Okay, so I am not a morning person. I will be the first to admit that. It takes me forever to get up in the morning, another forever to get motivated, and half of forever to actually get out the door.

I know what you’re thinking. Forever is, like, forever. So, how can there be two and a half forevers?

Shush. It’s early. I’m exhausted. I haven’t yet had my caffeine fix. I’m late for class.

It’s actually a pretty normal day for me.

At least I look kind of cute. I mean, I didn’t try super hard. I never do, but I look decent.

Black leather jacket with a grey hoodie under. Both ped.

(My grandmother would ask why I bothered to put them on if my chest was still going to be exposed by the chilly October weather.)

Because my t-shirt is awesome. It has a picture of Noah’s Ark on it, and it says, “Need an ark? I Noah guy.” Punny, I know.

Ripped black jeans. Dark red Chucks.

My brown hair is short and straight as a board, so I just kinda let it do its thing. No muss, no fuss.

Cute leather backpack. A couple of simple rings. Diamond studs in the ears.

Good to go.

I grab my portfolio. Art major. Gotta take the portfolio everywhere I go. You never know when inspiration might strike.

The streets of Seoul are bananas in the morning. I’m from a small city in the USA.

I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR SEOUL.

Thank God and Jesus that I know how to speak Korean!

If I didn’t, I would be super lost.

I bow to the doorman at my apartment building, and run – literally – down the street to the coffee shop.

Not Starbucks. Too expensive. Takes too long. This is a little local shop owned by this adorable South Korean couple. Soo Young is like all of the cuteness you can imagine wrapped up in a tiny Korean package. So sweet!

“The usual please, Soo Young-ssi,” I say when I dart into the door.

Soo Young – bless her actual heart – hands me a cup, and says, “You’re late! Pay me later.”

Then she hands me a bag, and adds, “Pastry. You need caffeine and food!”

I think I repeat “kamsa hamnida” about thirty times as I dash out the door. I stuff the pastry into my mouth, and swig down the coffee. Soo Young added ice to cool it for me, and it’s just the way I like it. Mocha with a shot of French vanilla – lots of whipped cream.

The pastry is plain, but I can’t complain. I finish it in three bites, and swig down more of the coffee as I run – yes, still running. One should never run unless they’re being chased. Technically, I am being chased – by TIME.

And the spirit of my Sculpting professor. Kang Sung Min.

TERRIFYING.

He will kill me if I’m late… again.

WHO SCHEDULES A CLASS FOR NINE IN THE MORNING?

A sick individual.

I tear down the alley – a shortcut, and a convenient place to ditch my now empty coffee cup in the recycling dumpster.

My body feels like it’s buzzing as I turn right onto the next street, and haul you-know-what down the sidewalk, dodging this way and that to avoid the other citizens fortunate enough to be leisurely walking to their destinations. Work. Class. Wherever.

Three more blocks and I’m home free. At the university. On my way to class. With, maybe three minutes to actually get to the classroom.

AND THEN. AND THEN.

IT STARTS TO POUR. POUR. LIKE POOOOUUUUURRRR.

Rain, Rain, everywhere. And not the solo artist.

Actual rain.

Like water.

Like what will ruin all of the artwork in portfolio with the broken zipper, so it doesn’t close and is bigger than me (ie. Too big to fit under my shirt)?

RAIN.

I’m quite sure that Professor Kang is behind this. In his infinite evil, he made it rain. Somehow. Some way.

CURSES.

I dart into the nearest open door to wait out the rain.

My heart is pounding in my chest. Partly because of the running, partly the coffee. Soo Young makes is strong.

I lean my portfolio against the wall, toss my bag beside it, and sink to my beside that. My hair is already drenched. So much for the looking cute thing.

I pull my knees up, and rest my head over on them for a moment to calm down.

Then I’m up on my feet. Because where even am I?

I assumed it was a shop before I actually glanced around. I’m in an empty hallway. What kind of shop just has an empty hallway??

There is no signage of any kind. I leave my bag and portfolio, because the place is deader than dead.

I walk slowly down the hallway, suddenly feeling kind of anxious. It’s the middle of the day, but there could still be a psycho lingering around. I could be deader than dead, if I don’t watch myself.

Halfway down the hallway, I encounter a set of double doors on the wall to my left. The bottom half of each door is solid wood; the top, glass. I peek inside, and, at first, I see nothing, but an empty room with a hardwood floor and a wall of mirrors.

A dance studio! It’s a dance studio.

That feels less like the set of a horror film now. Although, I guess one could really set a horror film anywhere they liked.

I’m about to double back for my bags when I hear music start to play inside the empty (not-so-empty) room.

Sounds like EXO, but I’ve never actually heard the song. I think that maybe it’s not EXO, but then I hear Chanyeol start to rap, and hi, I would recognize that voice anywhere, thank you very much.

WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

I scoot closer to the door, but like still against the wall, so I can’t be seen by whoever might be in there listening to (bootleg, unreleased?) EXO songs.

And then he appears.

Lay!

Yixing!

EXO’s only remaining Chinese member.

CURSES!

What is Lay doing here? Where even am I? Some top secret EXO training base?

It looks more like a rundown dance studio for underprivileged dance students.

But that is so Lay, dancing his heart out like he always does. Lay has to be one of my favorite things about EXO dance practice videos.

And this song is good. Why would I expect anything less from EXO though? Even down three members (CURSES!), they’re amazing.

So, I stand there for like two hours stalking Lay. I miss my class. Someone could have stolen my bag, but thankfully, didn’t.

Then, he disappears. The music stops. The lights go dark in the studio.

I haul you-know-what down the hall. If he comes through the door, I could die.

Deader than dead.

I pour myself out onto the street. What year is it?!

I feel like I was in there for at least thirty years.

WHAT DID I JUST WITNESS? WHAT DID I HEAR?

A mini album and a half worth of new, unheard EXO SONGS!

And Lay’s choreography. I could die.

Deader than dead.

I turn around to check out the sign on the building. It’s barely there, and reads (maybe), Dry Cleaning?

NOT QUITE!

