Mark Tuan thinks he has social anxiety. Everyone tells him he is perfectly normal, except he is closer to an epitome of an awkward potato rather than a social butterfly. But Mark is almost certain his problems extend beyond the personification of the starchy stem vegetable. He doubts anyone else understands how it feels to have hyperawareness of his surroundings, specifically of people around him. A slight raise of a single eyebrow sends him into frenzy, for fear that he had said something wrong. An involuntary twitch of the lips translates as a look of contempt in his head, and he would spend the whole day feeling down in the blues, then wake up in the depth of the night, relieved to find himself drenched in cold sweat, in a dishevelled state, alone. Because nothing is worse than having tens and hundreds of people whispering about him, snickering behind his back, just like in his nightmare.

 

His only friend in college is Jackson, whom he thought he could count on since they were both international students studying in a foreign place – Seoul, South Korea. Oh, he thought wrong. Jackson is great, an amazing individual really. He is ambitious, fencing champion and claim-to-be rapper, beatboxer, dancer… The list goes on. He is also loving, filial to his parents and loyal to his friends. Mark doesn’t have a problem with these fantastic aspects of his friend, but he will swear upon his life that if he knew Jackson Wang is a complete looney, he would have fled to the other end of the world when they first crossed paths. It is too late now. Between having to stick to a nutcase and having to deal with school alone, he will still choose the former, the lesser of the two evils.

 

“One sheep, two sheep. Why do we count sheep? Why not cats or… mice? Why are mice afraid of cats? Is it because cats are bigger than mice? Then why are elephants afraid of mice when they are so much bigger than them?” Jackson rambles on thoughtlessly, his feet tapping against the table they are propped on in erratic rhythm. Mark wishes he could at least keep to a steady tempo and not mess with his inner pulse.  

 

“I’m exhausted, Jackson. I need tons of energy to process the intelligence coming out from your mouth,” Mark sighs. It is 2.35am. He should be typing furiously on his laptop by now if he wants to meet the deadline for his essay due tomorrow, yet he finds himself staring blankly at the screen, the bright light splintering painfully in his vision. When he closes his eyes, his head spins and he sees a luminous red. He is in dire need of a break.

 

“You sure you don’t need help? Markie-pooh? Reminder that I am a musical genius even though I major in sports? Hello?”

 

Mark can see it coming: the braggadocio.

 

“You know, there was once I wrote an essay for Bambam because he was too lazy to do it and when he got back his paper, he didn’t talk to me for a week! Don’t you think it must have been because I did so well that he got jealous?” Jackson pauses to let out a conceited snicker. “Ha! Poor Bambam!”

 

Is he being serious? Mark shakes his head, but decides to humour his friend just for the sake of his mental health; a second more of looking at the computer screen would likely lead to his brain’s combustion.  “Okay sure, genius. Please enlighten me on the impact of minimalism on popular music.”

 

“The impact of minimalism on popular music? Simple!” Jackson claps his hands together in determination, before pausing like a freeze frame when he rethinks the question. “Uh, what is minimalism?” 

 

On a usual day, Mark would roll his eyes and attempt a sarcastic comeback, but he simply looks away today. The long night has taken a toll on him and he is dog-tired. As time continues to pass, he is beginning to feel the desperation creeping up his gut. He cannot afford to fail this essay, unless he is willing to ship himself back to Los Angeles where he would crumble in the outspoken culture. “I can’t do this anymore,” he groans, slamming his head, face-down, onto the keyboard.

 

“Hey, don’t give up!” Jackson shakes Mark’s shoulder affectionately. “How about you ask Jaebum hyung about it? I have his number!”

 

As if someone poured boiling water over his head, Mark jumps, his knees colliding with the desk in the process. He nevertheless manages a weak call of rejection before wincing in pain. “Please, Jackson, don’t.”

 

He knows who Jaebum is as they are both music majors, but that is beside the point. He will not even peg themselves as acquaintances; they were more like humans in the same lecture hall at the same time. Apart from his severe phone anxiety, asking someone he hardly knows for help sounds like a terrible idea and he can already feel his stomach churn in nervousness. In conclusion, calling Jaebum in the middle of the night was a recipe for disaster, at least for Mark.

 

“Oh come on, don’t worry. I’ll ask on your behalf,” Jackson suggests, and Mark’s eyes light up. That doesn’t sound too bad. If he doesn’t have to exchange words directly with Jaebum, Jackson is more than welcome to make that call and save his sorry from drowning in misery. “But,” the younger continues, a smirk creeping up his face. “There is something you need to do in exchange.”

 

---

  

Of course, Mark should have known that Jackson’s largesse came with strings attached. The list of key points he got from Jaebum that contributed to his sloppy (but at least, completed) essay seems absurdly attainable now, though he assumes he would be too desperate the night before to think twice about accepting anyway. What’s done is done. He finds himself sitting in a bar, The Blue Velvet, the next evening, squashed in between an over-excited Jackson and an unimpressed Jaebum, whose proximity with Mark triggers alarm bells in his head, screaming “Stranger Danger!”. 

 

“So, what is the purpose of this awkward gathering?” Jaebum ponders out loud, more unconcerned than anything. But Mark gulps in fear, his mind’s useless reasoning deciding that it is a passive-aggressive comment. He opens his mouth to say something but no words come out. Thank the heavens that Jackson has heard Jaebum speak, as he laughs in response. “You think it’s awkward? Things are about to heat up! When Mark finally says hi to a stranger in this room!”

 

What? For a moment, Mark thinks he acquired a hearing disability. What did he say? 

 

“Huh, I don’t get it,” Jaebum deadpans, “how is that exciting in any way? And is my list of key points for the essay really worth that little?” Mark feels a hesitant glance in his direction from Jaebum, and he freezes up like a statue, only his eyes calling out to Jackson in a cry for help.

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Drinks are on me today! Mark thanks you for your help and is willing to give you a show on how he is going to hit up a stranger for the very first time!” Jackson announces so exuberantly, it feels unsettling.

 

While Mark trembles under his skin, still dumbfounded by the situation he is in, Jaebum widens his eyes. He seems to be genuinely amazed for a moment to find out Mark’s apparent inexperience in saying hello to people, and as Jackson picks up his wallet and doles out cash for drinks like a husband to a spendthrift wife, he buys the strange proposal of a thank-you gift. “Okay then, Mark, who are you going to talk to?”

 

If it were only Jackson, he would have slapped him across the face and stormed off. He is comfortable with Jackson; they have seen each other in all states, good or bad – mostly bad, embarrassing and ugly moments – and he feels comfortable enough to at least express his frustrations with the younger. With Jaebum though, it is a different story.

 

Mark tries to keep his thoughts under control but they break free into an explosion of utter chaos. What if he thinks I am a spoilsport if I disagree? What if he tells everyone in music class about this? What if I become the trash of the school from all the rumours that will be spread about me? Anyone would dismiss these ridiculous thoughts, but to Mark, they are like poison seeded in him, growing slowly but steadily and eventually engulfing his entire being, rendering him powerless. The fact that he does owe Jaebum immensely, coupled with those fierce eyes of his that look so sharp that they can slice his hands off, Mark reckons he does not have the means to leave a bad impression.

 

As if Jackson has made tormenting Mark his life mission, he proceeds to suggest potential candidates for his conversation-starter debut. “How about that girl over there? She seems cute!” No girls please, Mark prays. Girls are strange creatures, always in their own bubble of squeals and giggles, yet sometimes spit fire and engage in violent hair-pulling fights like real es. In other words, girls are dangerous.

 

“Hmm, or how about that guy there?” Jackson pipes, his voice quivering with true excitement. Asking him to calm down today will be equivalent to asking a fire not to burn. “Oh!” he exclaims, pointing towards a huge, beefy guy sitting at the corner of the room. “Isn’t that Rick from the hockey team? Oh my god Mark, I remember him saying he has a crush on you!”

 

Mark literally shudders as he makes eye contact with Rick. The big guy flashes a sleazy smile, throwing him a wink that can be mistaken for a muscle spasm, and Mark feels bile rising his throat. If he tries to focus on him in a ual light, all he gets is a repugnant miasma of sour-smelling shirts and muscles gone too far and dirty socks… as as an old football coach. Gross. 

 

Since he is already down to this point, reluctant as he is, Mark decides that if anything can possibly get worse it is because Jackson has a say in it. “I will d-decide on m-my own,” he stutters.

 

Those words don’t feel like his own, and he thinks he feels an out-of-body experience when Jackson pushes him away from the safety of their table. Along the wall is every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles, and aged framed mirrors reflecting what little light there is in the dim space, everything mashed up in a hue of rustic brown. Perhaps he is feeling tipsy from the booze he has downed, as the sparkle from every pint in his way form stars in his already blurred vision.

 

In his daze, his body instinctively veers away from loud conversations and noisy clinks of glasses, and he ends up at the opposite end of the bar where it is dark and quieter, music more muffled, as though he just stepped into a pool of water. He sees a figure crouched over the bar counter, with a dozen of empty shot glasses lined up haphazardly at the side. He will never admit it, but his curiosity is piqued, just a little, as he wonders what happened to the lonely guy for him to drown himself in alcohol. However, the thought is fleeting, as he gets distracted by the horrible, erratic thumping in his chest, as if a large bird was trapped inside his ribcage and beating itself to death. 

 

Mark walks towards him, for some reason having to drag his legs that seem to cling onto the ground nervously. He gets closer, and closer, until the guy’s presence encompasses his surroundings. This is crazy. I am crazy. He takes in a deep breath as he hovers his hand above the stranger’s shoulder, trying to ignore the heat that is already creeping up his neck. It’s now or never. 

 

The confident tap on the shoulder he initially planned ends up as a timid poke with a single finger, but it does the job anyway. The stranger turns his head half-heartedly, and Mark sees his face for the very first time. He appears as a simple kind of guy, likely also a college student, clad in a humble striped shirt, with his hair black and poker straight. But what catches Mark’s attention are those eyes of his, which he thinks can possibly be beautiful and sparkly in the light but where they are right now, they are enigmatic, obscure, glassy as though he has been crying.

 

Mark remains silent as the man before him blinks away his tears that were once threatening to fall. As their eyes meet again, Mark stares deep into the stranger’s eyes for some clue, anything that can hint to him on what is appropriate to say, but it is like nothing is there to behold; his eyes are just an endless depth of ink, sorrow, and pain.

 

“H-hi?” Mark begins, his face heating up with embarrassment from stumbling on perhaps the simplest word on Earth. The man before him pays no attention, like he is stuck in his own world, taking another swig of hard whiskey. Was I too soft? Did he not hear me? 

