I don’t quite remember the point of when I met him.

I don’t think I ever will.

Is it even important? Does the past always swallow up any chances in the future?

He was always some boy, faded back into the background. Something about his aura prevented anybody from ever approaching him. I remembered his presence in all my earlier grade levels, but could never recall actually holding a conversation with him. It was a pleasant surprise when we entered the same high school.

He had drawn a curtain across himself, denying me and all my other classmates access. In the seldom times when he spoke, his voice was low and dim. The words that came out of his mouth were the simplest phrases possible, the result of his attempt to never speak more than needed. Even his haircut aided in his secrecy— a messy bob cut, shielding his eyes from curious viewers.

I do remember when I reached out to him. It was the beginning of my first high school year, and I was tired of pretending along with everyone else that he didn’t exist. The first semester is always a time of experimentation.

It was a soft, hesitant fall afternoon. Early leaves were slowly parting ways from the branches, and the air outside was crisp and clean. There was still a hint of warm in the air. The fact that school started had barely dawned upon us. We were all still trapped in the daze of summer.

The teacher was milling slowly from desk to desk, casually studying our artworks. Talk in the classroom was lazy and slow; the only constant sound was the scribble of pencils or other utensils on paper. Our assignment was to draw a tree: no other details were given— we were free to do anything related to the idea.  It could be plain as day or abstract, with pencil, paints, or acrylics— anything worked.

My artwork was pass-worthy. Scraggly lines formed a thick-trunked tree centered on a low hill, branches carving out with vigor but no other details present. My pencil stopped moving. The drawing wasn’t complete, but I didn’t feel like moving anymore. Setting my pencil down, I let my eyes wander onto my classmates’ artworks.

There were varying degrees of talent in the room. Some were even worse than I, others were obviously my superiors. After viewing some impressive tree interpretations, I looked down at mine and thought I could use quite a bit of improvement, but laziness got the better of me. I continued observing.

My eyes settled on a figure diagonally behind me, the boy Kim Kibum, seated in a table all alone. Unlike me, he held the pencil as if it melded with his fingers. He drew perfect, delicate — creating a black tree curled up against a monotone hill. Wispy, ghostlike clouds swirled in the background, with a shy sun peering out from behind. Though both of us used pencil, the tree in his drawing was far more alive than mine.

His facial expression was calm, relaxed, so unlike normal. Whenever we were taking notes or doing other such tasks in class, his face was dead serious— so resolute yet distant. Even if you tried to reach out to him, it felt like he would easily brush you away.

Suddenly he tensed. I dared not look away as he slowly leaned to face me.

“Please stop staring so much, Jonghyun-sshi.”

Everyone else at my table was engaged in some other conversation— nobody was focused on us. I decided to make my move.

Nobody had ever talked to this guy in school. I wanted to. It’s not like I was especially outgoing or anything. But this classmate of mine, I wanted to know him. I really impulsively wanted to speak to him.

Even before today, I always had some sort of fascination with him. It was mysterious how he was never close to anyone. It would not be an exaggeration to say he was friendless in the class. Even through all this, he never seemed lonely. Every day, he strode on, proud and dignified.

Yet I had never spoken to him. Not even once. I was afraid to break some sort of silent barrier— Kim Kibum wanted nobody to even associate with him. Or was it that I was scared? Scared to reach out and get pushed away? But that couldn’t faze me in this moment. Nothing could really go wrong from trying to start a little conversation.

“I couldn’t help it; I really like your drawing. How did you get to be so good?”

My aloof smile was supposed to be friendly. It didn’t work.

“Practice,” he replied, with a voice cool as stone.

His eyes flickered down to the paper in my hands. His mouth was curved downwards, not quite a scowl, but a condescending frown.

“You need some.”

With that, he turned back and resumed crosshatching. The poker face had returned, only with a slight hint of irritation.

“Thanks…?”

My answer was sqeaky due to shock. ‘Thanks’ wasn’t even the right response to that— he was insulting me. With my mouth now slightly agape, I mechanically resumed work on my own drawing. I dully drew lines, but ended up erasing and erasing over and over again. I was agitated.

What else did I expect? Along with the rest of the class, I had ignored him for years. Was he supposed to welcome me warmly after trying to communicate with him? Did I want to be some hero?

I don’t know. I don’t know why I wanted to converse with him so badly.

I was being drawn to him, out of the blue, on this average autumn day.

I vented my frustrations onto my tree, and the backdrop turned dark and gloomy. Branches s outwards in a storm. Clouds loomed in the sky and beyond, and a forest of dense trees was mobilized. I don’t know if the drawing had improved, or if I had only added my present moodiness. After a bit the drawing seemed to be full— I only had a scarce amount of white space left. Even one more line would destroy the balance.

With the drawing complete, I leaned back again in my chair to think. Was I going to settle for this? My first attempt to communicate with him had failed. He didn’t seem willing to talk with me. The distance created during all the early school years was far too great to crush with one bare enthusiastic attempt.

How much did I want to understand him, to connect? How far was I willing to go? Would I be ever able to reach out to him and overcome the hurdles in my path?

I glanced over to him as I passed in my tree. The anger in his face had passed, and he was now peaceful like before.

Yes. I wanted that expression to exist outside of art class. I wanted to be the person to make happiness present in him.

I will do this.

A/N: I wonder why Jonghyun has such a flowery narrative voice.