THIS IS SOME TOP SECRET SM/EXO DANCE STUDIO HIDING PLACE.

I have insider information!

I wonder for a moment if I should share this information with other fans.

No, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t expose Lay that way.

I wait outside for about fifteen minutes to see if he comes out. He doesn’t. He’s probably either in there taking a shower, or he left out the back door.

I would, if I were him.

Obviously, there are fans lurking about. At least one anyway.

 

So, maybe I go back to the dance studio every morning for the next week and a half – minus one day. I have Sculpting one day a week. And maybe Professor Kang threatened me a little after I didn’t show up for class.

I went in during his office hours to apologize… and blame the rain.

He was having exactly none of it.

Fair enough. I probably should have gone to class instead of stalking Lay. It’s true. But I just lost track of time. That’s also true.

Luckily, the rest of my classes are all afternoon and evening classes, and I don’t have to worry about missing them. I’m free to stalk Lay! Yay!

So, I know that, technically, it’s not really something I should be doing. I shouldn’t be invading his privacy. Or listening to songs that I’m not supposed to be hearing.

But I can’t stop. He’s such a great dancer. So beautiful and graceful. And the music is intense. It’s so good!

So, it’s like I’m dating Lay, kind of. Only he doesn’t know.

I show up every morning (I’ve never gotten up so early so many days consecutively in my life) with my coffee and pastry. I eat my breakfast, drink my coffee, and watch as he practices his routines.

I Googled top secret dance studios for SM/EXO. Google and the fandom seemed to know nothing, so I REALLY DO HAVE INSIDER INFORMATION!

With great power comes great responsibility though, so I am super careful about getting in here. If I see someone that even looks a little like a k-popper, I circle the block, and then come back.

That might sound excessive, but I don’t want to risk Lay’s privacy.

Yeah, I know what that sounds like when I’m here invading his privacy, but I could be selling tickets, you know? You see my point a little, right?

I hope Lay would see my point. I’m just admiring his beauty.

 

This goes on for three weeks.

Three!

It’s excessive, I know.

But I can’t stop coming here.

The weather has turned even colder, so I am super thankful for the warmth in the studio’s building when I walk in on the third of November.

I’m armed with my usual pastry and coffee. I make it halfway to the door before I realize that something is different. Something is off.

The lights in the studio must be off, because I can always see them shining through the glass panes in the doors.

I creep down the hallway like a ninja.

A derpy ninja in a winter coat and knitted hat, but a ninja nonetheless.

I go to peer into the dark studio and realize – to my horror – that the studio isn’t DARK! The glass in the doors has been covered over with something black.

Paper? Poster board?

I have no idea.

That’s not really relevant.

Because – TO MY ABSOLUTE HORROR – there is a note scrawled in silver Sharpie on the black paper stuff.

“It’s been weeks, and you always only bring coffee and breakfast for yourself. The show isn’t free anymore! Bring me a coffee and I’ll open the doors or take down the paper. Your choice. ;)”

WHAT IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

IS LAY SASSING ME?

SERIOUSLY?

HE HAS KNOWN THAT I WAS HERE FOR WEEKS… WEEKS. AND HE SAID NOTHING UNTIL NOW?!

AND HE WANTS COFFEE?!

WHY NOW?

AM I DREAMING?

DID I JUST SLIDE INTO AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE?

HAVE I LOST MY MIND?

All fangirls are sort of inches away from losing it, aren’t we?

I’m thinking this over, wondering which option is the correct one when the door whips open.

“I like Americanos,” Lay says. “I forgot to put that on the sign.”

I jump back, eyes wide. I start to stammer out a reply when he shuts the door in my face.

So, that happened…

And I do what any fangirl would do.

I obey.

I run down the street to the nearest coffee shop, order an Americano and a pastry (for good measure).

I run back to the studio, juggling all the coffee and pastries. (I can’t eat mine. Who could eat at a time like this?)

I put the Americano and the pastry on the floor in front of the door, knock, and BOLT.

Yeah, it’s cowardly, but I can’t face Lay. Not now. Not today.

 

A week passes before I even consider going back. Luckily, I have Sculpting on the day that the idea first hits me. I can’t miss another class, so I go and mull over the idea while Professor Kang drones on and on about this week’s project.

I miss everything he says, but by the end of the two-hour class, I have made up my mind.

I show up at the studio early the next morning. Earlier than I’ve ever been. Earlier than I’ve even been fully conscious in a long while.

Looking cuter than usual.

Black wool coat that I borrowed from my roommate, cute dark red cable knit sweater, dark wash skinny jeans (no rips), and dark red Chucks. Oh, and I actually bothered to do something with my hair. Some subtle curls make all the difference.

The sign is gone when I reach the door. He kept his end of the bargain – or maybe he just didn’t care about it after a few days when he figured that I wasn’t coming back anyway.

I knock on the door, because I can’t just barge in, can I?

The lights are on, but the music isn’t, and I don’t see him.

Until I do.

He cautiously walks toward the door. When he sees me, a smile spreads over his face.

“I didn’t think you would come back,” he says, opening the door.

I try to hand him his coffee and pastry, but he just ushers me into the room.

“I, um, I wasn’t sure if I would either,” I tell him. I was going to tell him that I was busy, but I couldn’t lie to real-life angel, Lay. Not that I go around lying to other people. I don’t. But I couldn’t even stretch the truth a little with Lay. It would be too mean.

“I’m sorry if I scared you off with my note. I was actually trying to be funny.”

HE BLUSHES WHEN HE SAYS THIS. BLUSHES. NO, I AM NOT KIDDING. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. LAY MCDIMPLES STANDS BEFORE ME, BLUSHING.

I force out what is supposed to be a chuckle, but is actually nothing, but a cough, half a snort, and something that sounds like a strangled cat cry.

I shove his coffee and pastry at him, hoping he won’t notice the cat snort thing I’ve just done.

He either didn’t notice, or is polite enough to pretend he didn’t as he thanks me for the coffee. Then, he literally has the audacity to say, “You didn’t really have to do this.”

Oh, no, EXO’s Lay, Zhang Yixing, I don’t play that game. You block me out and demand breakfast for letting me in, you’re getting breakfast.

