The students in the class cast looks at her, though they are not bitter or mean in nature. They are more shock-like, vestiges of unbelief clouding their expression. The girl in the simple black batwing blouse and slim pastel jeans, however, appears undeterred by the unexplained attention. In fact, she smiles as the feet strut in, a pleasant wave for all to see before taking the spot closer to the front of the classroom. Not one for idle chatter, the female takes out some items and begins assembling them for the lesson that is to begin at any moment, as soon as the lecturer materializes.

 

None of them are required to wait long. The boisterous man enters, hosting a booming, “Good morning,” for all of them to receive. Though it would be perfectly normal for the man to hear no response, being a favourite has given him certain privileges. And so amongst them would be the chorus of greetings replying him. He beams appreciatively, but then its radiance diminish to a slight frown. He mumbles incoherently to himself before the eyes scan the sea of students, making them squirm with unease and confusion. Finally, he points to the aforementioned girl who had studiously prepared materials. The man’s complexion twitches. “Have you burnt your breakfast this morning on the way here?” he roars, most finding it comical. The girl only looks at her surroundings and her own dressing in a scrutinizing manner before making eye contact once more, pronouncing a sole word.

 

“Ah.”

 

Later, the bustling cafeteria hides the enormous laughter that erupts from the male’s throat. “That’s terrible,” he says unconvincingly, the tilt in his likable eyes giving him away. She sighs gloomily at that as they seat themselves by a seemingly clean table. “It must have been the eggs,” she concludes deploringly after having explained the earlier scenario, poking the food with a steel fork. “I was distracted with something and then before I knew it, the eggs starting burning and splattering dumbly.” The companion looks like he wants to comment, but then the girl continues. It is equipped with the fairest complexion, one so delicate. “But hmm,” she trails off slightly. “When I think of it, they might have been rotten so it’s beneficial that they didn’t end up consumed.”

 

The smile continues to travel upwards. The fine male casually props his hands up on the table with feigned interest. “And so it is most entertaining that your lecturer still chooses to condemn you,” he quips faultlessly. A quick flick on his forearm from across the table measures the extension of mild annoyance. “Excuse me, Lee Jonghyun,” she states with evident sarcasm. “I tried everything I can despite the flaw within.” The twenty-four year old merely grins at the unnatural spitfire moment, noting the damp hair and the skin threatening to peel from overindulgence in soapy substances. He pats her good-naturedly on the shoulder.

 

“Well then – anosmia is quite the killjoy after all.”

 

Anosmia – a condition unheard of by most unless they happen to be researchers or someone afflicted with that kind of subtle abnormality. While people may think it to be most harmless, it is not so. The inherent lack of smell can contribute to varied effects although they may first appear to be nugatory; featherweight. It is dangerous, in the sense where the girl may have consumed rotten eggs or not realize the emergence of a burning premise. Of course, her eyes are sharp and quick, but one cannot exactly replace the sense one is supposed to possess.

 

Even so, it does not make her less human. Lee Jonghyun kindly asserts that statement quite vigorously from time to time, since the moment he chanced to find out years ago. It was the simple prank gone wrong played by some of the students in high school in which they switched some food substances to other properties. Having not noticed the difference, it resulted in a rather serious stomach-ache and no one had the guts to own up. It was Jonghyun who took the time to visit the classmate, with his curious, slow yet bizarrely polite stare, the tousled hair that screamed for disciplinary action.

 

“You can’t smell,” he had echoed aloud by accident in that narrow hallway, to which she wore an embarrassing flush, but the partially apologetic smile he portrayed did not wreck her altogether. Somehow it had been easier to just not explain about this seemingly mild condition, but it is nice to know that someone is specifically aware about it.

 

Now, Lee Jonghyun is no medical encyclopaedia – over the years, the boy has collected information from libraries and from the friend herself regarding the situation. Information proves to be scarce. Though perpetually teasing, he takes the effort to warn her about anything detrimental that it has become second nature. “It’s not like I can’t do anything for myself,” she remarks one day, not in the manner intended to skewer, but out of plain forthrightness. Unelaborate blinks express. “Hm,” he mumbles aberrantly, handing her a can drink before sitting down anyway.

