about to completely revise the verse we wrote last time. “Homework,” I say stupidly.

“You didn’t forget, did you?” Somewhere there is a hint of a smirk. He’s wearing lighter clothes today, a black sweater that looks so soft and warm. I feel like burying my nose against his chest but that would be weird. I mustn’t be weird.

“No. Of course not.”

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He tilts his head as if to further examine me. I feel my myriad insufficiencies roar back to life under Sungjin’s gaze. “You look tired. More than usual. Did something happen?”

My head is already being more of a mess than usual today, I don’t even know how to take that. Sungjin sits next to me on the bench, and I inch back into my corner. As if he noticed, Sungjin leans back and gives me more space even though he’s practically more than a foot away from me.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine, okay?” I snap.

Sungjin winces at the tone of my voice. “Okay. Noted.” He sits straighter and turns slightly away from me. I hate this.

“Sungjin! Hi!”

I look up and Nayeon and her friend Jungyeon are crowding the corridor with their giddy energy. They have another girl with them—shorter, long brown hair, bangs—someone I don’t recognize. Sungjin’s face brightens when he sees them, and he offers them that sunlit smile ubiquitous on his face. The cloud that I thought had been lifted descends upon me again.

“You remember Jisoo?”

Sungjin nods. “Of course, I remember. I’m glad you girls were there, by the way.”

“Of course! We had so much fun! Anyway, I was looking for you at your office,” Nayeon says. “You weren’t there. Are you gonna be in class today?”

“Yeah,” Sungjin answers. “Professor Parks says I should sit in when I can.”

“Did he tell you to sit in the back too?” Nayeon asks.

Sungjin shakes his head. “But I’m an observer in the class so it’s where I should be, right?”

Jungyeon nudges Nayeon’s side with her elbow, and Nayeon bends sideways just enough to avoid it. “Right! Anyway,” Nayeon continues, “We’ll see you later, right? You said you’re going to help us out.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Don’t worry.”

“Awesome.”

I put my headphones back on and crank the volume all the way up.

Professor Park asks to see me again after class. Based on experience, this is never a good thing. Sungjin lingers by the front desk as usual, clearing up sheet music and unplugging amps and instruments. I’m starting to think he’s meant to be here. Or maybe, that even if he’s not meant to, he chooses to be here.

Until Professor Park turns to him and nods. He must have sent some form of telepathic message or maybe the Professor can control people with a flick of his brows because Sungjin nods back, gathers the papers and his guitar and leaves the room. I think I prefer Sungjin here now, if only to lessen the blow. Privacy like this never bodes well. It means it’s something so serious no one else should hear it.

“I’ve been listening to your songs,” says Professor Park. “And I’ve noticed something.” He motions for me to sit down and, despite my resolve to look like I’ve got this under control, I take the front row aisle chair. Professor takes a breath before he speaks. “I hoped I was wrong. I don’t know what to make of your work.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“That’s not really the issue her