 

“Hello,” he tries again, this time sounding more resolute, at the expense of his clenched fists turning white against his black jeans. The stranger looks at him this time, expressionless, but Mark can feel him thoroughly searching his soul. It lasts a few seconds, but feels longer than an eternity, and despite the music playing softly in the background all that Mark can hear is the deafening silence between them. He wishes he has his hoodie worn backwards; having a hood to cover his pathetic, flustered face then would be a great help.

 

“I-I-I’m Mark,” he blurts, shoving his hand in front of his new acquaintance. Everything feels like it is going right, until he realises his eyes are squinted shut and his fingers are in contact with the man’s chest. Oh, . He draws his hand back in the blink of an eye and buries it in his pocket, determined to never let it see light again. Then, as if it will cost him his life, he cautiously sneaks a peak at the ever-silent man, fishing for a reaction.

 

Mark’s heart skips a beat as the stranger smiles – not exactly at him – a sweet, unfocused smile, quite impersonal, as if he was a waiter in the bar. “Jinyoung,” he says. And it ends there.

 

The next thing Mark remembers is him stumbling back to his table, practically delirious, his face burning under Jackson and Jaebum’s collective gaze of cool, curious solicitude. “So, how did it go?” Jaebum asks, while Jackson occupies himself by grinning and dancing rather provokingly behind him.

 

Mark doesn’t answer the question. He exits the bar alone and walks home that night.

 

Even in his alcoholic stupor, he cannot get rid of that experience in his head. It is like a nightmare on replay, his memory deliberately tormenting him with perhaps the most embarrassing moment of his life. He moves relentlessly over the night, back and forth across his room, straining to remember exact words, telling inflections, any subtle insults or kindnesses he might have missed, and his mind – quite willingly – begins to supply various distortions.

 

Why did he look at me like that? Why did he not want to continue the conversation? What did I do wrong? He is sure all he said was “hi” and “hello”. Was that offensive? Or was it my tone? My facial expressions? 

 

Exactly what sins had he committed in his past life, to have someone he just met be the main lead of an incident that tops his personal Hall of Shame? People would be reminding him of this as he eats his mush in the nursing home. There is nothing for it, he would have to leave Korea, cast off his identity and start a new life somewhere else; if only any place on Earth could forgive him of his shameful past (he is not ready to invest in a spaceship).

 

Mark almost suffocates to his death from hiding under his blanket when Jackson barges into their shared room and saves his life. The younger literally drags his mummified friend to the end of the bed, letting him drop to the floor with a painfully loud thud, where he rolls out like a broken burrito, sprawled on the ground in an awful mess.

 

“Earth to Mark? Ring ring! Is Mark in?” Jackson shouts into Mark’s ear mercilessly as he pulls him by the shirt to an upright position, but to no avail. The elder slumps over like a spineless slug, staring at the floor, unblinking. “What happened? Why are you acting like this?”

 

No response.

 

“Did he curse you out? Or hold a knife to you? Did he take your money? Oh gosh, or was he a spy? Did you accidentally interrupt his James Bond mission?” Jackson babbles on, his questions getting more absurd by the second. Mark looks at Jackson with a face full of dread. He wishes it was that simple. Whether it was some gangster attitude, mugging activity or 007-esque drama he had to deal with, it would make so much more sense than what he had experienced. Jinyoung? That is just a name. What the heck is that supposed to mean? 

 

“Omona, he didn’t…” Jackson gasps upon seeing Mark’s sunken, soulless eyes, then lowers his voice into a keen whisper. “He didn’t make a move on you, did he? You know, did he grab your or your–”

 

“Gosh, no!” Mark exclaims, raising his voice louder than he expected. His pale skin slowly turns from a ghastly white to a shade of a ripe strawberry, and Jackson eyes him suspiciously. He crosses his arms and throws Mark an expectant look. “So? Tell me what happened?”

 

Never, Mark tells himself. His lips are glued shut, forever. It is a secret he will bring to his grave and there is no way he will let Jackson’s big mouth announce it to the whole world. However, as the night deepens, his resolve is shaken. Maybe telling Jackson would have unloaded a burden off his mind. Maybe it would have allowed him to at least doze off a little, and not watch, with bloodshot eyes, the second hand of the clock crawl in circles and tick in resonance with the one word that keeps ringing in his head.

 

Jinyoung. Jinyoung. Jinyoung. 

 

The name lingers, stubborn like a curse, nagging over and over like a mantra. Never had he longed for the oblivion of sleep more than tonight. Mark makes many futile attempts to trick himself into dreamland – recounting the entire multiplication table, breathing in and out slowly like yoga gurus do on TV, even holding his breath to induce drowsiness – but none of them work. As a last resort, he tries counting sheep… and cats and mice and elephants, but soon enough, the animals are reminding him of his blunder and he lies on his bed defeated, soaking in all their laughter (bleating, meowing, squeaking and trumpeting amusement to be exact).

 

“Can you stop flipping and turning up there? It feels like an earthquake is going on above me and I’m going to be buried alive any moment,” Jackson grumbles from the lower bunk bed.

 

“Sorry, I can’t fall asleep,” Mark half-heartedly apologises. He is the one having a hard time here, and it is arguably Jackson’s fault.

 

“Obviously,” Jackson says, making extra effort to sound upset since he cannot roll his eyes at Mark, “because of whatever reason you are refusing to tell me.”

 

“N-nothing happened, okay? I’m just tired, I guess.”

 

“See, Markie-pooh, you don’t even know what you’re talking about. Something obviously happened. And if you are really tired you’d be snoring your red, mucus-filled nose off by now. Knowing you, you probably embarrassed yourself by doing something really stupid but what’s done is done. Stop crying over spilt milk and go to bed, you big baby!”

 

“Ouch,” Mark mumbles. For once, Jackson is right about something, and as much as he hates to admit it, it is the hard truth. “Well,” he gulps, eager to seek a scapegoat but at the same time afraid of offending his friend. “I mean, technically, y-you were the one who made me do this s-so…”

 

Jackson sighs. “Okay, fine. I am sorry for making that suggestion for you to talk to someone. Thought I was helping you to overcome your fear of talking to strangers, you know, practice makes perfect? But you didn’t have to do it if you didn’t want to. It’s not like Jaebum and I forced you.”

 

Yikes. Now what? Mark purses his lips and remains silent. Jackson is right again, nobody forced him. Ultimately, it was his fear of others’ judgement that had overridden his logical thought. He has no excuses.

 

“Just sleep, okay? I don’t care what Mr. Mystery did to you, or what you did to him. I’m sure everything will be better after you wake up. Besides, you’ll probably never meet him again in your life, so don’t think so much about whatever happened,” Jackson says.

 

“Wow, thanks Jacks.” Mark doubts his consolation will be of much help, but the younger rarely sounds that serious and sincere, and he does feel a bit more relaxed after talking to someone, not drowning in his own thoughts.

 

“Ha, aren’t you glad to have a friend like me? I always give the best advice, so you can always count on me, alright Markie?”

 

Welcome back, that’s the pompous Jackson I know. “Yes, yes,” Mark gives a perfunctory response.

 

“Count sheep,” Jackson suggests.

 

“I’ve tried, didn’t work.”

 

“Count cats, or mice, or elephants. Something will work!”

 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but I’ve done all of that. Just go to bed, please.”

 

“Hmm, funny. Okay, good night Mark.”

 

---

 

 

Mark feels surprisingly fine the next morning, albeit aching all over from lack of sleep and sporting two Halloween-worthy dark eye rings. His daily chores do a decent job of keeping him busy, and at times when he is lucky enough, he falls into the mechanical motion of doing the dishes or hanging the laundry, and temporarily blanks out, escaping his memory.

 

The “Jinyoung” incident is far from being forgotten, but it sits at the back of his mind, only occasionally popping up when he has too many a moment to himself. Mark is confident he can live with it – dealing with inward shivers and random hot flashes once in a while seems manageable with practice. Keeping that in mind, he does his best to go on with his life. Apart from getting a mini heart attack when Jaebum casually takes a seat beside him during their Music Harmony lecture (thank goodness he barely acknowledged Mark or what happened the night before), his school day is no different from the usual.

 

But you know when they say that when things are going too well, something bad is likely going to happen? Well, that’s not a lie. The only person lying here is Jackson. Jackson said that he will not run into Jinyoung again. Then why in the world is the subject of the matter breathing down his neck?

 

Mark was simply getting his lunch, eager to chomp down on some food since he was starving as soon as his three-hour morning lecture started. He is not a fan of the cafeteria – a cacophony of loud chatter, each table a cosseted huddle of people raising their voices to be heard above the din. Noise repulses him, and he does everything he can to avoid it and humans in general. Like the usual, he ordered his meal from the stall at the right end, not because it is tasty but because there is literally always no queue for the soggy, tasteless noodles. In his opinion, it is a sacrifice well made, his palate destroyed in exchange for peace. Plus, the food server doesn’t ever engage in small talk, which is an appreciated bonus.

 

While the cook adds more oil to the already oily noodles, Mark feels a presence behind him. It is not like the person came stomping towards him or yelling at the top of his lungs, but a faint shadow looms over Mark and he feels claustrophobic suddenly. Naturally, he turns around.

 

He regrets that. It was an action that led to a series of bloopers deserving of that Hall of Shame of his, which unfortunately is going in full swing recently. If only he stayed put and ignored what was behind him, he wouldn’t have to spin around to realise his eyes are five centimetres away from someone’s nose bridge; he wouldn’t have to look up and register that he is staring at none other than Jinyoung’s face; he wouldn’t have been so stunned as to bend back and lose his balance.

 

And Jinyoung wouldn’t have to hold him by the waist to steady him.

 

If we’re talking about getting the best out of a misfortune, Mark could have indulged in the moment and at least finally get to know how it feels like to be a Disney princess, if not for a mortifying grunt that escaped his lips from the force of Jinyoung pulling him up. How elegant, Princess Tuan. And where is the poisoned apple? Or the spindle on the spinning wheel? If the ground doesn’t swallow him whole right now, he should at least faint and not wake up until everyone he knows passes away.

 

“You alright?” Jinyoung asks, and Mark frantically releases himself from the strong grip. Hell no, he thinks. Blushing would have been no problem, but what he does is go red as a beetroot and radiate heat like a hot pan. One could have cooked a three-course meal on his face. Nobody could have missed it, especially not Jinyoung, who is only a foot away from him.

 

Mark doesn’t even steal a glimpse at Jinyoung’s reaction. He is too devastated to even lift his head up. “U-uh, I need t-t-the t-toilet,” he declares, and scurries away like a rat with its tail between its legs.