Boy, DO NOT PLAY. I will be bringing you breakfast until the end of time. (Kamsa hamnida to dad’s line of credit. <3)

“Are you going to sit in here or stand in the hallway?” he asks.

What am I supposed to say to that? I mean, I could say, “Oh, I’ll just stand in the hallway, so I don’t bother you. *smile* *bow*” But what I really want to say is, “I WILL SIT IN THE SPLASH ZONE. THANK YOU VERY MUCH. BRING IT ON!”

When I don’t say anything like a derpy ninja, he says, “I don’t mind if you sit in here. Technically, you probably shouldn’t be here at all, but…” He trails off and shrugs his shoulders. I think that he is silently saying, “Screw SM. Who cares what they think?”

I respect silent Lay.

And so I silently nod, and go to sit against the not mirror wall.

This is intense.

“No pictures, please.”

NO PICTURES, PLEASE.

He actually said that.

“I wouldn’t. I mean, I haven’t.” I try to sound reassuring, but I’m stuttering like an idiot, so I don’t really know how it sounds. Probably like a stuttering idiot.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks.

I nod dumbly.

“I thought so.”

“I’m sorry.”

Why?

He laughs. I would laugh too, because I sound like a moron. It’s his fault though, so whatever.

“You don’t have to be sorry. Thank you for being…” He trails off again, like he doesn’t know the word.

I wonder if he honestly doesn’t know the Korean word for what he wants to express, or if he’s just not sure what he wants to express. Maybe both?

“You can speak Mandarin,” I tell him, hoping that will help.

I don’t tell him that I literally only learned that language to better understand EXO-M songs…

Don’t judge me.

He smiles. DIMPLES. “Thank you. I appreciate you being so kind to not take pictures or bother me, or tell others…”

He ends with kind of a question mark there, so I assure him that I haven’t told anyone. I haven’t taken any photos either. What he’s apparently seen is all I do.

He offers me thanks, nods, and then walks away.

I watch as he sips the coffee, takes a small bite of the pastry, and sets them aside by the wall.

The music starts a moment later, and it’s just like every other day.

NO IT’S NOT. IT’S EIGHT MILLION TIMES BETTER, BECAUSE I AM INSIDE THE DANCE STUDIO WATCHING LAY DANCE.

I can hear his shoes squeak on the floor. I can hear him breathing. I can see every move that he makes so closely.

And he’s so perfect.

You might think that having a (probably) unwanted audience member would throw him off his game, but he’s perfection. Absolute perfection. He never misses a step that I can see. I’m not an expert, of course, especially not on these dances that don’t exist to the public eye yet, but he looks perfect to me.

 

This keeps up for three weeks. It’s the first of December when he comes to me after practice. He’s still sipping the Americano I brought for him. It must be cold and near putrid now, but he won’t waste it. I’ve learned that about him. He isn’t wasteful, and he’s always grateful for the things that he has.

“Don’t bring breakfast tomorrow.” I traded in his pastry for fruit a couple of weeks ago. He seemed to like that better. I noticed that he picked at the pastry a lot, but would never say that he wanted something else. He always finished it too. Like I said, he doesn’t waste. But I could tell he would rather have something lighter. I should have known that from the start.

I look up at him when he tells me this. I know that my face must look a little stunned. For one, we rarely talk. We haven’t really said more than ten words to each other in three weeks. That’s just how we do things.

I hand him breakfast. He says thank you. I say thank you as well (for the show, obviously). The music starts. He dances for three hours. I watch. We bow to each other, and go our separate ways.

That’s how it works.

He doesn’t approach me after practice.

“Are you going to put the black paper back up?”

He laughs.

Dimples.

“No,” he says. “Just don’t bring breakfast.”

He bows. I bow. We go our separate ways.

 

I’m a nervous wreck the next morning. My hands are shaking as I curl my hair, and I almost burn myself ten times. My outfit is pretty much the same as it always is – borrowed wool coat (it’s cuter than my puffy coat), sweater (today’s is purple), skinny jeans (today’s are black), Chucks (black as well). I have a few simple rings, diamond studs.

My bag is different though. I have an actual backpack on today. There’s a smaller purse inside it with my money, and such, but I brought the backpack, so I could bring my sketchbook.

Provided that I can find the courage, I’m going to ask Lay to allow me to sketch him.

I’m about 87% sure that he’ll turn me down.

That’s why I only have about 15% of the courage that it will require to actually ask him.

I hope to find all 100% before our three hours are up.

I almost stop for coffee when I remember what Lay said. Don’t bring breakfast tomorrow.

I’m sure that he just meant not to bring breakfast for him, but I can’t eat in front of him when he doesn’t have something to eat.

When I arrive at the studio, the lights are out. My heart sinks. Don’t bring breakfast tomorrow was Lay’s way of telling me that he wasn’t going to be here today. Maybe he won’t be here anymore at all.

I feel almost like crying, and start for the door. Why wouldn’t he just tell me?

“Are you leaving?”

When I hear Lay’s voice behind me, my heart skips. I turn quickly. “I, um, I thought you weren’t here. The studio is dark.”

“Sorry, you’re early.”

“I didn’t have to stop for breakfast.”

“Right.” He waves for me to come to him. “Follow me.”

I follow him slowly. I don’t know why I suddenly feel so nervous.

Lay leads me down the hall, past the studio, and around the corner. I have never ventured this far into the building. It feels forbidden. But Lay is leading me, so…

He takes me into a small room at the end of the other hallway – this one shorter than the main hall.

The room is only slightly larger than my apartment’s bathroom (which is pretty small), and sparsely decorated. There is a white leather couch against one wall, a coffee table in front of that (presently covered in take-out cartons), and a little stand with a microwave on the wall opposite the couch.

“I thought it was time for me to repay you,” he says. “For all the breakfast that you’ve provided. You didn’t have to do that, really.”

“I know, but I wanted to.” After day four, I realized that he wouldn’t put up the black paper if I didn’t bring breakfast, but it felt sort of nice to bring him food and coffee. It felt like a date, for one, I will shamefully admit. But it also felt like I was doing a really good thing, making sure that he ate. SM sure doesn’t care about that. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” he says, gesturing for me to go sit on the couch.

