The music has long stopped. It's been three hours, and I just can't bear to hear it on loop one more time. 

So in the dark, with dim hallway lighting shedding through the half opened door, I dance. Again and again and again, to the melody in my heart.

Plier, emboite, grand jete, more plier, retire… A basic routine, but the instructor specified for a much faster pace, which means it only looks good if done with precision, every movement must be swift and intentional. 

Sweat is dripping down my face. My back aches and feet already gone numb. I know I'll feel it all tomorrow, in my joints, in the bones, in my spirit.

She's trying to make a point. I told the instructor that I probably won't apply for dancing school but instead will go into education. She said nothing but I know she feels that I'm throwing my passion away. So as homework, I get this routine that's meant to jolt me awake and make me remember the passion that's ballet. 

It's more like a part of my life I suppose, my love for dancing that consumes me day and night and demands my full attention. I'm scared to think what will become of me when it's no longer there. I ignore the looming fear, force it to the back of my mind, and I keep dancing. 

Just as I'm immersed in the practice, losing my fears and hesitation in each movement, I feel a sudden embrace from behind, warm hands holding onto my hips and lifting me into the air effortlessly, and with a grand sweep, I'm soaring like a bird. The shock of being caught off guard melts away as I hear the familiar laughter, tender and heartfelt, genuine joy that never fails to put a grin on my face. 

He flips me around and my feet land gently on the floor, I'm firmly in his arms, surrounded by the heat of his body and the intoxicating smell of his skin, where I belong. 

I sigh happily and reach in with my eyes closed, half expecting a kiss, but instead I get a playful peck on the cheek, “I thought you were gonna finish earlier and we were going to go eat.” 

I brush aside the hint of disappointment bubbling in my heart, and lean into his chest just a little more, not willing to let go yet, “well I did think I was gonna finish early, until I got an extra hard routine that needs to be ready by tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” He raises an eyebrow, and I respond with a dispirited nod. 

It's his turn to sigh, drawn out and just a tad too serious, I look up at him quizzically but am relieved when the sombreness is quickly replaced by the usual playful demeanor.

“Good thing I came prepared then!” He magically pulls a brown paper bag out of the front pocket of his faded Supreme hoodie, and puts it in my hands. 

The aromatic steam hits me as I open the bag, two fresh Bungeoppang, still warm to the touch. I can tell by the shape and the wrapping that they are from our favourite street stand not far from here. 

He leads me to the edge of the room and gestures for me to sit down on the floor. Then he retracts one piece of the snack, and wraps it carefully with tissue before handing it to me, “unfortunately your boyfriend is a penniless trainee who can't treat you to something more fancy, so you will just have to settle for this baby.” 

In the dark, the side of his face is all curves and soft shadows, bright eyes focused on the task at hand intently no matter how trivial, and lips relaxed yet forming into the perfect Cupid’s bow. Such a stunning looking boy, yet deep down inside I know he's the same shy little kid that caught my attention two years ago with his timid glances into the studio window. 

As I bite into the bungeoppang, the sweet aroma of red bean paste spreads into the air, wrapping the two of us in a warm little bubble. I lean into his shoulder and feel my muscles slowly relax for the first time today.

“How's your practice going?” I ask, eyes half closed as the sweetness of the dessert soaks into my heart. 

“It's going.” He mumbles. I wait and let the silence settles before he speaks again, “the teacher still doesn't like the way I dance or sing.” 

I pause, and can almost feel his body next to mine stiffen up slightly. 

He's not asking for sympathy, or even acknowledgement, that much I know by now. This was never meant to be easy, this path that he chose with determination two years ago. I wrap my arm over his wordlessly and hold onto him. 

We eat in silence and lean onto each other as darkness shrouds us. Eventually his voice pipes up, “at least you are good at ballet, sometimes I wonder why I'm so stubborn and can't let go of something I'm clearly not good at…”

His words, barely a whisper, cut through the silence like a sharp knife. 

“I like the way you sing though.” I pout innocently in an attempt to lighten the mood, he squeezes my arm but keeps talking, eyes looking beyond the walls of the practice room. 

“Well, they would hear me sing for real if I'm not so damn nervous all the time. I dunno, how can I be an idol if I can't even sing confidently in a small room…”

His head is lowered now, receding into the darkness. I nuzzle into his chest a little, seeking for the warmth and the faint indication of his heartbeat through his jacket, “well yes, you do get shy sometimes. I mean, it did take you half a year just to say hi to me.” 

That's an understatement and we both know it, I hear a soft chuckle escaping his lips. I was the one that actually had to get on the street one morning, who could no longer contain the curiosity after seeing the same timid face peeking into the studio at the same time every morning for half a year. I waited until he appeared on the street, bright eyes peeking through the oversized black hoodie, hiding from the world behind a pair of metal rimmed glasses. He almost fell over when our eyes locked and he recognized me, and stood there with his head hung low like a little kid as I introduced myself and told him to stop by one day if he's interested in dance classes. It took him another week to actually stop by again, after I beat myself up for being too blunt and gave up on the idea of seeing him ever again. 

“And it was a pretty bad excuse you made when we did talk. I mean, dance classes? Are you kidding me?” I nudge him on the side hard, forcing another chuckle out of him. 