 

Only when he is safely locked behind the door in the toilet cubicle, then he realises how much of a fool he portrayed himself to be. Not only did he conjure up the lame “toilet” excuse, he also forgot to apologise and thank Jinyoung. Now Jinyoung is going to see him as a rude person with a small bladder. Great. 

 

It is so typical of Mark to have such rotten luck, for Jinyoung to be a student in the same college as him. He can only pray that Jinyoung was too drunk to remember his face from last night at The Blue Velvet, since running into him occasionally seems inevitable now. To add to the “ my life” moment he is wallowing in, his stomach growls in protest for food.

 

Whoever said life is beautiful deserves a beating.

 

Mark waits the lunch hour out, and originally has plans to stay in hiding for a while more but Jackson texts him to meet him outside the sports training hall, not forgetting to make a fuss about how urgent it is. He is dying to run back to the cafeteria to get food with what precious minutes he has before his next lecture begins, but drags himself to where Jackson is nevertheless, grumbling on his way. It has been such a tiring day, and considering he hardly got his sleep last night, he is surprised he isn’t already in the hospital for an IV drip.

 

He spots Jackson waving his arms from a far distance away, a glaring anomaly from other calm athletes stretching at the side benches. “Hurry! Mark, hurry up!” Jackson shouts at the top of his lungs, successfully turning heads towards them.

 

“Shhhh,” Mark hushes, lowering his head while throwing furtive glances at the bulky sportsmen nearby, in case one of them gets annoyed and decides to body-slam them with his monstrous weight. “Please don’t shout, Jackson. And what’s so urgent?”

 

“What took you so long? Did you take the tortoise express or something? And it’s urgent because my fencing class is starting in less than a minute and I am dead if I’m late!” Jackson complains.

 

“Sorry I took a while,” Mark says, deciding to leave out the part where he was hiding like a fugitive in a toilet at the other end of the school. “But what has that got to do with me?”

 

“Right. A guy asked me to pass you this? He says you’ll need it.” Jackson hands over a plastic bag, from which Mark catches a whiff of an eerily familiar aroma. “It’s the disgusting noodles you always eat,” the younger continues, pointing to the take away box in the bag.

 

Oh. 

 

Okay. 

 

Wow. 

 

Mark never knew his mind can become dumbfounded like himself, only processing singular words. He stands rooted to the ground, waiting for words to find him. Jinyoung did this for him? Why? 

 

Jackson breaks the silence first. “Uh, so do you know him? I’ve never seen him before, let alone him with you. He’s not your secret admirer or something, is he?”

 

“No way! What are you talking about?” There he goes again, completely flipped out and hot under the collar. He may be brilliant at keeping his mouth shut, but he is a lousy poker player; his expressions are as literal as a dictionary.

 

“You’re acting weird,” Jackson comments while checking his watch. “Better not be, because I wouldn’t approve someone who encourages the deterioration of your taste buds. Eat burgers next time, Mark, juicy hamburgers that don’t kill your tongue and stomach. I really have to go though, so toodles! See you back in the dorm!”

 

---

 

After a couple more hours of lessons – which are likely the most confusing classes Mark has ever taken, having only able to pick up ambiguous terms comparable to alien language (polystylism, indeterminism, stochastic what?) – Mark decides to walk back to the dorm instead of taking the bus.

 

A scenic walk can help to clear his mind, he thinks, but is once again proven wrong. As he saunters through the park, he is reminded of the arrival of Spring, the season of love (exclusive of him, naturally). He becomes so dazed with Mother Nature’s lavish display of flowers, the sickening sweet scent of nectar, the butterflies flitting from petal to petal, that everything soon becomes unintelligible: colour without form, a babble of detached molecules. The only thing that is still clear is the fact that he has met Jinyoung again.

 

Strangely enough, ever since the little surprise gift he has received, Mark is less worried about the previous night’s incident than he is curious. Albeit ridiculous, he cannot help but wonder if Jinyoung is really his secret admirer as Jackson had suggested. It would explain the sudden increase in their interactions. How else is such an exponential growth in “accidental” meetings possible, especially since he is certain he hasn’t seen Jinyoung’s face around in college for the past year?

 

Of course, it makes a lot less sense when Mark looks at the mirror, him facing a lame-looking, barely-grown man with sunken cheeks, with legs like stilts and arms like rubber bands – nothing an attractive young man like Jinyoung would find appealing in any way. Still, he guesses that Jinyoung does not recognise him from last night. If he remembers the sheer stupidity and embarrassment Mark displayed, the possibility of him sending the noodles to Mark is nada. 

 

Staring at the takeaway box he has not yet touched, Mark speculates that this is how spies in movies feel: digging for deeper meanings behind innocent objects, making cautious decisions, and certainly not consuming unidentified food sources for fear of being poisoned. It is honestly not far from his current situation, as he is still stumped at how this box of noodles got to him in the first place. Jackson doesn’t know Jinyoung, and vice-versa, so how did Jinyoung know that Jackson is his friend? Also, he wonders how the conversation between them went, but ultimately comes to no conclusion, considering how, despite having met twice, Jinyoung has spoken only three words to him.

 

Like a hurricane gushing into his quiet space, Jackson bolts into their room without knocking. And as Mark looks up he sees that his friend has brought company, Jaebum flashing him a half-hearted smile. Of course. He should never have expected Jackson to understand the concept of personal space.

 

“Jackson, what are you going to do with Jaebum in our room?” Mark asks, speaking through his gritted teeth, trying to sound as friendly as possible (Jaebum still intimidates him a little) while throwing just as much passive-aggressive attitude at Jackson.

 

Jackson stares at him with his best “what the are you talking about” look, which left Mark temporarily confused until Jaebum speaks up.

 

“We’re supposed to do our project together?” he says, throwing his laptop onto the bed. It takes Mark a couple of seconds to realise that Jaebum was directing his question to him, and Jackson is already minding his own business, starting up his gaming console to live his dream of being a hero through Overwatch.

 

Huh? Since when? Mark has no clue what Jaebum is talking about.

 

“The project which Professor Kim paired us up for in today’s class, which you obviously weren’t paying attention to, considering how you were staring at the trash can at the corner of the classroom and fled the lecture theatre before I could get your contact number,” Jaebum states matter-of-factly, then points at Jackson whose face is already glued to the computer screen. “So, I had to get this dude to bring me to you, your highness.”

 

“Oh, I d-didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Jaebum,” Mark confesses, feeling incredibly embarrassed because he knows exactly what he was thinking of to have missed such important information in class.  Jaebum doesn’t even look at him, let alone acknowledge his apology, and Mark merely hopes that he will not be murdered by the end of the day.  

 

As they break their heads open together for the project, Mark gradually warms up to Jaebum. He thinks he might like Jaebum as a friend after all, despite his icy demeanour. He may look like he is ever ready to kill everyone in his path, but he really just has fierce-looking eyes and doesn’t care much about using his facial muscles. In fact, he doesn’t really care about anything, which Mark is unexpectedly a fan of. It feels like he wouldn’t even care to look if Mark slipped and fell in the rain in front of him. If anything, Jackson is the more vehement character, his lack of control over the chatterbox in him could potentially cause Mark’s pernicious downfall.

 

“Mark, how’s your progress over there? Have you analysed the link between Messiaen’s use of birdsongs in his music and his religious viewpoint?” Jaebum asks out of the blue, causing Mark to snap out of his daydream. What? Those words don’t even make sense together. He nods his head dumbly in a failed attempt to appear like he knows what he is doing. However, Jaebum, being sharp as he is, catches the drift and exhales softly. “Let me see what you’ve written,” he requests.

 

Mark rapidly smashes the backspace key, removing the gibberish he has typed mindlessly while pondering about the essay question – evidence of him not focusing on the group project that is likely going to pull down Jaebum’s grades. He is slightly reminded of the fear when he presented his bloodily red report card to his parents in sixth grade as he hands his laptop over to Jaebum.

 

“Not a lot of content but I think the direction is right,” Jaebum comments in all seriousness, then frowns at Mark. “But, what’s wrong with this type? Your lines are more than an inch apart.”

 

“Oh, I triple-spaced it. I think it’ll make our essay look a bit longer if we use up more pages?” Mark almost slaps himself after completing his sentence. It must have truly been a rough week for him to develop a loose screw in his head and have the audacity to spout nonsense to Jaebum, who practically has NO NONSENSE ALLOWED printed on his forehead in capitals. Jaebum is looking at him like he is a rare species in an enclosure, and Mark scrambles for words to justify himself.

 

“I mean, it looks kinda like free verse, does it not? Uh, probably, uh, adds artistic value to our report?” He groans inwardly, not proud of his save comparable to a goalkeeper rolling unglamorously into his team’s goal post with the soccer ball in his arms, but at least he tried.

 

“It looks more like a menu,” Jaebum jokes in return while sporting a look of amusement, catching Mark off guard as he was already preparing for a torrent of abusive words. He continues, “you’re funny, Mark. Catching the Jackson virus, huh?”

 

Not expecting this extraordinary turn of events, Mark laughs awkwardly and scratches the back of his head. “Ha-ha-ha, I guess.”

 

And as though Jaebum can only entertain humour for two sentences worth of conversation, he goes straight back into work, burying his head in the thick books that reek of old libraries. For some strange reason, Mark trusts Jaebum. From their minimal interactions, he can see Jaebum as the type to be able to keep a secret. After all, he looks like he has a truckload of secrets himself.

 

Now that Jaebum seems to not oppose to a casual chat, and nosy Jackson is engrossed in his game, jamming to Lúcio’s cutting-edge Sonic Amplifier with his noise-cancelling headphones on, Mark is dying to discuss what has been bothering him: Jinyoung. Even when he tries to concentrate on work and block out all his impulsive thoughts, his growing curiosity keeps pestering him, until at one point he thought he saw Jinyoung’s face materialise on his laptop screen.

 

Like vomit from a poorly digested meal, Mark blurts out before he can contain himself, “Jaebum, do you happen to know Jinyoung?” The last word of his question – Jinyoung – sounds so bizarre when he finally said it out loud. He has repeated the name in his head countless times in just two days, and now it has rolled off his tongue into the still atmosphere and detonated like a grenade.

 

Jaebum doesn’t seem to see the pandemonium that has broken loose in Mark’s world, and he divulges very willingly. “Park Jinyoung? Yes, I do know Jinyoung. He is a freshman, acting major, just transferred I think. I met him once briefly when I went for Youngjae’s musical,” he says, then pauses to read Mark’s blank expression. Taking it as a cue for more details, he explains, “Jinyoung was part of the directing team for the musical, and Youngjae grew quite close to him during their show season. But apparently, he stopped contacting Youngjae a while ago, so they don’t really talk anymore.”