The couch is more like a “love seat,” I guess. It’s small is my point. We’re going to be sitting rather close to one another. My fangirl heart doesn’t know what to think about that.

Lay joins me after I’ve taken my coat off, and set it aside with my bag. He sits beside me, but not too close. I’m really aware of his leg though. If I make one wrong move, our legs will touch. I do not need that.

“I hope you like traditional Korean breakfast.”

I groan internally. Traditional Korean breakfast is more like lunch or dinner in the States.

Meat, rice, kimchi, soup.

I have lived in Seoul for two years, and I’m still a pancakes, sausage, omelet kind of girl when it comes to breakfast. Do I tell Lay this? Of course not!

But I don’t lie to him either. “I don’t usually eat traditional Korean breakfast,” I admit. “But I don’t mind it. I like Korean food.”

Lay seems okay with it. “How long have you lived in Korea?” he asks as he opens the Styrofoam containers, and places one in front of me.

“Two years,” I tell him as he hands over a pair of chopsticks. “I’m a student at the University of Seoul.” He didn’t ask for that information, but doesn’t seem to mind that I have given it.

“I forgot to ask what kind of coffee you drink,” he says. “I got you an Americano.”

Nope. But that’s another thing that I don’t tell him.

I thank him, and express how odd it is to me that we’ve been having coffee together for weeks, and we haven’t discussed what I drink.

“We don’t talk much,” he says. You know, just in case I haven’t noticed.

“That’s okay,” I say, because it seems appropriate. “I usually drink mocha.” My actual concoction is too complicated to explain, so “mocha” will do.

“I will try to remember that.”

His honesty is nice, refreshing. I laugh a little, and thank him.

“Eat, please,” he says, gesturing toward my carton of food.

My stomach has a few choice words for me as I stuff it full of rice and meat, but I choose to ignore it. I will not rudely waste Lay’s food when he was so kind to buy it, no matter what my stomach thinks about ingesting this sort of thing so early in the day.

“Where are you from?” Lay asks after a few minutes. I can tell that he’s really making an effort to talk more.

“I’m from the United States,” I tell him. I don’t bother with the city. No one ever knows what I’m talking about anyway. It’s really a small city. The closest city that he would recognize is probably Dallas and it’s about a six-hour drive from my family’s home. Not exactly close.

“I like the US,” he says with a nod. “I’m from China.”

It’s so innocent and cute the way that he says that like I don’t know. He’s just trying to be kind and sociable, and I love him a little more than I already did.

“I’ve never been to China,” I say instead of something like, “Yeah, I know.”

“It’s the best,” he says, and he beams. He’s proud of his country. That plainly shows on his face.

“I would love to go someday.”

“You will,” he says. “If you really want to do it, you can.”

I stare at his face as he takes a few bites. He’s so beautiful, so innocent, and lovely. I always knew that. You can see that in everything he does, but it’s even more obvious when I’m sitting this close to him. He’s not wearing make-up, and there a few tiny imperfections on his face. If anything, they make him even more perfect.

“Why do you dance here?” I ask finally. The question has plagued me since the day that I ran in here by accident to save my portfolio from the rain.

“Privacy,” he replies simply. “I rent the building. How did you find me? I thought I had kept the secret well.”

“Oh, no. You have. I had no idea that you were here the first day that I came in. It was a total accident.”

“Really?” He looks at me, and arches his brow.

“Honestly. I ran into the building to get out of the rain. I had my art portfolio with me, and I didn’t want it to get ruined. I didn’t even know what this place was. It says ‘dry cleaner’ on the old sign out front, you know?”

“It used to be one a long time ago, I think. It hasn’t been for years.”

“Your company just lets you do this?”

“It’s extra practice, they don’t care where I do it.”

“And these songs…”

“For the next comeback.”

“They’re amazing.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“What would the company do if they knew I had heard them?”

“I don’t know” is all he’ll say on the matter. I have a few nightmarish ideas, but I keep them to myself.

After we finish our breakfast, he says that he’s not going to practice this morning. He doesn’t want to dance that much on a full stomach, so he’ll come back later in the afternoon.

I won’t lie. I’m a little let down. I really wanted to sketch him. There’s always tomorrow though.

I help clean up, thank him for breakfast. He says not to bring anything tomorrow either.

We bow and go our separate ways.

 

The next morning, Lay has one foam container filled with American breakfast food – pancakes, sausages, and fruit, and a separate plastic bowl of fruit. He also has a mocha for me, and his usual Americano.

The feels are intense.

I thank him three times as I shed my coat, and bag. The backpack is back, and my sketchbook with it. My courage is at about a 45%, but I’m confident that I’ll get there today, provided that he actually dances. The fruit bowl is a good sign, but I decide to ask anyway.

“Will you be dancing today?” I stare at my food, pouring syrup from a little packet over the pancakes.

“Yes. You could have come back yesterday afternoon, you know?”

“I’m sorry. I had a class.” I could have skipped the class. The professor never even comes in. She just leaves instructions on the board, and leaves us to sketch for an hour. It’s a waste of my time and money, but it’s a requirement for my major. Something about deviating so much from our daily routine seemed wrong, so I went to class, and sketched Lay from memory. It doesn’t do him justice, to be honest.

“The sculpting one?”

I told him about Sculpting yesterday during breakfast. It went along with the “How Did I End Up Here” story. “No. I only have that on Monday mornings. It was a sketching class.”

“Do you like it more?”

“Not really. The professor doesn’t seem to care about the course. She only comes in on Friday for a few minutes to pick up our assignments from the week. Every other day of the week, she just writes our assignment on the board. One time, she went on vacation for three weeks, and just emailed the assignment list. It was kind of funny in a sad way. The course seems like a waste of my tuition money.”

“I’m sorry. Do you at least enjoy sketching more than sculpting?”

“Do you mean the class or the art form?”

“The art form.”