 

Imagine the pleasant shock when they happen to enrol into the same institution. A sneaking smile decorated her countenance. “Have you been…” she trails off lightly. The lift of a brow, the curve of one’s astute eyes. “Who is to say that I have or I have not?” is all he replies most coolly, feigning the need to adjust the guitar case strapped across his shoulders. The boy has always been inseparable from his musical instrument, stringed to the finest degree and the notes are worthy of delighting praise. And sometimes, she couldn’t not refrain from relating him to be the distant light in a street blanketed by sombre darkness, especially having considered his epochal yet hidden intuitiveness.

 

The morning incident passes away with the following sleepy hours, filled with furious writings, spurts of learning and sporadic moments of enlightenment. Some people are given accolades whilst others have judgement commanded upon themselves. The girl in the batwing blouse is alright, just sparing a few seconds in the hectic busyness to think of the serious and whimsical teal checkered shirt boy, zealous in musical endeavour. Hope continues to float even as she ruminates on her own pursuit by the classroom tables, their futures undetermined in the looming prospect of career.

 

After assigning the work of the day, the students wearily pour out of the classroom with heavy shoulders. Amongst the people, she is there, too. With a quick glance thrown at the ticking clock, she decides to stay back at the institution to finish the written work first above other notions. Steps lead to the hallway, to which she chooses to enter the ever-resourceful library. Having a buried love for the corner areas, the girl in the batwing blouse walks until she reaches the further end of the library, where all the thicker volumes like compiled researches reside. The chockablock shelves are not neglected, however, for there are neither stray specks of dust nor strange threads to contaminate them.

 

Most dutifully, she begins her work but before long, an uncomfortable sensation besets her. It starts with the lack of concentration, which subsequently progresses to a mild throbbing of the head. She wonders why with much annoyance. Any sign of fatigue often strikes her as petty, after all, as she has always been well-rested. But this sudden ailment – it persists. And though she loathes ending up in such a way, the pen undoes itself from the gentle grasp of her fingers, the neat temporary bun on her head, loosen. A furtive look regarding the surroundings report that there is hardly anyone in this section; never mind the likelihood of an acquaintance. An inner groan eventuate infinitesimal seconds before the clumsy meet of the head and the desk.

 

Darkness. Have she been sleeping, it is the sort that does not provide any images or memories to pass the time. How unkind, yet the greater misdeed would be the unknown force that is shaking her furiously like a forsaken piece of ragdoll-

 

“My, head, hurts,” she enunciates slowly with a pessimistic reproach, eyeing the perpetrator blearily. He smiles narrowly, matching the act of observance he seems to be adopting. Arms fold as the boy watches the girl from across the study desk. “And pretty obvious as to why it should, too,” is what Jonghyun replies nonchalantly. “Here, have some water.” The aforementioned drink is asserted strongly. A bored look encompasses the girl’s face. “So water is supposed to help my sporadic state of tiredness,” she comments.

 

The smile on his face widens. “Not exactly sporadic,” he adds thoughtfully with a small chuckle. “I have been most aware that you would have been disadvantaged enough today, but to think that you weren’t using your eyes…” She throws a defensive look at him then. Jonghyun’s eyebrows lift in mock horror. “Paint has been playing your devil today, my dear,” he teases, pointing to the freshly painted walls of their section in the library. “A dose so strong, it messes with your head.” Utterly mollified, she covers her face with her hands, feeling doltish at it all. Millions of thoughts run through, but something along the words of, “How could I have not deduced such matters…” ends up being the prominent one.

 

The light rap on the table commands her attention. “Paracetamol?” he offers with that cheeky grin of his, the dark eyes that glimmer. And she cannot help but to feel that well, to have someone like this – albeit infinitely saucy and playful – to look after you is no hamartia at all. So a meek, “Yes,” is issued, along with the secret delivery of a heart that melted.