Stupid! I’m so stupid!

Now that I’m in my room reflecting what I’ve done, all I can think about is how immature I was being in the cafeteria.

Honestly, I’ve always wanted to go on a tirade like in the movies, but now I regret doing it. I feel absolutely drained. I could have handled that better. I could have talked to him alone, and without the entire cafeteria watching.

I’m so embarrassed; I even want to hide from Bora, which is impossible considering she’s my roommate. Since I don’t want to face her, I hide myself at the back of my dorm.

I sit at the top of the steps and stare at the lights twinkling from the bridge. I breathe in the cold air, and for a bit, my head is filled only with the temporary frostbite that I inhaled. I unlock my phone. The bright screen makes me blink until my eyes have adjusted. I’m just about to browse my photos when the door behind me opens. I don’t turn around, expecting it to be a passerby on their way down the stairs, but when the person doesn’t move, I look up.

“Why did I know,” Chanyeol says, “you’d be here?” He stares at the space next to me and waits.

“You can sit here,” I say, scooting over. He sits beside me, and I put my phone away. He sighs, and I can see his breath uncurl from his lips like one of those paper whistles I used to play with as a kid.

“How … how are you?” I ask.

“Confused, and curious.” He smiles at me, but it isn’t comforting.

“I made a spectacle.”

“It was entertaining,” he admits truthfully.

“Are you mad?” I ask.

“Well,” he answers carefully, “I think my efforts went to waste. So I guess as a result, yes.”

I groan. “I’m sorry, Chanyeol, I – “

“But there was a reason, right?” He says. “What was it?”

I rub my temples with my forefingers and try to clear my head. “I feel like a kid with a tantrum. It’s just … I heard Lange’s friends talk about him, saying how he thought I was desperate. And I didn’t want to be with a guy who thought of me that way. And I don’t think he ever really liked me, Chanyeol. I feel like I was a target.”

But wasn’t that what I did, too? Wasn’t Lange simply a target? Granted, I genuinely liked him, but is that righteous justification?

“Well, I suppose that conclusion is valid, considering his reputation.”

“Reputation?” I ask.

“The one that you couldn’t see,” he says, “because you were so in love with him.”

“Apparently, I was obsessed,” I mumble. “That wasn’t love. That was infatuation. And I’m stupid to think it could have been something else. I feel like a hopeless case. I’m so tired of guys. Of people. I hate how they never turn out to be what I imagined them to be. And I hate that I can’t ever predict who they really are. And I hate – I hate complaining!” I shout. I cross my arms over my knees and duck my head. “I give up. I’m not liking guys anymore.” I’m right back to square one. Right back to waiting. But this time, I swear I won’t impetuously change my mind.

“Is it that easy?” He says. “There are tons of good-looking guys at this school. Even as a guy, I can admit that. Girls, too. It’s like this school attracts pretty people, which attracts other pretty people, and they make pretty babies and have their babies attend the pretty school.”

“Then if there are so many pretty people, why are you, the match-maker, single?” I tease.

“Because I’m stuck.”

I lift my head. His face is hidden by the shadows, so I can’t see his expression.

“Stuck?”

He turns his head and half-smiles, but the light in his eyes and the upturn of his lips are all fake. “The year changes, but in my head, I’m still in 2011. Do you remember anything about 2011?”

I don’t say anything since I thought he asked a rhetorical question, but when he stares at me expectantly, I mutter, “No.”

“See, I wouldn’t, either, except something very significant happened. To be specific, it was 2012, but 2011 was the end – end of the year, end of the moment - and 2012 was the start of the clock that wouldn’t ever tick forward.” He stops, breathes, but doesn’t continue. A strained minute passes before I try to pick up the subject again.

“What happened?”

“Something ended,” he says vaguely, “and consequently, something started. And here I am now, making sure people are happy with their special someone, because I never got the chance to be with mine.” He claps his hands together and grins. “Therefore, next time, Junah, if you ask me to help you pair up with someone, make sure you find someone worth both your and my time, okay?” He pats me on the head like I’m a dog, and then he shoots straight up.

“Hey! Wait, Chanyeol,” I say before he leaves. “Do you think that what I did … was right?” I don’t know why I’m asking this. I hardly ask people to validate my actions. Still, I feel that his opinion is mandatory. He did, after all, help Lange and I almost get together; and I, his client, ended his