 

Mark stays glued to his chair, soaking in all the information like dry sponge.

 

“Why?” Jaebum questions.

 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Mark responds abstractly, waving it off like it doesn’t concern him at all.

 

---

 

 

Mark’s personal Hall of Shame was created at the tender age of seven, when he no longer was allowed to hide behind his parents’ backs and use them as exclusive shields against intrusive and meddlesome people – American parenting, ugh. Seven was also the age he entered elementary school, where kids roamed around like a hoard of hungry zombies, attacking each other with screams, cries and the occasional flicking of boogers. Not to leave out making fun of the lamest kid in class to maintain their social status in this competitive kingdom of juvenile brats. No prizes for guessing who the “lamest kid” was.

 

Whenever something disconcerting happened, he would sprint home, lock his room door and curl up in a ball under his blanket to have some time alone. He would stare at the ceiling for hours, and write out an invisible diary entry on it to vent his frustrations. The list unfortunately got longer and longer, until they finally consolidated into an indelible, unforgettable Hall of Shame.

 

Mark can easily refer to it and spin out his humiliating past to anyone, not that he ever would. To start, he had his fair share of silent room stomach growls. His stomach always waits until the quiet part of the movie, the silence at the table or any moment of stillness to let its rumbling roar be heard at an opportune time. There was also a time when he gave up his seat on the bus for a woman whom he thought was pregnant, but in fact simply had a beer belly. A strong contender for first place is when he fell on a treadmill during gym class. One second he was running, the next he looked down and he was further back than anticipated. The machine’s speed was too fast for his steps and suddenly he was slammed against a hot, moving conveyor belt that swooped him off it like a humiliating ride on Aladdin’s magic carpet mixed with a mechanical bull.

 

And as he grew older he began to feel more shame for social mishaps rather than just the usual trip-and-fall. That is why first place on his Hall of Shame goes to “The Chronicles of Impropriety in the Presence of Jinyoung”. Chapter One: The Blue Velvet. Chapter Two: The Cafeteria.

 

Chapter Three: ing Instagram. 

 

It began with him playing detective and applying whatever limited stalking skills he possessed. To make a long story short, Jaebum spoilt him with a clue to discovering Jinyoung’s identity, and it led to him scrolling through Jackson’s Instagram followers to find Jaebum’s account, Jaebum’s to find Youngjae’s, and Youngjae’s to find Jinyoung’s. It took him more effort than churning out a music composition from scratch. He blames Jackson’s thousands of followers, which made the list he had to go through longer than the Nile river. But at least Jackson had the decency to include his name in his username and short biography.

 

Because what in the world of normal humans are @DEFJEFFB and D’soul? From the ramrod posture Jaebum always maintains, Mark would assume his username would go more along the lines of name plus year of birth. And whoever this Youngjae guy is, Mark is infuriated and half serious about sending him for professional help. @333cyj333 is way too many numbers in a word, and Ars sounds like where his discharges itself. What made things worse was that both apparently did not know a profile picture was supposed to be a picture of their… profile.

 

Anyway, their extreme creativity in creating their Instagram accounts had him opening profile pages of thousands of people he doesn’t know until Jaebum’s face showed up (thank goodness Youngjae had selfies with Jaebum), and he was beginning to doze off with his phone on his face when a familiar face caught his eyes.

 

An unassuming account with no profile picture –  @pepi_jy_ – was where he found Jinyoung. His feed was reflective of Mark’s impression of him: simple, down-to-earth, yet mysterious. There were only a few photos including himself, mostly from the older posts, where he looked significantly younger, his bright smile emitting pure joy and youthful energy. The more recent posts however, saw the lack of his presence but rather showcased the world from his point of view, from picturesque sceneries to abstract shots of daily objects coupled with poetic, slightly depressing captions.

 

It also came to Mark’s attention that Jinyoung used to be a frequent Instagram user, never missing a day without posting, yet unusually, his latest post was two weeks ago. It was a grainy picture in black and white, of a list written in ink on a grid notebook. The words “Bucket List” were distinct enough for him to recognise in a glance, but before he could scrutinise the actual list, his attention was diverted to the caption.

 

“In the end, we'll all become stories.” – Margaret Atwood

 

Mark will never forget the weird pang in his heart upon reading that quote. There was no reason for him to get overly emotional; he barely knew Jinyoung, and hardly grasped the meaning behind the quote. Yet, as if there was an omnipresent force controlling his emotions, he was suddenly flooded by a sense of melancholy.

 

Mindlessly, he rested his thumbs on the photo on the screen, still feeling detached from the surge of unexplainable emotions. It was then that it happened. When he was not paying attention, unaware that Jackson had taken the opportunity to find a prime viewing spot from behind his shoulder; when Jackson hissed in his ear like a snake ambushing its prey.

 

“What are you looking at?”

 

And Mark, in his rush of exiting the application to hide the evidence of him stalking Jinyoung, accidentally double-tapped his screen. Everything that happened next felt like a slow-motion movie. The white heart popped up like a punch to his eye, and the smaller heart below the photo turned red as if it in all the blood from his face.

 

In that mere second, he realises some things. One, curiosity kills the cat and he should remain nonchalant for the rest of his life if he wishes to die in peace. Two, his life book which he optimistically determined as “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” should be changed to “The Series of Unfortunate Events”. Three, he regrets what he thought about Jaebum’s and Youngjae’s usernames. If only his username wasn’t so obviously him: @mark_tuan, he could possibly save his reputation. But “if only” will always remain a fantasy, and he is in deep .

 

Jackson could hardly have imagined Mark looking so unlike himself or so like some extraordinary bird; standing, as he did, speechless, with his tuft of feathers ruffled, and his mouth open, as if he wanted a worm. “What?” he asks anyway, albeit already knowing there will be no clear answer.

 

 “I’m ed,” Mark laments, looking incredibly flustered, exhausted and devastated all at once that he thinks he would look better if he was dead. “So ed, Jackson, I’m ed through and through!” He has never used profanities in such high frequency, but this awful situation is more than fitting for it.

 

“What for?” Jackson asks again. “Is this about Jinyoung?”

 

Mark sighs and buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t even try to deny this time; his facial expression pretty much gave away everything anyway. “How did you know about him?”

 

“Well, for starters, let me remind you that I am your roommate and best friend – yes I upgraded myself to your best friend since I’m no longer your only friend, thanks to Jaebum hyung–” he rolls his eyes. “So did you really think I would not notice that you’ve been acting strange lately?”

 

Point taken. “But how did you know about–” Mark lowers his volume to a whisper, as though he is speaking a taboo word, “–Jinyoung? I’ve never mentioned anything about him to you.”

 

“You holding a conversation with someone other than me for more that 5 seconds intrigues me, Mark. It’s better than a HD movie, how can I not notice?”

 

Mark isn’t sure how to feel about that comparison but Jackson continues anyway. “I heard your conversation with Jaebum hyung. In fact, I lost my Overwatch game for it. Now, don’t get pissed at me because I haven’t even started on the fact that you asked Jaebum – boring, lifeless, Im Jaebum – instead of me!”

 

“That’s–” Mark begins to protest.

 

“–not the point,” Jackson interrupts just as quickly, fanning his hands flamboyantly to cool himself. “The point is I finally know what you’re doing moping around the house like when I stole your favourite underwear! Jinyoung, this homme fatale dude whose name I just heard of, is the owner of the Instagram account you’ve been staring at for god knows how many hours.”

 

Mark tries to say something again, his expression steadily becoming more exasperated, but Jackson is not yet finished.

"And here comes the best part,” he continues, pushing up his imaginary glasses, in phony intellect. “According to my calculations based on Albert Einstein’s theory of ‘Just Mark Tuan Things’ and Isaac Newton’s fourth law of motion – Mark Tuan runs away and hides in his room when subjected to external force of strangers – as well as, of course, my great understanding of you from my profound love for you, Jinyoung is both Mr. Mystery from the bar and the noodles-delivery guy.”

 

Jackson crosses his arms and flashes his flabbergasted friend a smug look. “Am I right, or right?”

 

All that nonsense actually came to the correct conclusion. “R-right,” admits Mark. There is a bitter taste in his throat he can’t quite describe.

 

“I’ll forgive you for prioritising Jaebum hyung over me, if you tell me your side of the story,” Jackson proposes. “So, what’s up with this Jinyoung guy?”

 

It is a good question. Mark knows he was caught up with his concern about Jinyoung at the beginning because he was downright embarrassed at his failed introduction. Being reduced to a hot mess in front of a stranger does not fall down his alley, no matter how much others will convince him that it is not as bad as he thinks. After that, though, he cannot say for sure.

 

It is not like him to feel compelled to stalk someone just because of two fortuitous encounters. It is not like him at all to get involved on his own accord. From that alone, he knows it is not just plain curiosity, but what is it? Fear? What is he afraid of? Of the judgement he will get from liking an old Instagram photo of someone he is not following, of course, but before that, afraid of Jinyoung remembering his incompetency in speech? Why? Technically, embarrassing himself in front of a group of people should make him more upset than doing the same in front of one. Why then, does this incident top his list?

 

“So?” Jackson prompts, raising his eyebrow in expectance.

 

Mark shrugs. “I honestly don’t know,” he confesses, to Jackson’s evident disappointment. “I mean, I said I’m ed, because in case you haven’t realised, you appearing like a ghost behind me scared the out of me and I accidentally…” he pauses to sigh, “liked his Instagram post.”

 

Jackson gasps and slaps his open palm over his mouth – way too dramatically for this severe situation, because he is Jackson. “Was it a topless selfie from a year ago?” he demands, his eyes sparkling in a way that irks Mark.

 

“Not funny,” he deadpans. “And no. It is a photo of a bucket list? From two weeks ago.”

 

“What? Come on! That has less kick than the famous Fire Noodles doused in Tabasco sauce! And you know I don’t take spicy stuff for a hundred snapbacks.”

 

“But…” Mark tries to argue but his flow dies in his throat.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jackson assures, though not very convincingly. “When I met him, he looks like the kind of guy who wouldn’t mind an accidental like. I mean, it’s not like it’s fatal.”

 

Not to Mark, it is. 

 

“Oh,” Mark utters as he realises they have met in person. Amidst this clutter of problems he is facing, at least he gets to clarify one thing. “Did he say how he knew me? Or you, for the matter?”