“I do enjoy sketching more. I’m more a sketching/painting person than sculpting. I shall never be a sculptor. At least, I don’t foresee it being in my future.”

“What was your assignment for yesterday?”

My cheeks blush. I can feel the heat. I look down at my pancakes and take a bite. “Um, it was to draw something that we find beautiful that others might not necessarily define that way. I think she worded it that way, so people wouldn’t take the easy way out with a rose or something.”

“What did you draw?”

I almost choke on the sausage that I’d just shoveled into my mouth. “Um… I drew a person.”

He nods, and I think he’s going to press the issue further, but he doesn’t. I’m thankful for that. I don’t want to discuss it, and I definitely don’t want to show him.

But this does give me the perfect opportunity to ask about sketching him. My courage is only at about a 60% percent, but sometimes you just have to go for it whether you’re feeling 100% ready or not.

“Lay…”

“Yixing,” he corrects. He’s done that once before, but I just can’t get into the habit of calling him by his real name.

I apologize though and press on. “Yixing, would you mind, uh, if I… sketched you? While you dance today, I mean.”

He eats two pieces of fruit, which seems to take an agonizingly long time, before he looks at me. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Oh, um…”

“Is it for class?”

“No. No. I just… I would like to sketch you, because I enjoy sketching…” I pause for a moment to gather my thoughts, because I have no idea what I’m talking about. I want to draw him, because he’s beautiful and he’s Lay. But I can’t very well say that to him.

“I don’t mind if you draw me,” he finally says.

“Thank you.” Honestly, I’m thanking him more for agreeing to it, so I didn’t have to sputter out reasons like an idiot more than I’m actually thanking him for allowing me to sketch him.

At the end of our three hours together, I think that Lay will ask to see the picture that I’ve sketched of him, but he doesn’t. Come to think of it, I probably should have expected that. I’m learning that Lay isn’t like a lot of the other people that I’ve encountered in my life. That’s not a bad thing.

“Should I bring breakfast?” I ask as I slide my roommate’s coat on.

He shakes his head, “no,” and then he bows.

I bow. We go our separate ways.

 

For the next two weeks, he brings breakfast. We eat and talk about all kinds of things. He dances for three hours while I sketch him, and then we go our separate ways.

It’s snowing when I show up on a Saturday in the middle of December. My knitted hat and the wool coat I have adopted are covered in snowflakes when I dash into the studio.

Lay is coming down the hallway toward me, much to my surprise. “I thought you wouldn’t come today,” he tells me.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s snowing.”

“Only a little. It’s a short walk.” I explain this as I pull off my pink sparkly gloves, and my hat. I quickly shove them into my bag, and set about flattening my hair that has gone wild. Thanks, static electricity!

“Come on back. I have hot chocolates today. Is that okay? I thought it might be a nice change from our usual coffee.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him that I could really use the caffeine. “That sounds great.”

“There’s also warm breakfast. I brought American breakfast for both us.”

I laugh a little. “What were you going to do with all of that food if I didn’t show up?”

He blushes and grins. “Well, I was kind of afraid you wouldn’t show up, but I was really hopeful.”

I shake my head at his adorable face, and laugh. “Are you not dancing today?” I ask him.

“I did a little bit earlier, but I wanted to talk to you for a while today.”

WHAAAT?

My heart flutters as he turns to walk down the hallway. I do a little silent screaming – something I have mastered as a fangirl, and wiggle my hips a little before I follow him to the room where we will eat… AND TALK.

“How are your classes going? It’s been a while since we talked about school.”

It’s true. For the first few days, all we ever really talked about was school, but we started talking about deeper stuff pretty quickly. We never really talk about EXO though. We don’t talk about the other members – current or former (curses!), the comeback, or anything else, really. Lay hints about some pressure that he feels, and his stress, but nothing in detail. I don’t ask. I just listen, and let him talk. I feel privileged that he confides in me at all. I won’t push it.

“Classes are going well. The semester actually just ended. I have exams next week, and then it’s Winter Break until mid-January.”

“Are you ready for your exams?”

“Pretty much,” I say with a nod. “I only have a couple, and they seem pretty easy. The professors are really great. They’ve given us pretty comprehensive study guides, and helped us prep for the exams a lot.”

“Well, I wish you good luck.” He reaches over and pats my arm, and I almost flail off the tiny couch.

I sip my hot chocolate, and beg my stomach to stop flipping all over the place. When I’ve regained some of my composure, I thank him.

“Will your exams cut into the time that you come here to see me?”

“No. They’re in the afternoon, thank goodness. I’m really not a morning person.”

He seems genuinely confused by this. “But you come here every morning to see me.”

“That’s worth it though,” I say with a laugh.

He laughs as well, and thanks me.

We eat for about an hour, picking at our food until it’s gone, and discussing everything under the sun. A hot topic today is his childhood and family. It’s like a dream come true to listen to him talk about these things.

When breakfast is gone, we clean up the cartons and cups. I expect him to bow, and then we’ll go our separate ways, but he goes back to the couch.

“Can we talk a bit longer?” he asks when I stare at him, dumbfounded.

I practically trip over my own feet and the air in front of me in a rush to get back to my spot on the couch.

We sit there for three more hours, talking endlessly. The talking only stops when I get too thirsty to carry on.

“I’m really thirsty,” I say. “Do you want to go grab a drink?”

What a dumb question. Of course, he doesn’t want to go grab a drink! So he can be attacked by fifty thousand fans? So someone can spread rumors that we’re dating? Yeah, that would all be worth a stupid drink.

“I would love to, but I don’t know if I could go out without getting recognized. I’m sorry. If you’re thirsty, I have water in the fridge in the studio. I can get a couple of bottles.”

And so he does.

And we spend another three hours talking.

It’s almost four when we take a break again. I’m starving. We’ve talked through lunch. It’s almost time for dinner. I almost invite him out for dinner. Seriously, shut up.

“I should really be getting back to the dorm,” he says. “I’m sorry for keeping you so late.”

I shake my head quickly. “Don’t be sorry. I had a really nice time talking to you.”

That is SUCH an understatement.

I AM ELATED. PERMANENT RESIDENCE: CLOUD 9.

