“His girlfriend’s name is Yeonjoo,” Gayoon relayed over the phone late Sunday night. “She’s ballet dancer at a local performing arts academy.”

Kyungsoo was much calmer after solving his crisis, a ready listener. “Oh, Gayoon,” he sighed, sympathetic. “How did you know? Did you torture yourself by digging for information? I wouldn’t put it past you, given that you lean towards masochistic tendencies when you suffer a broken heart.”

“No. She’s Jongin’s ex-girlfriend. Baekhyun is dating the girl Jongin loved once and still does now.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, the sound of a pen dropping from a limp grip. And then Kyungsoo’s voice came to her, long, suffering, and so heart-wrenchingly pitying. “Oh, Gayoon. What am I going to do with the two of you?”

When Kyungsoo came by the next day, it was with a flask of hot chocolate and a warm hug.

“Your love life’s a mess, you know that?” he says into her hair. “It’s shocking really since technically, you don’t have any at all.”

She laughed into his shoulder. He smelt of cookies and ink and shampoo; it was easy to fall into Kyungsoo’s arms when he smelt so much like home. “And you just love to rub it in, don’t you?”

Kyungsoo released her, pushing the flask into her hands. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his coat. Once, it had been too large on him; now, with three years gone and after many trips in the wash, it fitted him perfectly, crease on lines, fabric on folds. “Drink that and go calm your nerves. I’ll wait here. When you’re done, we’ll walk to school together.” He peered at her above his glasses, worried like a mother hen. “You are up for school, aren’t you?”

“It would be a bit ridiculous if I don’t go, don’t you think? It already sounds ridiculous if I were to write a request for an official pardon from the teacher: ‘To Mr Kim. I deeply apologise for my absence during the aforementioned date, for it was due to a severe case involving the heart…’ They’d think I have a heart attack and is dying on my sickbed right now.”

Kyungoo laughed, if a bit dryly. “Your sense of humour is still intact at least. Now come on and lets get this done and over with.”

Kyungsoo brought her to class doing, for once, most of the talking. The morning air was brisk and seeped into their scarves and coat, and her hand still tingled even when she had them burrowed deep in her pockets. Kyungsoo was sporting a chapped nose and dry lips from the effort of speaking. His words were a trail in the spring air, as he told her of his brother, Seungsoo, whose mental capabilities rivalled his own but whose soul never parted itself from flighty fancies.

“You have eccentric fancies of your own,” she told him idly, without actually thinking how heavily her words weighed. “Didn’t you have your sights set on being a singer once?”

Kyungsoo’s silence brought her eyes to his face, and the flash of pain she saw in his eyes elicited a stream of apologies.

“It was a stupid wish anyway,” Kyungsoo said, waving the apologies away. “Costs too much effort to buy time that’s not your own.”

“If it’s assures you,” she continues quietly, “you still have a beautiful voice.”

Kyungsoo smiled at her bleakly, and fisted his hand and nudged it into her hair. “You have too many singers in your head anyway. I’ll never be able to compete.”

She squealed a little, tried to push him away. “What are you talking about, Kyungsoo? I only like one.”

“Jongin sounds like he has a good voice. Performing arts academy right?”

“Yes,” she answered heatedly, giving him a good, satisfying smack on the forearm. “Specialising in dancing. You’re filling your head with nonsense.”

Kyungsoo’s chuckle was lost amidst the student rush. He slithered around the press of bodies, guided her to their corridor, and slipped his fingers into the door’s handle. He turned it, ducked in, and held it open for her with one foot.

“Coming or not?”

Gayoon fingers felt around her bag and she groaned. “No. My locker. We didn’t stop by my locker. I have to get my books.”

Kyungsoo pulled his foot from the door, catching it with his hands instead. He tossed her something, which she easily caught, and said, with that pleasant, saccharine smile he only reserved for favours, “Can you keep my coat for me too?”

She scowled at him but folded it over her arm nevertheless, for she was no stranger to Kyungsoo’s whims. “Fine,” she said, and wearily stalked off.

The crowd had thinned visibly; she found their lockers, dialled Kyungsoo’s combination simultaneously with hers, and relished the way they both popped open. Kyungsoo kept his things in neurotic neat rows: pens in one holder, pencils in another. Books in piles and notes in files. He had a paper pad installed on his door where he pencilled his reminders.