 

Jackson seems perplexed. “What do you mean? I thought you guys met at The Blue Velvet? As for me, well, he just said he saw us sitting together in the cafeteria once. Now that we’re at this, I was kinda disappointed y’know. I thought that for once, I have a fan.” He scoffs good-naturedly. “Makes me feel worse to know you get a fan before I do.”

 

Mark responds with a soulless laugh. He may look alright, but his thoughts and feelings are so compacted that he feels his chest will go supernova anytime. He begins to theorise that this is all a dream; a long, agonising dream. When he wakes up, everything will be back to normal.

 

“Not bad, by the way,” Jackson comments.

 

“What’s not bad?”

 

“Your taste in men. Jinyoung is one handsome fellow,” he remarks with a playful smirk which Mark is desperate to wipe off.

 

He doesn’t bother to reply. There is nothing to reply to, for what Jackson has casually suggested is absurd. He agrees wholeheartedly that Jinyoung is good-looking, but he cannot even bear the thought of seeing him again for fear he would pee in his pants or perish from overheating.

 

Besides, Jinyoung will never be attracted to an influent, blabbering fool with a bad taste in food and a small bladder.

 

---

 

 

The original plan to avoid Jinyoung until graduation day is ruined when Jinyoung shuffles into Mark’s classroom with a bunch of other film majors here for their practical module. Apparently, they are here to – quote their professor – “observe our (their) class and demonstrate the wondrous effects of acting on music expression for four weeks”.

 

Mark doesn’t know what aggravates him more: his professor acting all smiley and speaking in a disturbingly chirpy tone, when she usually looked like she had woken up one spring morning to find that her youth had passed by before she had had any fun, and now turns up for lessons just for her pay check; or the fact that Jinyoung will be sharing a classroom with him for Performance Class for four weeks. That’s four weeks times two days times three hours – twenty-four hours! One full day spread out in extensive torture! All the ninja action he was busying himself with the past week, from walking around campus with a hoodie over his head to hiding in the fetid toilets to eat, was all in vain.  

 

After the round of self-introductions (Jinyoung saying his own name sparked off the now-distant memory of when they first met, making Mark’s toes curl up in shame), the eager film majors find their seats, clambering up the narrow steps and weaving through empty seats that reminded Mark of the documentary he had watched as a kid: fire ants spilling in from all directions until they envelop the unsuspecting rodent, biting onto its flesh all at once and injecting it with toxic venom – crowd, surround, attack… Very much like how he was feeling, his personal space infringed.

 

He avoids any eye contact and stares at his notes, so hard that laser beams could have shot out of his eyes, praying to all the gods and deities existent to let nobody sit beside him, especially not Jinyoung.

 

A petite girl grabs the seat next to Mark. She holds out her hand to introduce herself. “Hello! I’m Nayeon. Nice to meet you!”

 

Mark glances at her briefly. Her smile is bright and her eyes sparkling with affection, way too much for him to feel at ease. He returns, not so much of a smile but a reluctant twitch of his lips, then ignores her outreached hand to scan the sea of students in the room. A wave of relief passes him as he spots Jinyoung at the opposite corner from him, way up front. Thank goodness. 

 

Nayeon expresses her discontent with Mark’s attitude with a loud huff, and she mutters to herself a little too loudly, as if she wanted Mark to hear, “how rude.” But it falls on deaf ears, as Mark is too occupied making sure Jinyoung is indeed sitting at the opposite end and not going to suddenly loom behind him like he did before in the cafeteria.

 

Nothing happens between them, but for the first time, Mark can look at Jinyoung for more than a minute without having to escape.

 

Jinyoung was selected to perform an impromptu act to the class to the given music, which happened to be Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 14. A depressing piece really, which the composer penned in his late years when he was almost completely deaf and he knew his end was near.

 

The speakers hum softly as they are switched on, then when the strings fall into a wistful harmony and expand into a pensive fugue, Jinyoung takes his stage, sinking into the sorrowful mood almost immediately. It is fascinating to watch, and Mark forgets all the upsetting emotions he had connected to Jinyoung temporarily. He simply gapes at him, allowing himself to get dragged into the black hole of his performance.

 

He would never have pegged Jinyoung to be the expressive type. From their brief encounters, Jinyoung seemed like a “Jaebum” kind of person, albeit a less intense, more peaceful one; both are aloof, with a strong aura of cool detachment.

 

Yet at this moment, Jinyoung stands before him, his speech getting more agitated as the music approaches its , his lips trembling while his hands shake vigorously by his side. His soulful eyes become glassy with tears and for a moment, Mark feels like he is in an elaborate illusion and it is just the two of them. Jinyoung’s dark lashes brimmed heavy with tears, and then a single tear falls, at first like it is induced by sheer will and superb acting ability, but it soon becomes so real. Too real. 

 

The floodgates open, and tears stream down Jinyoung’s cheeks unendingly. He doesn’t sob or wail, but instead bites down on his lip as silent tears wrack him. It doesn’t feel like an act, at least to Mark, whose heart falls a little at the sight before him. He appears truly desolate, as though some profound pain buried in his heart was forced out, seeped into his bones and rendered him fragile and powerless.

 

When Jinyoung collapses on his knees, the class erupts in a roar of applause. But Mark doesn’t clap. He remains unmoving, open-mouthed as he watches Jinyoung get up shakily. Netiher does he hear the applause, being momentarily stuck in a surreal bubble, the last lines spoken by Jinyoung ringing in his very own secluded silence.

 

“When tomorrow starts without me, don’t think we are far apart...”

“Even if it is over for me, it is not over for us.”  

 

---

 

For three weeks, Jinyoung doesn’t acknowledge Mark. Somehow, it doesn’t feel right.

 

It is as though he is invisible to Jinyoung, and Mark tries to find all kinds of reasons to substantiate the cold shoulder. Perhaps he is a good student, you know, one of those studious nerds that always end up as the teacher’s pet, and he doesn’t care to waste milliseconds diverting his attention from the whiteboard.

 

Or perhaps he has terrible vision, and Mark’s face is equivalent to a canvas smudged with paint to him, while everyone else looks identical – walking figures without distinct facial features. That would explain how he didn’t respond when Mark ran into him at the door two days ago, when their shoulders bumped unintentionally. No exclamation, no glare, no apology.  In fact, he didn’t even spare a glance at Mark, and simply walked on, never turning back.

 

It is so ironic because less than a month ago, he would give up his life assets for Jinyoung to not recall his existence. Now that that really seems to be happening, he feels betrayed. Betrayed that he is the only one to remember that humiliation, that he has to withstand the full burden of it, when it is what he wished for.

 

Maybe he is accustomed to people reminding him of his faults and disgraces. Maybe he would feel better if Jinyoung came right up to his face and guffaws his head off, calls him names and publicly humiliates him. Life is supposed to go on, but it halts and gets stuck at a red light.  Mark has so many thoughts that they have nowhere to go. The hermetic, overheated atmosphere in his head made it a thriving black Petri dish of melodrama and distortion. He doesn’t know what he wants out of this anymore. All he wishes for now are drugs to induce selective amnesia. It would be almost as good as a time machine, taking him back to the good old days of worrying only about school.

 

 “So, what’s up with Jinyoung?” Jaebum asks offhandedly, creeping up behind Mark so silently that the latter almost jumps out of his skin.

 

Mark stifles a grumble as he removes his bag from the seat beside him, letting Jaebum occupy it. Is that the latest catchphrase? Why the hell is everyone asking me that? 

 

“What about him? What did Jackson tell you?” he challenges, unable to contain his growing irritation with the bombarding concerns – first Jackson, now even Jaebum, whom he didn’t even speak to a month ago. He understands that they mean well, but it feels like someone rubbing salt into his open wound.

 

“Woah, chill man,” Jaebum says, somewhat taken aback by the unanticipated agitation. “What did Jackson tell me?”

 

“Yes, what did Jackson tell you?” Mark repeats.

 

“I’m asking you, because I have no idea what you are talking about. He didn’t mention anything to me. Well, is there anything I should know?”

 

“Oh.”

 

There is an unpleasant moment of reticence between them before Jaebum speaks again.

 

“You keep staring at the back of his head in class,” he says, not like a question or an opinion but a solid, clear statement, in an articulate manner one would use when reporting the news. With that tone, he might as well be saying that meatballs will be renamed flesh-spheres from today onwards and people will believe him. Mark feels the urge to slap his hand over Jaebum’s mouth.

 

“N-no,” Mark stutters. “I was, uh, looking at the noticeboard.” Gosh, his lying skills are rottener than a decade-old corpse. 

 

“Which is at the other side of the classroom from where Jinyoung sits,” adds Jaebum.

 

“Right,” Mark concedes – damn his horrendous excuses – and proceeds to act like whatever Jaebum is implying is no big deal. “I find his hair… interesting.”

 

“Right,” Jaebum echoes.

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Mark, are you interested in Jinyoung?”

 

“Exact– wait, what?”

 

Jaebum shrugs apathetically. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve been thinking that since you asked me about him when we’re working on the project. Your eyes seem to be glued to his head every lesson he’s in so I just thought I should ask.”

 

By now, Mark’s eyes are wide as saucers and he is shaking his head vigorously like a bobblehead, hopefully fast enough to veil his burning hot, red ears.

 

“I can always ask Youngjae for his contact if you want,” he adds helpfully. And Mark chokes on his spit.

 

---

 

  

This is the end, Mark thinks. It is their – his and Jinyoung’s (at some point he had begun to associate themselves as a collective) – last class together, and probably the last time they are going to be within ten metres radii for longer than a minute in his life.

 

As the school bell rings, a sense of relief envelops him. Yet, strangely, his gut feels unsettled, somehow heavy with emptiness. It doesn’t line up with any form of logical reasoning, but his feelings hold overwhelming control over his brain in every way, and he cannot help getting affected by them.

 

He throws his backpack over his shoulder and leaves the classroom, his feet not feeling like his as they get dragged lifelessly against the concrete floor. This is the end, he repeats in his head for the umpteenth time.

 

“Mark!” an obnoxious voice calls out from behind him. He turns to see Rick approaching him, his eyes riveted on him in the most nauseating way possible, and he gulps. It is too late to pretend he has not seen the big guy as they have already made eye contact, and being a whole head shorter than him, Mark is sure he would never be able to outrun that hulk-like monster.

 

“Hey, Mark,” slurs Rick. His tongue peeks out like a snake as he his upper lip sloppily. Disgusting is an understatement; Rick is vile beyond the standards of Earth, even Devils in Hell would avoid him faithfully.