“Before you go, I have something that I need to tell you.”

OMG.

WHAT.

My heart feels like it’s trying to beat itself out of my chest. What could he possibly have to say to me? He sounds so serious. Looks so serious.

WHAT? LAY, WHAT?

“Yes?” I say, fighting with every fiber of my being to keep my voice calm.

Lay doesn’t respond for what feels like at least a year and a half, maybe two years.

And when he finally does, he’s staring at the floor, and kind of mumbling. “I’m going to China in January. I’ll be there for two months.”

My house on Cloud 9 just went up in flames.

My heart feels like it’s cracking in half.

Lay has become such a huge part of my life. I have seen him every single day – barring evil Sculpting Mondays – for almost three months. Three months. Over three hours a day.

I should have known this would come to an end someday. It had to. It’s the nature of things. He’s an idol. If it wasn’t China, it would be something else, some other place. He has obligations, schedules, things that don’t involve seeing me.

How did I not prepare for this day? How did I not think about this?

Because I didn’t want to think about it. I blocked it out, because it was easier, better to live in the moment. To stay in this fantasy land where I would always see him every morning, where our breakfasts and dances and sketches would never end.

The fantasy has come crashing down around me now, and I feel like crying.

I can’t cry. Not in front of him anyway.

“Did you hear me?” he asks.

His hand is on my knee.

Normally, I would fangirl off the couch, and probably flail around like a fish out of water.

Now, I just feel like sobbing.

I nod to answer his question. I don’t trust my voice.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wanted you to know ahead of time before I had just one or two days left.”

The tears come. They’re there on the brink of spilling over. I blink them away, and reach for my bottle of water. It’s empty, save a few drops at the bottom, but it’s good for a distraction.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he says.

I nod again. If this were fanfiction, he would ask me to accompany him to China where we would fall in love, and come back to Seoul married.

This isn’t fanfiction.

He asks for my phone number.

That’s a start, I guess?

I give it to him, of course, and he texts me, so I have his. Maybe we will have our morning “dates” via text message now? He’ll send me videos of him dancing in China, pictures of his food. I’ll send him pictures from my classes, and the coffee shop where I used to buy our breakfast.

Then he says, “I’ll text you when I come back. I’ll still dance here when I come back.”

Oh.

He wants my number, so that he can text me when he’s back from China.

SO THAT HE CAN TEXT ME ONE TIME TWO MONTHS FROM NOW.

OH.

I want to crawl in a hole.

 

The next week goes by in a blur. I see Lay every morning, take my exams in the afternoon, and the rest of the day is kind of blah.

The following week is Christmas. My family flies in on the 23^rd, but I manage to see Lay before I pick them up at the airport. I tell him that I won’t be able to come by the studio until the 27^th. My family is leaving the night of the 26^th.

He says that he won’t be in the studio until the 26^th anyway. He’s celebrating Christmas with TAO, KRIS, AND LUHAN WHO ARE ALL IN TOWN.

KILL ME.

I want to beg for photos of their encounter, but I maintain.

 

Christmas is lovely. My parents bring tons of gifts, and my siblings are excited to be in Seoul for the first time. I take them around to all of the places that I love. We have coffee, and Soo Young gushes to my mother about what a wonderful daughter she has. I have to translate which is embarrassing, but the whole thing is so sweet that I try not to let my embarrassment show.

When my family leaves, I get a little depressed. I spend the night in the arms of my two favorite men – Ben and Jerry. There’s nothing like a pint of Strawberry Cheesecake Ben & Jerry’s ice cream to soothe your aching heart.

The next morning, I’m up early and on my way to the studio.

I find Lay in our little breakfast nook. He appears to have just arrived. I must be earlier than I thought. He still has his coat on.

He greets me with a smile, and then walks to me, and HUGS ME.

HUGS.

ME.

I’M DYING.

I cling to him a little. Desperate, I know, but honestly…

“How was your Christmas?” he asks as we shed our outerwear.

I am so much more interested in his Christmas.

(KILL ME.)

Still, I gush a little (a lot) about my wonderful family, and all of the gifts that they brought from the States for me. I also tell him about the things that I got for them. He listens intently, smiling, and laughing, and being amazing.

We start to eat our breakfast – chocolate chip waffles, bacon, and hot cocoa. I ask about his Christmas.

He talks about the gifts that he got from his family in the mail first. So sweet. He smiles a lot, and it’s so sweet how much he loves his family.

But then he gets to the really good stuff. He tells me how he spent Christmas Eve night and Christmas day at the hotel where all three of the former members were SHARING A ROOM!

KILL ME!

It’s been a while since they’ve gotten together, he explains, so they did a lot of catching up, ate, exchanged gifts, played games.

What I wouldn’t give to have been a fly on that wall!!

I offer to show him pictures from my Christmas in the hope that he’ll reciprocate… AND HE DOES!

There are so many pictures of him with the other three, smiling and happy. Like the old days.

(KILL ME, PLEASE.)

I want to hold my feels in, but they come spewing out. “These are really so sweet,” I gush, flipping through the photos. He has a whole album dedicated to this Christmas. Ugh. “I miss these guys, to be honest.”

“I know what you mean. It’s just not the same as it used to be.”

Seriously, kill me now. Please.

“No, it’s not,” I admit, staring at a particularly sweet photo of him with Tao. Tao is clinging to him, and has his head rested over on his shoulder. I see part of Kris’ arm on the right side of the photo, so Luhan must be taking the photo. I can picture the whole thing in my mind.

It makes me sad.

“Thank you for sharing those with me,” I tell him when I finally hand his phone back to him. “It’s nice to see that you are still friends with them. Most people think that you all hate them, and vice versa.”

He shakes his head. “No one hates them, and they don’t hate us. The company is to blame for them leaving. None of the members ever wanted that.” He stares down at the last photo in his album, the one it was left on when I handed it back. It’s a photo of all four of them – selca style. Kris is holding the phone, I think. “I wish they could come back, but I know it’s not possible.”

He sounds so sad, almost in pain. I reach over slowly, and rub his back gently. He leans toward me, and rests his head on my shoulder, so I’m sort of side-hugging him.