She folded his coat neatly and tucked it somewhere unobtrusive. She slammed it closed, found her books, and was about to make a grand spin in her heels before she was unceremoniously knocked down by a passing student.

The books landed like lead on the linoleum floor, and she spared a disparaging, withering glance at the retreating figure of a boy who remained blissfully ignorant of the mess he’d made. She scowled, muttered something unpleasant under her breath, and began picking everything up.

It didn’t cross her imagination once to think that she’d have one handed to her right under her nose.

She looked up at Baekhyun’s smiling face, and thought the world had turned a little bit too bright with his presence. His hair was floppy, curtaining one eye and running with streaks of copper she often saw appearing when he sat underneath his patchwork of leaves. 

“Dropped this?” he said, pushing it closer when she only stared at him. “It slid right by my foot.”

“Oh! Right, um, sorry.” She hastily gathered her composure and took it from him, sliding it like a shield into her folded arms so that she could hide her restless fingers.

“I saw what happened. What a douche,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re okay, right?”

She shrugged modestly. “It’s just a bump. He didn’t knock me down.”

Baekhyun came closer, burying his hands in his pockets. He slipped into the space beside her, making her turn. “I know him. I’ll talk to the kid.”

Gayoon was taken aback. “You don’t have to!” she exclaimed. “Really. I’m not even mad anymore.”

Baekhyun cocked his head and looked at her with those unfathomable eyes. Finally, he said, with a rush of a sigh leaving his lips, “Okay. I won’t.”

“I have to get to class,” she said, remembering, rather miserably, that Baekhyun had made a mess of her heart only just a few days before. “Sorry.”

“Wait!” Baekhyun blocked her path, curled fingers over her wrist. He turned it palm up and pressed something into her hand. She let it hang weak in his hold as the rest of her body froze and her heart sped.

“A thanks,” he told her, “and this was in the gift bag you didn’t take that night.”

He patted her hand gently once, smiling in a way that made her ache, and slipped away. He left her standing in a dwindling river of humanity staring at her palm, at the silver, beautifully intricate ladybug whose wings he’d opened to reveal a little watch.

“Cupcakes are proving themselves incredibly messy to make,” Jongin said later that day, as he hunched painstakingly over a batch of red velvets with a bag of cream cheese icing in his hand and colouring all over his apron. His cuticles were red, which he on occasion clawed uselessly at in a vain attempt to scrape them out.

Gayoon looked up and smiled at the sight of him. His hair was in a disarray and so appeared, was his mind, for sweat pooled in beads over his brow and his hands were clumsy as he hovered them over the counter. Worriedly, she glanced at the red velvet cupcakes she’d entrusted him to attend, and was relieved to find that he’d kept them intact.

“It’s only the colouring part that’s messy,” she said. “The rest of the process is just like making any other cupcake.”

“My friends are going to think I painted my nails,” he complained miserably, brandishing them in the light.

“Well, you shouldn’t have squeezed the paste so hard,” she pointed out.

“You should have warned.”

“I told you this job has its occupational hazards,” she pointed out. “You should have given it more thought.”

“Well,” Jongin mumbled, dissatisfied, “I was under the impression that hazards come in the form of physical threats, like pots falling onto my head and knocking me out into a coma and my singeing my fingers from the fire or the oven. I never thought that the definition included jeopardising my masculinity.”

Gayoon chuckled, and then found that she wasn’t able to contain herself and burst into all out laughter. Jongin managed a smile at her, that, despite his rather ridiculous state, still looked very attractive.

“We’re almost done, anyway,” she said, and then made a motion. “And put that down. I’ll finish the rest. You can do the finishing touches.”

Happy to receive leave from a nerve-wrecking enterprise, Jongin took the bag of heart-shaped sprinkles and began to animatedly dust them over the cupcakes. She watched his wrists, how they flicked, quick and fluid, as though he was performing a dance.

“What?” he asked, a smile lifting his lips when his eyes met hers.

She quickly looked away. “Nothing.”

He stared at her for a long time, and then shrugged complacently, imitating her tone, “Okay fine. Nothing.” His eyes, though, retained its devilish, knowing light.

“It was nothing,” she insisted, indignant.

“Okay. I never said it wasn’t.” He held up his hands, but still looked like he was on the verge of laughing.

