No name tag was out to be seen, no name written on the right-hand corner of his paper.  The nameless boy has now bandaged his injury, still ignoring it as if he was stoic to pain and had no nerves. It was day 2 of him disagreeing to work with me.

"Your name?" I asked as I wrote both our names on the lined paper. 

"I don't have one."

"Your name."

"Don't got."

I rolled my eyes and left a "_______" where his name was supposed to be, followed by the period and the ever time-and-energy consuming digits of the date, 12/10/13.

"Class, I thought I would help you a bit with the short story. We are going to plan it now. One paper per group. First, make a circle..."

And by the time she was done explaining the second square, I had already mapped out the short story.

"The boy," I explained to my partner, "has Anterograde Multiple Personality Disorder.  Basically, he erases himself at the end of the day because each day a new personality would take control of his body.  The same personality may come back, but would never completely go away.  The girl--"

"Falls in love with him," he continues.

"Exactly," I said, elated that he was listening to me.

He stiffened.  "But she had never liked him.  You can't be in love with someone if he wasn't the person you loved yesterday.  It's like loving a different person every day and calling that faithful.  It's two timing."

Hul.  "How can you be so sure?"

"It's logic.  And your plot is flawed."

"Even if it's logic," I retaliated, "How much do you know about love?"

Under his rough cheeks flushed a crimson hue.  I swear I saw it.  He averted his eyes and then came back, aiming straight at mine, "How much do you?"

"More than you do."

And then the same, taunting half-smirk from the tattered, chapped lips.

"Fine then.  Can you think of a better idea?"

"I don't think you get it, Baekhyun-sshi, but I don't write."

"Nonsense," I said, "Have you sworn your whole life to not writing?  Do you hate your pencil?  Have writers done something incredibly horrible to you that you can't even look at a single English word?"

At this, he face grew bitter, eyebrows furrowing, knitting together under his unstyled hair.

It wasn't my fault he was an uncooperative jerk.

"Who are you to go into my personal life?"

"Your partner.  Does it make sense to ruin my grade and ruin my chances of getting into college?"

He sank back in his chair.  "You're just my project partner.  Come back to me when you know my name, address, and phone number."

I watched his face and heard his words that tried to put a front against me, and I tried to knock over his fort.  "Start by giving me your name."

"Project Partner," he retorted, "First name Project, last name Partner."

But that was witty.  I continued. "Middle name, a-hole."

---

"First name Jongin, last name Kim," I repeated as I walked down the hallway to my locker after school.  Jung Seonsaeng-nim had spilled the beans, after a bit of sweet talk.

Just his address and phone number were confidential, and no matter how much I begged her or bribed her with red bean soup, she wouldn't tell me.

"I can't tell you that, Baekhyun."

Darn.

Down the hallway was the loneliness of empty air.  The flimsy blue-gray lockers seemed to exist in uniform rows until a lean, bronze figure stood with his locker opened, checking the gash under his bandage.

"KIM JONGIN," I yelled, walking towards him.

No surprise, his face lit up in astonishment.  "How--"

"You don't need to know.  Now, I just need your address and phone number.  You can start by giving me your number."

"Tch.  What are you going to do now that you have my name?"

"Bother you until I can maintain my A in creative writing class, Kim Jongin."  I elaborated on the last part.

"Not participating in your writing activities," he repeated, closing his locker and starting towards the door.

And then I remembered a few moments back when he was examining his injury.  "Your arm's ok?"

"Address and phone number," he cried, "then I'll let you care about me."

I huffed, following him as he exited the school's side gate.  "Is that even necessary, Jongin-sshi?"

That seemed to have an effect on him, and he stopped in his tracks, staring down at me.  "Don't follow me."

"But I have already done so."

"Don't follow me, I'm serious."

"Then at least tell me how your arm got hurt.  Gang problems?  Mafia?  Bullying?  Self-harm?"

He rolled his eyes, faced forward, and kept walking.  I followed after him.

"Just don't get close to me.  You'll get hurt.  Im serious," he said for the third time.  And by the squint in his chocolate eyes and the irritated tinge in his voice, I could tell he was.  Truthfully, I didn't want to get hurt, but I kept following him; I didn't even know why.

He huffed a sigh and broke his pace to look me dead in my eyes.  "It's dangerous.  You want to know how I got this, right?"  He pointed at the dressing, which looked like it was wrapped and unwrapped a dozen times to check the healing progress.

"Yeah."

"I was fighting with loansharks.  I owe a lot of money.  I'm dangerous.  You dont want to be near me."

"Jongin-sshi...." I faltered.  I didn't even expect that.  And by that I meant that, and the fact that he told me something personal.  Color flooded from my face, and again, I didn't even know why.

"Just go."  He stopped, again, in front of a shoddy house, crowded by yellowed grass, three steps leading up to the front porch.

"This is your house?"

"Just go,  Baekhyun-sshi."  But his amber-colored eyes and sun-kissed skin urged me not to.  There was something alluring about him, how his aura beckoned you to follow him even though he surely, with all his gut, didn't want you to.  I surveyed his young face, probably agonized by all these years he's been abused by those men.

And then I made a resolve.  "Ok, see you tomorrow, Jongin."

I dropped the -ssi.

--------------------------------------

[Yes, that is an Anterograde Tomorrow reference and there is no such thing as Anterograde Multiple Personality Disorder].