I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.

But I’m also overwhelmed with sadness. I’m sad for Lay, sad for EXO – former and current – for all of the crap that they have to go through with SM.

And I’m saddest, because it’s the 27^th. I only have four more days with Lay before he’s gone for two months, at least. Maybe forever. Who knows if he’ll really want to text me when he comes back…

 

I’m about to leave after three hours of talking (He never does get to dancing after the photo sharing.) when he says, “I have something for you.”

I have something for him too, but I had almost chickened out about giving it to him.

“What?” I ask him.

“It’s in the studio,” he says. “I thought we would make it in there today.” He laughs, and leads me over to the studio.

The package is huge and expertly wrapped in beautiful green wrapping paper, and has a massive red bow around it.

“Did you wrap this?”

He laughs, blushes, and says, “No. The lady at the shop wrapped it for me.”

I chuckle as I carefully pull up the tape to unwrap the gift. It’s an expensive sketchbook, pencils, and a set of super expensive paint brushes. “Yixing, you really shouldn’t have,” I tell him.

He shrugs his shoulders. “I wanted to.”

I feel really bad about my gift. It’s so lame compared to his.

“I have something for you too,” I tell him. “It’s nothing so nice as this though. I feel bad. I really didn’t expect you to get me anything.”

“Don’t feel that way. I will love whatever you have for me.”

My cheeks blush, and I look down at the floor. “It’s in my bag – in the other room.”

“This wrapping is really good,” he says, admiring the red candy cane wrapping paper.

“My mom did it for me,” I admit with an embarrassed laugh.

He laughs along with me, and carefully unwraps the gift.

“A sketchbook?” he says, arching his brow at me. “I appreciate it. I don’t draw, but I can fill it with lyrics, maybe. Or I can map out dance moves.”

I cover my mouth, and laugh at how utterly adorable he is. “Maybe you should open it before you make too many plans.”

He flips the front cover up, and reads what I’ve written on the first page aloud. I’m mortified, but I don’t stop him even when it feels like my cheeks might burn right off my face.

“I have filled this sketchbook with sketches of you in the time that we’ve known each other. The first is stapled in, because it’s actually the assignment that I turned in when my teacher asked me to draw something I found beautiful.”

CRINGE.

“Your dancing is truly beautiful, Yixing. I wish you all of the best luck in the coming year. You deserve everything. Merry Christmas!”

He flips through the book, looking at each and every drawing. Some are portraits – like the assignment – while others are full body shots of him dancing. Some are just little random sketches – his legs, his feet, his arms stretched out during a particular movement.

When he looks up, I feel like digging a hole and burying myself in it.

“This is so beautiful,” he says. “Thank you so much. You were so wrong earlier. This gift is so much more than I could ever give to you.”

And he hugs me again.

I don’t know when we started this hugging thing, but who am I to protest?

 

Over the next few days, our time together lasts longer. I show up, and Lay has breakfast. We eat and talk for a couple of hours. Lay dances for three hours while I try to sketch him.

Sketching is hard to do when I'm feeling so depressed. The depression only gets worse as the days drag on, and January gets closer and closer.

After he dances, I go out and buy lunch for us. We eat and talk for hours. Sometimes three, four, five.

On December 30^th, we end up eating dinner in the studio as well, and talking until midnight. I don't know what excuse he gave the company for returning so late. I wonder if the company really cares much what he does. They certainly don't seem to care in a positive way.

New Year's Eve comes too soon. It's our last day together, and the awareness of that fact lingers around us like a shroud of darkness. I can barely eat breakfast. I force myself only because I'm eating with not-wasteful Lay.

After the food is gone, we don't clean up right away. The containers sit there as empty as I feel on the table.

We don't talk for a while either. We just sit. Lay stares at me. I can feel his eyes on me. I close my eyes, and beg them not to cry.

"I have to attend a party tonight," Lay finally says.

My eyes pop open.

If this were fanfiction, he would ask me to accompany him. He would have purchased a gorgeous dress for me that would fit me perfectly despite the fact that he doesn't know my size. We would dance until midnight at which time he would kiss me, and ask me to be his girlfriend.

This isn't fanfiction.

He tells me that it's a requirement handed down by the company. He has to go even though he would rather ring in the New Year with me.

That's a nice sentiment, but it doesn't make me feel better, really.

"I hope you'll have a good time even if you don't want to go," I tell him. And it's the truth. It probably doesn't sound like the truth, because my voice is monotone and low. But I do want him to have a good time. I want him to be happy. I even want him to have a good time in China where he'll be for two months – sixty days – in which time, he will forget all about the girl who invaded his privacy one day to get out of the rain.

"The party doesn't start until eight. I have to leave the studio at seven." He says this like he wants to say more, but doesn't know how.

We don't talk about the time we spend together, really. We just spend it. The hours drag on, and us along with them. We don't talk about it.

And so he doesn't ask, but we spend all of the time that we can together that day. He dances. I try to sketch him, but the sketches look all wrong. They're too shadowed, and Lay's limbs look twisted in ways that they shouldn't.

My heart is on those pages, I think – dark and twisted up, broken.

He doesn't ask to see what I've drawn when we sit down for dinner together. I'm glad that he never asks. I wouldn't want to show him these dark images (my heart).

I bought dinner, thankfully, and it's very little. For me, anyway. I couldn't bring myself to pick my way through a large meal. My stomach is twisted in knots.

Lay doesn't even seem very enthusiastic about eating, and he always makes a good effort.

Time is dragging us down. We have less than an hour together.

When our food is gone, we have ten minutes to go.

Ten minutes before I lose Lay possibly forever. How can I expect Lay – EXO's Lay – to remember me, or care, after two months away.

It has only been by some miracle that he cared enough to acknowledge me in the first place. Why he hasn't turned me away before now is a mystery to me.

I'm feeling so negative.

We don't talk about feelings, really. Not in regards to one another.

So, I don't tell him that I'll miss him. He doesn't say it to me. I tell myself that's not because we don't talk about feelings so much as it's because he's not feeling that.

