1  :  2  0   P.M;      Tuesday

                  Unfortunately, the door creaks obnoxiously as she slowly pushes it open.  

                  Heads turn to the new arrival. Silence dampens the room as she reddens from their curious stares. She’s obviously late to the party. Everyone already knows where they belong. Most of the seats are occupied. Running on frazzled nerves and two cups of coffee, she lets herself in and plops down on the first vacant chair she could find.

                  Someone clears a throat. She looks up.

                  “Load slip,” says the man in front of the class. This being is supposed to be the professor, she thinks, but couldn’t find herself to believe it.  He looks just like a student.

                  Wordlessly, she gets up, produces a load slip from her pocket and unfolds it. The man takes it, sits down on his desk and signs the paper. She exhaled because it seemed like the entire room was holding its breath.

                  When he looks up at her, she decides that he has the nicest eyes she has ever seen, even if those eyes were protected by thick, black glasses.

                  When he speaks, she concludes that he has the nicest voice she has ever heard, even if it did nothing but utter, “Don’t be late next time, Miss Im Yoona.”

                  She scoffs because this was her traditional reaction to anything.

                  He raises an eyebrow and she takes everything back as she grabs her load slip.

                  He’s an . 

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