 

Mark nods at him primly and looks away, trying his utmost best to focus on his shoes. Expectedly, Rick doesn’t back off, inching towards him aggressively until he is too close for comfort.

 

“Where are you going? Should we go together?” asks Rick. Mark keeps his lips sealed and tries to breathe normally, but his nose begins to sting from inhaling Rick’s abhorrent bad breath.

 

“Darling, you gotta pick up my calls. I don’t think I’ve ever received a text from you. Why? You think I’m not good enough for your bony ?” he presses on.

 

Mark feels like crying. He wants to fall to the ground, sob like a newborn baby and wait for the orphanage to pick him up. He cannot even find words to call for help, how is he going to defend himself from this erse, satanic bully?

 

Yet Rick continues his torturous interrogation, grinning happily like he is in the middle of a game and Mark is just one of his pawns. With some preternatural craftiness he always knows the right nerve to touch, at exactly the right moment, to wound and outrage the most. “You think you’re so high and mighty, ignoring everyone in your way. I think I ought to punish you, do you agree, Mark?” he glowers. What is worse is that Mark can see something more in his feral eyes – greed, lust, an immoral desire.

 

As Rick secures a vice-like grip around his wrist, Mark feels someone else’s hand intruding the struggle. It is Jinyoung, appearing when Mark least expects him, like a hero to a damsel’s distress… like Jackson walking in to him to his secret stash of manga.

 

Why, just why, must Jinyoung always witness him in his most shameful and vulnerable state?

 

“Walk away,” Jinyoung tells Rick. His voice is calm, and his eyes focusing on where Rick is holding Mark, who is now speechless and dysfunctional. Mark feels Rick’s grip tighten before he peeps up to see the growing fury in his eyes.

 

“I said, walk away,” emphasises Jinyoung, tone hard and commanding this time. Rick growls at him, his teeth snarling like that of an enraged animal, but Jinyoung keeps his stance, unfazed. With a firm yank, he snatches Mark’s arm away and encases his hand in his own. “ off,” he spits, before pulling Mark away and walking in the opposite direction.

 

Mark is unsure how Rick reacted, though he wouldn’t deny it would be a funny sight. A tiny part of him feels victorious, having returned a blow at Rick after months of being agonised. The most part of him though, is trembling beneath his skin.  

 

He has trouble processing the fact that Jinyoung, whom he embarrassed himself in front of twice (now thrice, unfortunately), who ignores him for a full month after playing a one-sided Angels and Mortals noodle-delivery game, is holding his hand and leading him to god-knows-where. Heaven? 

 

His heart races like a bullet train, and he is painfully aware of his erratic heart beats pulsing against Jinyoung’s palm. He rationalises that it is due to the brisk footsteps they are taking, that it is the result of him skipping gym all the time, but deep down he knows more than anyone that that is not true. However, he can’t quite put it in a sentence. It is complicated, really, like he is thrown a book of math formulas to solve an equation that isn’t even there.

 

One thing he realises for sure though, is that Jinyoung inflicts on him a spell, like some kind of magical trick that transports the two of them to a world of their own. He doesn’t see his surroundings when Jinyoung is in frame. Everything appears blur and vague, like he is looking through a dense fog and Jinyoung is the light, not shining bright but glowing warmly like a jar of fireflies. Like now, when they are wandering through the complex corridors. He doesn’t see where he is going, he simply follows.

 

“Are you alright?” Jinyoung asks, voice laced with concern. It snaps Mark back to reality and he is suddenly conscious of their current position, standing face to face, with hands still connected. Abashed, he removes his hand, severing the only physical link between them, leaving only Jinyoung’s burning gaze on him. It is nevertheless enough to make his fingers curl up in shyness instantly.

 

“Uh, y-yes. I think. Yes,” he stammers. His hands find their way into his pockets, where they dig into his thighs inconspicuously. “I-I’m sorry and I, uh, t-thank you for just now.”

 

“You’re welcome,” replies Jinyoung. He smiles again, the same distant, unfocused smile as he showed during the first time they met. He always looks conflicted, as though he wants to talk but a mafia watches over his every move, like his words hold a weight that is exchangeable for his life. Mark would ask, only he is down with a “404 Not Found” and can barely stay up on his own two feet, let alone continue the conversation.

 

He returns a tight-lipped smile, more out of courtesy than of genuine exchange of happiness. But before he can think of what to say next, Jinyoung nods goodbye and turns to leave on his own accord. He is however, unprepared for the tumultuous fight in his way.

 

A colossal silhouette, which anyone can tell belongs to Rick, lumbers towards them. He dips his head and butts it into Jinyoung’s stomach, drawing a wince. The bull-like proceeding, besides that it is unquestionably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, is particularly disagreeable with Mark. As he catches Jinyoung from the impact, a spark is ignited in him and anger boils in his gut. Rick has no right to do this to them; in his own deformed reasoning he might have, but in Mark’s eyes it is truly unacceptable.

 

He was the one who started harassing Mark, and he was the one over-stepping boundaries. Yet, he decides to bear a grudge like a prepubescent boy and fight physically? What century are they living in? That’s not all, because of his immature sentiments from not getting what he wanted, he takes it out on Jinyoung? Why not to him, who ignored his calls and approaches, who regarded him with chill distaste? Why Jinyoung? He did nothing wrong!

 

“What the hell? Rick! Stop it!” shouts Mark. He never raises his voice in public, never in his life, but his rage is propelling him to do insane and irresponsible things. A crowd gathers, moving in like a multi-headed beast that shared only one brain, their thoughts in lock-step as much as their feet, all with increasing interest in a probable fistfight. The Mark an hour ago would bury his head in the ground under the scrutiny of so many people, but those people are non-existent in his state of mind now. His vision is a one-way course with Rick in the way, and Rick must go.

 

He badly wants to throw himself at Rick and shower him with punches. It would feel so satisfying, even if he ends up with broken bones. However, Jinyoung pulls at his shirt beseechingly, his eyes imploring for Mark to let it go.

 

“Wow,” gloats Rick. He steps back, propping his hands on his hips in a smug façade. “I never knew you can shout, Mark. I never knew you can get angry. But what can you do to me? It’s your fault for looking down at me in the first place! What will you do to me, huh?”

 

Rick glares at Mark like he is the victim in their situation. With a brazen attitude, he motions to the crowd, gathering opinions that support his apparently “impeccable” plea. In his head, this is a victory already. In his warped logic, Mark’s anger means he is right. But, just because he keeps his cool doesn't prove the veracity of his bull argument. He is just coolly wrong.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous! I saw you attack them first!” a girl accuses bravely, pointing at Rick with confidence. The crowd murmurs with discussion, a few lone voices exclaiming “yeah!” in agreement with the whistle-blower.

 

Rick is ticked off by the dissent in the spectating crowd, and he rolls up his sleeves in response, putting his fists before his face to signal his desire to fight.

 

Jinyoung, having noticed that Mark is still seething and agitated, steps in front of him before guiding him out of the circle of attention, taking careful steps away from Rick, who is dancing backwards and forwards in a manner quite unparalleled within Mark’s limited experience.

 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Rick howls, obviously displeased at their reaction. Mark can sense an increased urgency in Jinyoung’s footsteps as he quietly gets dragged along.

 

However, Rick doesn’t take a walkout as an answer. He snatches an iced coffee from an innocent bystander, and hurls it towards them like a snowball. It hits Jinyoung right in his chest, the dark liquid bleeding across his once-pristine white shirt while ice cubes puddle at his feet. Mark gasps in shock, as do many others in the crowd. It is such a petty move, and Jinyoung certainly does not deserve that. On the bright side, it got the crowd booing and surrounding Rick like an angry mob, giving them some space to disappear quietly.

 

When they finally got to a quiet corner is when the severity of the situation hits Mark. Jinyoung got head-butted and drenched in coffee in the eye of the public, all in return for his kind help which Mark never requested for. He is grateful, eternally indebted to Jinyoung, but at the same time inordinately flustered and apologetic.

 

He tries to be useful, rushing to the washroom to retrieve toilet paper to dry Jinyoung off, despite not knowing where to place his hands. After all, feeling up a body in a wet shirt is inappropriate, whether toilet paper plays a part in the circumstance or not. Blushing from a complex mix of emotions, Mark apologises profusely again.

 

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t know that would happen! Rick is an absolute head and you didn’t deserve any of that! Are you okay? Your shirt is ruined, gosh. I am so, so sorry! I am so sorry!” He is rambling recklessly, not thinking straight. It is funny how a coffee bomb opened his vocal cords that didn’t seem to be functioning all the other times he was with Jinyoung.

 

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jinyoung assures, with a lackadaisical tone once again. At least, in slight consolation for Mark, he does not seem to be angry or annoyed. At most, he is a little stunned and confused from what had happened.

 

“I am so sorry, really, you have no idea. You didn’t have to get involved, you didn’t have to step in–”

 

“I wanted to,” interrupts Jinyoung, and Mark is caught off guard. His cleaning hands halt their work for a moment.

 

“But why?” he thinks aloud, flinching as he realises his personal question is announced for the world to hear.

 

“I wanted to,” Jinyoung repeats.

 

That’s… nice of him. Jinyoung may seem like an empty shell, in some ways similar to Mark – distant, unsociable, hard to approach – but worse, but Mark detects a kind-hearted soul behind his frigid exterior.

 

“Still, thank you. Um, your shirt is ruined, gosh.” Mark scratches the back of his head, darting his eyes anxiously everywhere except at Jinyoung. “I’ll wash it for you as an apology,” he offers, “so please pass it to me after you’ve changed? I don’t know what else to do for you.”

 

“Actually,“ Jinyoung clears his throat, blinking awkwardly. “I don’t live in the dorms, and I have an important meeting later so...”

 

Mark meets his eyes and sees a forlorn request for help.

 

“I was thinking if you can possibly lend me a shirt? We seem to be about the same size so I think your shirts will fit nicely. Sorry if it’s inconvenient, but my meeting later is really important.”

 

Mark finds no reason to reject. As a matter of fact, he finds ten other reasons on why he is obliged to help Jinyoung. Somehow, their fates turn out this way and the next thing he knows, Jinyoung is tailing him like a stray puppy to the dormitory.

 

On the way, the security guard at the entrance shoots Mark a look of suspicion, then chuckles heartily at his wild and vivid imagination. He is obviously mistaken about something. And it is just Mark’s luck that Jinyoung turns to look at the security guard at that untimely moment when the latter brings his hands into a vulgar gesture and winks impudently. The both of them are aware of the suggested innuendos, but choose to feign ignorance, to prevent the atmosphere from being awkward, to getting intolerable.