“Jongin…”

“My, my you two do make my kitchen lively. I’ve never seen so much fuss over cupcakes before.” Mrs Seo smiled at them, leaning against the doorframe.

“He was being a child,” Gayoon complained, while Jongin sniggered softly.

Her mother shook her head, amused, and picked up one of the samples. “Mrs Noh’s?”

“Yup,” she exclaimed proudly. “Fifty-five cupcakes done for Mr Noh’s fifty-fifth birthday.”

“Thirty-something years,” her mother remarked wistfully. “Don’t you think it’s wonderful to be married that long.”

Gayoon sighed, weary. “Mom, must talk about that now? I have cream cheese all over my hands and Jongin’s knee-deep in sprinkles.”

“Why not? Being married, and staying married, for a long time is a fine prospect, don’t you think, Jongin?”

Jongin looked amused. “Yes, ma’am. I’m a believer that marriages should last ‘til death.”

Her mother bestowed him an admiring smile. “You’re a charming one, aren’t you? Best watch your mouth, or you’ll be battling off young ladies with a broomstick.”

Jongin laughed, embarrassed. “Nah. That never happened to me, Mrs Seo.”

“Really?” she asked, intrigued. “You have to be lying, Jongin. You have so many assets that’ll work in your favour, unless, of course, you’re loyal to one…”

Jongin still managed a smile with his blush, and Gayoon took it as a sign that it was time her mother left.

“Don’t you think there’re customers waiting to be served, Mom?” she sighed exasperatedly, propelling her mother out of the door.

“Oh, no worries, darling, there’s no ringing bell, so we’ve none.” But her mother allowed herself to be steered anyway, then turned tapped her daughter lightly on the nose. “My only advice, Gayoon, is that you should pay more mind to what you already have within reach.”

Gayoon rolled her eyes extravagantly, and made a point to lock the door.

Jongin had to leave later that evening, but she had yet to satisfy herself with his company, for there was still something she desperately wanted to ask. So, before Jongin could even properly pull out his apron, she came to his side, made him look at her, and asked if he would accompany her for a treat.

He wore a smirk of amusement before he granted an answer, and in the hours of dusk, they slipped out of the bakery to the little ice cream shop a few blocks down. The wind still nipped, no less merciful than it was in the morning, but ice cream was the only thing that she thought could soften Jongin into unwinding the troubles of his broken heart.

“Are you okay, Jongin?” she asked over a cone of raspberry cheesecake ice cream, mindful of the immediate surprise that flashed through his eyes.

He lowered his ice cream, eyes flitting away in half-second glances of the world before he answered. “Yeah.”

“Just yeah?” she pressed gently.

When Jongin looked at her again, there was pain slashing his velvety irises. “I don’t think I could ever look at her in the face again. At least, not yet. Not without doing something stupid.”

She crumpled a tissue in her hand, watched it bunch and crease. “You really do love her, don’t you?”

Jongin didn’t reply; instead he leaned in closer, the ice cream at a dangerous angle in his hands. “Did I ever tell you that I disliked ballet?”

“Yes,” she answered honestly. “You said it wasn’t your calling.”

He smiled mysteriously. “Did I ever tell you the only reason that made me stay was her?”

She paused in mid-way, pulling the cone away to speak. “You did?”

Jongin nodded slightly, drawing back. The sudden withdrawal of his closeness made her wish that he sat at her side and not across.

“Ballet was so gruelling. I hated it so much. But I stayed because she loved it, and the child in me hoped that one day, I’d be the partner with whom she’d share the stage.”

“You are really...” Gayoon’s lips pulled up in disbelief, “such a romantic. You never give up hope, do you?”

Jongin ran his fingers through his hair, smiling a tired smile. “Most people just call me stupid. Sehun, especially, is rather generous with that remark.”

Jongin looked so melancholic that she regretted asking. Grasping at straws because she was unable to see him so unhappy, she said, “Who’s Sehun?”

“My friend,” Jongin said, and the smile that came with it was genuine. “A royal pain in the neck, but the only kid out there who wouldn’t turn me down the opportunity to sneak in early through the windows.”

“Tell me more,” she said, and Jongin obliged with a face that showed a hint of relief. For a moment, she revelled that she’d elicited a sort of domino effect on his stories, because he never stopped his tale, and she never stopped listening.