Yep, what an idiot. I will never forget the moment when I finally got him in a room alone and made him dance for the first time. He was so shy, the air in the room was practically vibrating with his nervous energy. But I dimmed the light and started the music, and his body eased into each pose, as he slowly let go. 

Near the end of the song I saw someone entirely different than the awkward boy that couldn't even say his name out loud, I saw what he would grow into eventually in the near future, an iridescent star destined for the stage. And I knew I would fall in love with him, head over heels, irrevocably so, giving my all and never looking back. Sometimes I'm glad he doesn't know the allure he exudes, when he's deep in his passion and shining in all his perfect imperfections, blindingly so to the rest of us. 

“But you came back, I gotta give you that. You were shy and awkward and we barely talked but you always came back.” I smile as I speak, my voice soft and encouraging, “and that's who you are Gukkie, you don't give up. And in the end you got me.” I blush as he pats my head indulgently. 

“So don't worry about it. Just keep practicing. You wouldn't be happy anywhere else in the world, because this is what you wanted, isn't it?” His hand cards through my hair gently as I keep talking, “to sing and dance alongside your hyungs, to get on that stage and be heard.”

Something about the moment makes me want to let all my unspoken emotions gush out, so I keep talking, “and you are never alone. Even if nothing works out, or if one day you are beyond my reach, I'll always be here cheering for you.” 

He turns towards me, and I can see all the small details of his face that are so endearing to me. And suddenly it all feels so trivial, his inability to see his own talents, and my fear of our unknown future, all the unspoken words that we already understand. 

I have him, however fleetingly the moment it is, I have him now. 

So I lift my head up and kiss him, lightly and full of feelings I cannot verbalize. On the scar by his cheek that I adore so much, in between his brows to erase all the tension that always seems to be there, on the mole right under his lips. Butterfly kisses that graze and linger and warm the skin between all the lines and shadows. His eyes, filled with indulgence, are the last things I see as I close my own. 

I feel his hand cupping my head as his lips respond and search for mine. It starts soft and gentle, like drizzling rain on a lazy summer day. Then his hand digs into my hair and suddenly there's passion in the kiss, searching and demanding and making me breathless. As i yield and wish for more, his hand caresses the outline of my face, and his tongue traces my lips, teeth nibbling playfully. 

Now he's just teasing, I whine softly in response, only to be met by light chuckles under his breath, “wow, there's got to be a better place for this than the floor of your practice room.” 

Watching my face slowly turns red, he holds me tighter and adds, “and for the record, I never said I needed dance lessons, you just assumed.” 

I spot the glimmer of mischief in his eyes, behind the passion that still lingers. I punch him and get a fake groan in return, his arms still wrapped around me tightly, refusing to let go. 

What I didn't realize when I first met him, is that beyond that shy exterior, or the explosion of charisma on stage, he's just an ordinary playful little kid. We are both so young, in fact, with the rest of our lives stretching out in front of us in its infinite uncertainty. 

A thought that's both scary and exciting - youth that thrives in the dazzling unknown. 

I don't know if it's the meandering thoughts, or my blood still pumping from the overstimulation of the kiss, I get up suddenly from the floor, surprising both of us. 

“Um are you getting back to practice?” he eyes me with a cute little tilt of his head. 

I shake my head, “no, no more. I already remember the stupid routine by heart, my self criticism ain't leaving me overnight, I'll deal with it tomorrow. What do you say, instead, we go for some soju?”

He assesses me quizzically, sticking his tongue into the inside of his cheek in the meantime, “Soju? You? Last time you drank I had to carry you home.” 

I brush his concern to the side, “whatever, you didn't do any better. Yoongi probably still has that photo of the both of us passed out on top of each other at the bar.” 

He smiles sheepishly, “yeah so drinking is probably not a good idea.” 

I tug on his sleeve and drag him up from the floor, “yeah but I want to create memories, memories with you. I want to look back and remember more than being stuck in this little studio feeling so damn inadequate.”

His gaze softens, and reaches out to grabs my hand, the callouses on his hand feel rough and familiar against my fingers, “memories it is. We will start with soju and see where the night takes us.”

I respond as we walk out of the room together, fingers interlocking, “yep wherever it takes us,” followed by a wink that turns into a silly laugh when I realize I'm really no good at being suggestive. 

The dimly lit hallway is empty saved for the silhouette of us together. I can make out the light from the street at the end of the hallway, and for some strange reason, suddenly I wish that time would stop on its track and we would be in this moment forever, away from all the noise of the world and the unknowns of the future, however dazzling it may be. Just the two of us, walking in the dark, leaning into each other and holding hands. 

Quietly he starts singing, his voice mesmerizing and tinged with such innocent but wholehearted love. It echoes in the hallway and warms my heart. The funny thing is, years afterwards, after we are no longer together, when I try to remember that night, the night I spent with my first love, what we actually did afterwards is always blurred by the passage of time, no longer remembered. But that single moment, filled with his gentle singing voice reserved just for us, that's the moment that I end up remembering over and over, suspended in time and becoming forever mine as I had selfishly hoped for. 

I see swimming pools and living rooms and aeroplanes
I see a little house on the hill and children's names
I see quiet nights poured over ice and Tanqueray
But everything is shattering and it's my mistake

Only fools fall for you, only fools fall
Only fools do what I do, only fools fall
Only fools fall for you, only fools fall
Only fools do what I do, only fools fall