It’s been a while since he’s been able to get a good night’s sleep. Several things contribute to this condition: restlessness, anxiety, assignments, and--not to forget the most important one--lovesickness. He spends restless hours into the night thinking--sitting in front of his desk with a blank word processor, slender fingers poised over the keys, his mind searching for words that can withdraw his feelings and make them readable in the form of a simple (or not) letter; it’s not like he hasn’t put out any words since this pattern had started. He’s put out many, many words, in fact. But every time ends up having to be deleted, the result unsatisfactory--unfit to be read by those engaging, mysterious eyes.

Tonight is no different from the past two weeks. Again, here he is, sitting in front of his laptop with nothing to show for the lost hours spent on hesitantly typing and erratically deleting a variance of confessions--all different and unique in their own ways, but never good enough to describe his feelings in a way that will make him desirable by the person it’s addressed to and intended for. It always seems more clumsy than he wishes.

He spends hours upon hours trying to come up with the words to fit what his heart is singing every time he recalls the brief glimpse through the bookshelves--through the novels and aisles. 

Why was he spending so much time over this? He didn’t know anything at all concerning the party in question, nor did the other know anything about him (at least, he assumed so); however, his mother had always told him that his heart was always the most honest part concerning attraction and love. And by his heart, she meant the chemical reaction in his brain that would release endorphins to make him feel good. When he fell in love, he would know--all it would take is one look, and those endorphins would make him feel good. It had always made sense, since the logical part of the explanation always satisfied any curiosities as to how it really worked (whether or not it was scientifically/medically accurate didn’t matter).

He knows he should be better contributing this time to studying up on his classes, but classes and learning were things he never had much trouble with--he wasn’t a genius, he just grasped concepts and lessons easier than others, so he could pull out a ten-page assignment and get a good grade (or at least decent) by setting aside a couple hours to do it; his nights as of late were primarily dedicated to the task at hand--with little or nothing to show for it.

Back to the main point: “It’s been a while since he’s been able to get a good night’s sleep. Several things contribute to this condition--restlessness, anxiety, assignments, and--not to forget the most important one--lovesickness.” Rather than “lovesickness”, he should better describe it as “pining over that which cannot yet be grasped”--he muses this tiredly before glancing over at the digital clock: 02:17. Another late night up, it seems.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, and he sighed, “Another hour wouldn’t hurt too much, right?”

Please treat me gently--I've never written a fanfiction before; I am always open for suggestions/comments/critiques, as long as they aren't mean-spirited~

(gonna add jongie gifs after each chapter's note~)