Five minutes remain when he stands up from the tiny couch to dispose of our dinner cartons. I rush to help him, and then we remain standing.

Just standing there about foot away from one another. Neither of us saying anything, or making a move.

And then he's hugging me, and I'm crying.

Seriously. Why?

I beg myself to stop, but it doesn't work.

All those tears that I've been begging to keep their cool are over it, I guess. They come spilling out and flood the front of his shirt.

Kill me.

He hugs me tight until I can finally manage to stop blubbering like a moron.

When he lets go, he has the decency to pretend that he doesn't notice that I've just cried the Han River onto his shirt.

"I will text you when I'm back," he says.

I nod, and maintain my cool.

"Happy New Year," he adds.

And, for some reason, that makes me want to cry more than his previous statement. What is my problem?

"Happy New Year," I say in a weak voice that cracks and stumbles over the words like I’m trying to give some complicated speech in front of millions. Please.

It's seven o' clock.

Time's up.

He hugs me again, and I pray that I don't cry.

I manage to hold it in, and he releases his hold on me.

We bow.

We go our separate ways.

 

I don't leave my apartment for the next four days.

I wouldn't think about leaving on the fifth day if my roommate didn't threaten me with eviction if I didn't move my you-know-what. (She likes to use colorful language. Me, not so much.)

I haul the aforementioned "you-know-what" out of bed, shower, throw on some clothes. Nothing that could really be called "cute." She said I had to leave the house, not that I had to look awesome while I was doing it.

Puffy coat, oversized EXO sweatshirt (I like to torture myself), gray sweats, TOMS slip-ons.

No rings, same studs from four days ago. Hair down and doing its own thing.

I leave the apartment with just my little cross body bag. I don’t need the backpack. I haven’t sketched in days.

I set out in search for a place of comfort, and I end up at the coffee shop. Soo Young greets me, but doesn’t ask why I haven’t been in lately. I assume that my roommate has stopped by and filled her in on my boy-induced depression. My roommate doesn’t know that it was Lay, but after Day Two of moping, I had to tell her something. Nameless boy broke my heart. End of story.

I’m grateful when Soo Young doesn’t pressure me to talk much. She just makes my mocha with a little extra whip, and offers me a chocolate chip muffin free of charge.

I tip her enough to cover the cost of the muffin, and leave quickly. Her hospitality is making me feel sad, for some reason.

The air outside is biting. I walk with my back to the wind, and devour my muffin quickly. I haven’t eaten much since Lay left.

It might sound pathetic, but I’m pretty sure I fell in love with him. Aren’t we all half in love with our biases anyway?

I sip my hot coffee, and keep walking. I walk and walk without really knowing where I’m going. It’s like my legs are on autopilot, and, before I know it, I’m at the door to the studio building.

Why am I here?

Lay isn’t here. The door is probably even locked.

I stare at the door for a few seconds, remembering the first day that I ran in here without thinking. Somehow, it feels like it was yesterday and a million years ago all at the same time.

I’m remembering what it felt like to creep down the hallway, and find him in the studio when it suddenly starts to rain. Without thinking, I grab the doorknob.

By some miracle, the door opens, and I dash inside. I slide to the floor just inside the door, and sit there for a moment just like I did the first time that I came here. The atmosphere feels so much different knowing that he isn’t here.

A tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it away. I don’t have time for that. I haul myself to my feet, and stand there for a moment, contemplating my next move.

Should I leave? There’s nothing here for me.

But it’s raining. I don’t want to go back out into the cold rain.

With a sigh, I turn and walk down the hallway toward the studio. I walk slowly, not wanting to see the darkened studio. Another reminder that he’s gone – as if I could forget.

I’m almost to the double doors when I notice something that makes me pick up the pace.

There’s a white envelope taped to the doors when I finally reach them. My name is scrawled across the front of it. My heart skips a beat, and I tear the envelope off the door.

I rip it open, and pull out the folded letter inside.

               I foolishly thought that you would show up today. I don’t know why I thought that. You had no reason to show up. How could you know that I would even come here before my flight?

               I don’t even know if this letter will ever reach you. It might still be hanging on the door when I come back in two months. I’m leaving it anyway, in the hope that you’ll come by. I don’t know why you would.

               Maybe you’ll miss me.

               I haven’t even left yet. My flight is still three hours away, and, already, I miss our mornings.

               I’m not good with words, and feelings. I should have told you this though. I should have told you last night that I will miss you so much. I should have told you that our mornings, our afternoons, nights – the talks, sketches, you watching me dance. It’s been the best part of my day for these past few months.

               You’ve been the best part of my day for months.

               I hope that you’ll come back when I return. I hope that we’ll have our mornings again.

               I hope that we’ll have more than just the mornings.

               Please text me. Call me.

               I hope you find this letter, because I don’t know if I can find the courage to text you, to call you.

               I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to even leave this on the door.

               I miss you.

                              -Yixing

My eyes fill with tears, and I cover my mouth with the hand not clutching Lay’s beautiful letter.

I stand like that, crying quietly, for several minutes before I start to laugh. It’s a small chuckle at first, but soon it’s full blown laughter echoing down the hallway, and all around me.

How stupid we were to hide our feelings! All of the things we should have said to each other instead of keeping them inside, and leaving notes that the other might never find.

I fold the letter and start to shove it back into the envelope when I realize that there’s another smaller piece of paper inside. I pull it out and there’s a short message scribbled on it.

               I decided to leave a key behind for you. I thought you might want to come here to sketch. You might enjoy the solitude. Maybe it will help if you’re missing me. The key is under the place where we always sat to eat together.

               -Yixing

I put both notes back into the envelope, and trot into the little nook where we enjoyed so many meals together. I feel around under the couch until my hand hits the key that’s been taped to the underside of it. I pull it out, and head toward the front entrance of the building.

It’s stopped raining, and the sun is shining when I step out of the building. I lock up, slip the key into my purse, and take out my phone.

My thumb hovers over the little “call” button beside Lay’s name in my contacts.

I press it quickly while my courage is at an all-time high of about 80%.

He answers on the third ring:

“You found the letter.”