 

As they enter the room, Mark is taken aback by the mess before them. It is like a tornado dropped by to wreak havoc (*coughs* Jackson). 

 

“S-sorry for the mess,” Mark apologises. He seems to be begging for Jinyoung’s pardon for everything, so much he might as well have been on his knees the whole time. “Hold on for a moment while I find something that fits you.”

 

Jinyoung nods to acknowledge, then walks towards the small window beside the bunk beds. Either he is extremely polite to not nose around, or he simply cannot be bothered to. He gazes into the distant scenery, hands clasped behind his back, oblivious to the jangle of clothes-hangers and Mark’s clumsy fumbling through the drawers – serene, preoccupied; lost, apparently, in his own abstract concerns.

 

After going through heaps of embarrassing emo printed tees he used to wear as a moody teenager (but now uses as pyjamas), he finally unearths a button-down. It is slightly yellowed at the cuffs and collar, not as blindingly white as the shirt Jinyoung is wearing once was, but it must do. He doesn’t have anything else remotely as formal as it, and he doubts he can find anything suitable from Jackson’s collection of smelly gym clothes.

 

“Jinyoung, is this okay? It’s the only formal shirt I have,” Mark says, handing over the crumpled shirt.

 

Jinyoung stares for a moment, not at the shirt but at Mark, before he blinks away hurriedly. He then grabs the piece of clothing and turns around to remove his stained shirt.

 

Mark tries not to look at him change, but his figure keeps obtruding at the corners of his vision. Even though it only lasted a second, Mark cannot help but notice Jinyoung’s flawless skin on his . He flushes a hot red and attempts, without success, to cover his telling cheeks with his pale fingers.

 

Now fully-dressed, Jinyoung faces Mark and asks, “how do I look?”

 

“Amazing!” is not what was supposed to come out of his mouth but Mark blurts it out anyway, as if his face couldn’t get redder. In response, he burns up like a sick patient with a forty-degree fever and sweats enough water to revive his dying cactus.

 

Surprisingly, Jinyoung beams at him – an actual, sincere look of appreciation and content for the first time. “Thanks Mark,” he says.

 

Mark doubts his ears for a second. What did he say? Silence hangs in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. He said “Mark”, he said my name. He called me… Mark. 

 

“Um,” he begins very eloquently. Such a great start. 

 

“How do you know my name?” he tries again. He does not recall introducing himself in class, so it must be… no way. He bites his lip as he awaits an answer, the truth he is afraid of knowing.

 

Jinyoung’s face is contemplative, slightly apprehensive, and Mark can’t quite read it. He never was able to, but at this moment he desperately needs to. “The same way you know mine?” Jinyoung puts out.

 

It takes a while but Mark eventually got his epiphany. That is why Jinyoung was staring at him like that just now, because Mark called him by his name. He called Jinyoung Jinyoung, not “hey” or “excuse me” or “you” but Jinyoung.

 

But what did he mean? The same way? How? On that drunken night of ludicrous introductions? Or through his impure online-predator-like approaches on Instagram? Mark dares not speak, holding his breath in the returned silence, waiting for Jinyoung to elaborate.

 

Jinyoung also holds his tongue, his eyes unmoving like he is racking his brains, formulating for the perfect, inoffensive answer.

 

Very faintly, on a radio next door, a sprightly female voice sings a song about yogurt, backed by a chorus of mooing cows. The two of them remain close-mouthed, listening to the mismatched music – an awkward commercial break.

 

Jinyoung clears his throat. “From the class introductions, what else?” he claims. “I got a crash course on the names of the music majors in the class from the dude sitting beside me, and I remembered your name.”

 

Did he? Mark hesitates to clarify, instead finds his thoughts actively trying to convince himself that Jinyoung was too wasted during their first encounter and forgot about it entirely, and that he never saw the notification of Mark liking his old Instagram photo. Perhaps his table partner was indeed so chatty and can’t stop mentioning the names of everyone in class that Jinyoung remembered his name, or perhaps he purely has good memory.

 

“I’m good with names. Good memory,” confirms Jinyoung.

 

Mark buys it. There are many factors that possibly come together to prove the claimed statement wrong, but he decides to disregard them all (he is not a scientist for a reason). Ignorance is bliss.

 

“Nice,” he comments. His imagination has supplied him with various scenarios of when Jinyoung would acknowledge him, some fantastical like fairy tales with rainbows and unicorns, though most end with those unicorns transforming into creatures of darkness that will rip his head off in a heartbeat. Reality is, he is not sure how to think of it, at most mundane.

 

“So,” Jinyoung begins again, saying whatever to fill up the stubborn silence between them. “You’re rooming with that friend of yours? What’s his name? The one on the fencing team.”

 

“Right. Jackson. He is my roommate.” He then realises Jinyoung is acknowledging their encounter at the cafeteria, and immediately blushes. “For that, thank you. You didn’t have to.”

 

“Ah, that,” reminisces Jinyoung. “You’re welcome, I guess. The store owner was pretty furious that you left like that – weird, because you’ve already paid – and I merely did a simple favour. I once saw you hanging out with Jason? No, Jackson. And he is quite a character, always bragging that his hips are strong as a bull. He’s hard to miss.”

 

Mark lets out a soft laugh. Jackson is unbelievable.

 

“So yeah I just asked around and the whole world knew where he was. I hope he wasn’t angry because he looked at me weirdly when I passed him the noodles.”

 

“Why? What did he say?” asks Mark.

 

“Oh, nothing. He seemed to know it was you immediately,” Jinyoung notes, studying the photo of Mark and Jackson on the study table. It was taken when they first met in the dorms; Jackson had forced a thunderstruck Mark into the frame, resulting in a comical shot of Jackson with his signature grin plus Mark with a “crap, it’s the camera” face. “You two must be good friends.”

 

“Well, yes. He is my only friend – was, until Jaebum came into the picture but I’m still not sure if he considers me one,” Mark disses himself, and for the first time, Jinyoung exposes his laughter which is refreshing, laced with a hearty rumble. It is such a rare sight it feels as precious as watching a shooting star, as though Mark would never see Jinyoung laugh again like that if he missed this one.

 

“I’m jealous,” Jinyoung says.

 

Mark tenses up. For a moment, he gets hounded by hallucinatory thoughts. Jealous of? His friendship? Is he saying he wants to be part of them? Luckily, in case his thoughts run wild again, Jinyoung is quick to spell it out for Mark.

 

“–that you have friends that can be with you for a long, long time. Having two close friends is much better than having a bunch of acquaintances who won’t even remember you when you all graduate.”

 

“I guess,” Mark concurs. “How about you?” he asks, having to swallow a guilty influx of saliva as he is reminded of the older photos on Jinyoung’s Instagram: group photos, likely with his friends, where he struck off as blessed and elated. “I heard from Jaebum that you’re close with Youngjae.”

 

“Nah,” Jinyoung shakes his head, eyes downcast in regret. “Youngjae’s a nice boy. I loved him, as a friend–” he clarifies, “–but we’re not that close anymore. I don’t deserve such a nice friend anyway.”

 

Don’t deserve? How can someone say that? Unless Jinyoung did something unthinkable or unforgiveable, why would he say something like that? He doesn’t look like the kind to offend anyone in the first place, less betray a friend. Jinyoung looks… decent. And seems nice, loyal, helpful, kind, conscientious – throw in all the positive adjectives and they all seem to fit his personality. Maybe Mark is judging a book by its cover, but introverts are observant, and his instincts are rarely wrong.

 

Mark thinks he accidentally touched a sore spot of Jinyoung, as he looks visibly more upset than before, lips pressed together in an awkward smile, but his cheeks were not so compromising. He is certain Jinyoung is trying to hide something, but feels no desire to force it out when he sees a sadness lingering around him. 

 

“Don’t say that,” he coaxes. “I’m sure many people want to be friends with you. I would love to be your friend.” Crap, that’s a first. His words were the work of his fickle heart, weakened and moved by Jinyoung’s bleak demeanour. His brain will never say that. Not ask someone to be his friend, never. It is, as he envisages, like getting a girl pregnant – the sudden sense of responsibility surges through him like a tsunami.

 

What makes it worse Jinyoung’s reply. At first, he gives a smile that just seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through Mark. And then, verbally, he is cold, almost ruthless.

 

“I appreciate that a lot, Mark,” Jinyoung says flatly. “I am happy to know that, but I think some things should stay the way they are. I enjoyed talking to you, but I really must go now. And don’t worry about my shirt, I’ll wash it.”

 

With that, Jinyoung stands and prepares to wear his shoes. His expression is stoic, unreadable, and Mark is dumbfounded. Did he just reject to be friends? Why? He is half expecting Jinyoung to burst into laughter and tell him it was a joke, but Jinyoung seems determined to never look back.

 

“Wait,” Mark blurts. This is weird, this is wrong. What did I do to offend you? Is it because of the accidental like on your Instagram post? Is it because you remembered the night at the bar? Why did you say no to me wanting to be your friend? These questions threaten to spill out of his mouth, and he hardly holds back himself.

 

“Can I have your, uh, mobile number?” he asks instead. “That – the shirt, no, my shirt. So we can contact each other for you to return my shirt?”

 

“Right. Okay,” says Jinyoung. And immediately after they exchanged numbers, he is gone like the wind.

 

---

 

 

Jinyoung is in his meeting. That is what Mark tells himself to convince himself to step into The Blue Velvet again. It wasn’t part of his plan for a Friday evening, when he would rather curl up in his blanket with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate. But somehow, when Jackson asked today, he couldn’t say no.

 

“Surprised to see you, to be honest,” says Jaebum as they meet at the entrance of the bar. He looks nice tonight, exceptionally well put together, clad in a leather jacket, ripped pants and all. It is also the first time Mark sees his hair up (he dares not comment that Jaebum’s forehead is blinding him).

 

“Why? Am I not allowed at the bar?” Mark fires defensively. He has been in a bad mood since Jinyoung dropped by his room, confused and tired from the rollercoaster of emotions in one day.

 

Jaebum chuckles. “You’re getting feisty, Mark. I’m starting to think Jackson has been lying to me about your hermit behaviours. He even said not to expect you to come when I asked him to ask you. Glad to see you, though.”

 

“I know right,” agrees Jackson. “You’re so strange lately. I was so shocked when you agreed to come I almost dropped my pants. And especially since it’s at The Blue Velvet and Jin–”

 

“–shhhhh!” Mark clamps his hand over Jackson’s mouth to prevent him from leaking the whole Jinyoung saga to everyone at the bar. He shoots the younger a glare, which is taken lightly by Jackson who grins cheekily.

 

“Uh, hello? Nice to meet you?” An unfamiliar voice cuts through the chaos. Mark only realises now that a young man has been standing behind Jaebum all this while. In the darkness, it is hard to identify his facial features. But with his floppy hat covering his floppy hair, and him being in a sweater legitimately similar to one of his Grandma’s cardigans, he looks harmless enough, like a pup following Jaebum around.

 

“I’m Youngjae,” he introduces himself, and memories flash back in Mark’s head. By putting two and two together, he realises the new guy is none other than numbers-loving @333cyj333.

 

Seeing Mark’s unceremonious response, Jackson steps in. “Welcome, Youngjae! To the best group of friends you will ever have!” he exclaims.

 

Drinks ensue – lots of drinks. Mark begins with beer and a Hurricane cocktail, but very quickly, these light alcoholic options prove to be useless in lifting his spirits. He is far from a heavyweight drinker, but boastfully, he rambles off his selection of poisons to the bartender. The strong liquors arrive shortly, from straight whiskeys to sickening, pure vodka.

 

He drinks in silence, hoping that the answer he is looking for lies at the bottom of the glass, and then the bottom of the bottle, and the next bottle, and the next.

 

“Going down hard tonight, eh? Need to talk?” Jackson observes. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Mark is in the blues, but for Jackson to mention it first, it must be very bad.

 

“No, I’m just thirsty,” Mark dismisses his friend’s concern, receiving a dramatic roll of eyes in return.

 

“As if anyone would chug alcohol when they’re thirsty,” says Jackson, and Youngjae nods rapidly in agreement and concern. “Something is wrong, tell us.”

 

“Yeah, like you would know, Jacks,” Mark mutters. He is not in the mood to talk.

 

“It’s obvious,” Jaebum points out. “We know you major in music but quit playing us like a fiddle. And of course, you would drink like this–” he gestures to the table full of empty glasses “–only when something is wrong. Ever heard that when life gives you lemons, you should grab tequila and salt?”

 

“Or stuff them in your underwear, won’t solve your problems but the extra attention is nice…” Jackson adds unhelpfully. From Mark’s blur vision, he can make out Youngjae struggling to contain his giggles.

 

“I hate you all,” Mark complains.

 

“Yes, brat, we know, so spill,” says Jackson.

 

It is so complicated and hard to explain when Mark was sober, but now that he is tipsy, words tumble out easily like someone broke the faucet in his voice box. He talks non-stop, explaining all that happened from day one, digressing sometimes when his emotions take over and even giving unwanted details from the depths of his secrets.

 

Jaebum listens attentively like a certified psychologist, his entitled expression screaming “I knew it” to Mark. Youngjae, despite being half a stranger, tunes in like Mark was a radio DJ, face held in his hands, intrigued. Jackson, on the other hand, nods haughtily to the episodes of Mark’s story that he already knows of. That is, until Mark mentions Jinyoung changing in their room.

 

“He what?” Jackson chokes on his alcohol and splutters it everywhere. “Mark! What did I tell you about bringing boys to our room?”

 

Mark sighs at Jackson’s overreaction. “We did nothing of that sort, okay? Don’t even dream of that happening because it will not. Because he completely dismissed me when I said I would like to be his friend.”

 

“Wow, you asked to be his friend?” It is Jaebum’s turn to be surprised. Not without warning, for he experienced Mark’s slow warm-up when it comes to friendships first-hand.

 

“It just… happened, I guess. I don’t know what I was thinking but isn’t it normal for someone to say yes to being friends?” Mark says exasperatedly.

 

“Not if it’s you,” Jackson remarks.

 

“Gosh, Jackson. This is serious. You know what he said? He said that some things should stay the way they are. What? What reason is that?”

 

“If you don’t mind me chipping in,” Youngjae begins. “Jinyoung hyung hasn’t been like himself lately. Ever since, say, about two months ago. Even when our musical ended, he asked me out for lunch a couple of times, but after that he just stopped contacting me. When I asked him out instead, he keeps giving excuses to reject me somehow.”

 

“You guys went on dates?” Jaebum asks incredulously, a little too possessively for simply a friend.

 

“No, oh dear, not that way!” Youngjae assures, after which Jaebum noticeably relaxes.

 

Jackson catches on pronto. He eyes the “non-couple” excitedly and coos, “awhhh, you guys! Updates please! Which stage have y’all reached already?”

 

“Ahem,” Jaebum clears his throat, looking away from Youngjae who is now red as a tomato, way beyond alcoholic effects. “Focus on Mark, Jackson. He’s the main character tonight.”

 

“Yes, help me please. Save me from misery,” Mark deadpans. Undeniably, he feels lighter after sharing his worries, but now what? Who can help him but himself? Only, he is drained from weeks of torment, exhausted from a wacky day; in short, useless.

 

“Well, for starters, how do you feel about him?” asks Jaebum.

 

If the question was phrased differently, on how Mark feels towards Jinyoung, his answers would include embarrassed, ashamed, guilty, even fear. However, it is a completely different story in regard to Jaebum’s question. He uses a few seconds to think before answering carefully.

 

“He’s a nice guy. He helped to fend off Rick and oh, for ’s sake, he even took a headbutt and a coffee grenade in my place! And he didn’t complain one bit! He is more than likeable, Jaebum. And I bet Youngjae can vouch for that.”

 

“Yep,” Youngjae concurs briskly, but Jaebum shakes his head.

 

“No,” he says. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, how do you feel about him? You, Mark. Your feelings. Do you like him as a person?”

 

“I… n-never really thought about that,” professes Mark. All this while, he has been distracted by his feelings tied to what happened with Jinyoung, but never spared a thought for what he feels about Jinyoung as a person.

 

“Maybe think of when you had a proper conversation with him?”

 

Mark recalls his short conversation with Jinyoung in his room, that is, before hell broke loose. “Hmm,” he ponders, “it was strangely comfortable, I would say. I never could talk to people without stumbling on my words, unless they are my friends of course. But with Jinyoung, even though we just met, I could speak to him rather easily.”

 

“I heard that when quiet people are together, they become more talkative. That’s because the loud ones aren’t there to interrupt, and they finally have a chance to express their own thoughts and share their views. Maybe that’s like you and Jinyoung hyung!” Youngjae informs kindly.

 

“So, what did you guys talk about?” asks Jackson. He is beginning to look bored, likely from the increasing focus on the actual problem and not fun gossip.

 

“You, unfortunately,” Mark says directly at the younger, “but that’s before we went into the whole ‘friends’ issue and got him so gloomy and uptight.”

 

Jackson perks up at the news of him being the main topic of discussion before scowling when he hears it was “unfortunate”.

 

“Now that I think about it,” continues Mark, “he didn’t really talk about himself. He just kept asking questions about me. Whenever the conversation goes to his side of the story, he shuts it down.”

 

“He’s like you, Mark. Maybe he just doesn’t want others to know about his life,” suggests Jackson.

 

“I don’t think so,” Youngjae chips in, disagreeing. “Jinyoung hyung loves sharing his stories. He always talked about his trips back home and how he aspires to be like certain actors or characters in books. I don’t know, it seems weird for him not to share snippets of his life. Oh, and he loves telling jokes as well, though they’re not the best, I must admit.”

 

Mark listens to this fresh material, and it sounds nothing like the Jinyoung he knows. Perhaps it is closer to the cheerier, younger Jinyoung he took a peep at in his past Instagram photos, but it is hard to imagine someone can change so much in a year.

 

“Maybe something is bothering him, and he is going through a hard time,” Jaebum concludes. “Maybe it’s just bad timing for you two, Mark. It would be nice for you two to become friends. If you care about him, or rather, if it bothers you so much, why don’t you offer to talk to him about it?”

 

“To be honest, Jaebum, I don’t think I will ever talk to him again.”

 

Jinyoung is nobody to Mark. He said it himself, that he will not be friends with him. Yet, that statement he just announced feels too much like a painful farewell. Like he is a grief-stricken wife sending Jinyoung, the husband, off to the Holocaust. Tragic, but it is happening.

 

He means what he says and tonight, he is determined to forget everything. Alcohol, , drugs – bring them all, because he wants to get wasted. No, he needs to. That is why he agrees, for the first time in his life, to go for a second round of drinks at a club.

 

Jaebum and Youngjae decide to head home early, giving fishy excuses about having work to do the next morning, which Mark doubts because no college student in his right mind would wake up early on a Saturday morning. However, despite Jackson’s constant encouragement for him to join in the teasing, Mark can only think about drowning himself in alcohol and booming, ear-splitting EDM.

 

After a good ten minutes of Jackson acting like a mum to her teenage boys (“Don’t forget to use protection, boys! And don’t break the bed!”), they head over to the Rogue, a nightclub with free flow drinks just outside the city, the closest they can get to paradise in their neighbourhood.

 

You know the night is deep when the party-goers are starting to leave. The streets are already full of folks who walk as if the ground is the deck of a storm-tossed boat. Each foot comes to the sidewalk as if the collision of shoe and concrete isn’t entirely anticipated and the person lurches, stumbles. The sober ones stride like the only adults in a party of infants, shepherding them to a car ride home. But for Mark, the night is still young.

 

They enter the Rogue with much difficulty, the bouncer reluctant because of their heavily intoxicated states. But in a jumble of composed reasoning and half-drunk flirting, they got their access.

 

By now, Mark is no longer himself. He is like a once-tamed lion that is finally let loose and tastes juicy, raw meat for the first time. With Jackson leading him, they make their way through the dance floor: sweat and heat, blinking Christmas lights, a dreadful crush of bodies. And then they party.

 

If someone were to video-record Mark and show him his behaviour the next day, he wouldn’t recognise himself. He is clubbing like it is his last night on Earth, with no restrains whatsoever. The music moves him like he is a puppet on strings, his head smashing so hard his brain is in shut down mode, tossing out all thoughts about Jinyoung. There is so much sweat on his skin and not all of it is his, with him grinding against random strangers like a ually-deprived teenager.

 

Jackson tells him something, he does not know what, for the music is so loud it can wake the dead. He only sees the younger’s mouth moving, in a futile attempt to shout over the DJs’ merciless blast, and then he is alone.

 

The music is like a drug that brings him higher, higher, until his mind buzzes with pure joy. He wants to dance forever. In fact, he can dance forever, until his feet rot against the shiny dance floor and he dies of hysteria.

 

Tomorrow there will be hell to pay, but tonight, the alcohol keeps on flowing in like it’s on IV drip. Being drunk is like Mark’s newfound coping mechanism, and he is not intending to stop, not when he feels good for the first time in more than a month.