“English language, my .
When you kiss me, my syntax hits
the wall across the room and shatters
in shards of words that scatter
across the floor.”

―Shinji Moon, The Anatomy of Being

In the few days after The Kiss That Changed Everything, but My Mind is relentless, and Joanne is merciless. They won’t allow me any peace. Everywhere I go, My Mind likes to set reminders that My Lips touched Junmyeon’s Lips. Meanwhile, Joanne is herself. Meaning, she’s the dictionary definition of obnoxious, and her shoulders always nudge mine with suggestive undertones. Additionally, I don’t have to see to know that she’s also obnoxiously raising and wiggling her eyebrows at every moment she can. She doesn’t even call Junmyeon by his name around me. It’s always “your boyfriend.” What makes is bad is that I can’t even get mad because it’s true. The only thing I can get frustrated at is Joanne’s constant thoughts.

She thinks that I’m never up to any good. It doesn’t help that Junmyeon seems to enjoy seeing Joanne tease me on the subject of him.

It doesn’t matter, though. They’re happy, so I’m happier.

When he has the chance, he makes the effort to come see me even if it’s just for a few minutes, and he always leaves a kiss upon my body. Notice that word. Body. But also take note of the other word. Kiss. In this world, it’s not exactly common knowledge, but there are other ways to kiss a person. A mouth is the prime place to give and receive kisses, but once again, that is not the only place. For example, he kisses me with his hand, and I receive these kisses with my own. A hug. A kiss with the body. A hand held. A kiss with the hand. A joke. A kiss with the mind. The best kisses aren’t the ones in between lips; they are in between spaces that don’t feel like spaces because a mutual feeling bridges distance in multiple planes.

So, he’s kissing me now.

It’s Saturday morning—one week and one day after The Kiss, and we’re on his bedroom floor since his bed isn’t big enough. In fact, his entire apartment isn’t big enough. While it makes it so much easier to navigate, it’s also much easier to run into something unwittingly. But it makes it a little more enjoyable. More cozy. It smells like air freshener everywhere, and every spot can double as a nook for listening to an audiobook comfortably. Though, I have to remember that Junmyeon’s door is the first door in the corridor and not the second or third.

Junmyeon lives with two of his friends in order to cut down on costs—so he can study full time. One of them is called “Sehun” while the other is “Jongdae.” Apparently, they’re both out of town, so I have yet to meet them. Not that it matters. It allows for more freedom. Just me and Junmyeon. Together. On the floor of his bedroom. Playing Our Book Game.

My head is on his torso, and the rise and fall of his stomach is slow—except for when he laughs, and the movement becomes jagged and laden with vibrations. His hands are in my hair, through the locks and detangling the tangles. These little motions make tingles jog through my scalp, and it’s a ticklish, relaxing feeling. Every so often, he glides a hand down from my head to my shoulder, and he hums a gentle command. It’s a beautiful way of saying he wants my hand in his. Of course, it’s a given that I oblige, so I lift my hand up to his, and his swallow mine up, squeezing tenderly. After a few minutes of hand-holding, he releases his grip, satisfied with the contact. But since he’s him, he’ll be back in another few minutes.

His books must lay around us in a million different piles, but I only know about the current one in my hand.

“Am I on page 152?” I ask Junmyeon, and his core tightens under my head as he lifts himself up slightly.

“Close. You’re on page 174.”

“Is the first word on the page ‘wonderous’?”

“No, it’s amazing.”

“Hey, they’re synonyms,” I remark. “So, this book feels really heavy. Is it non-fiction? Autobiography? Biography?” Junmyeon doesn’t answer, so I sit up and tap along his stomach. “Jun? Hello?” My hands feel for his arm where they trail to his shoulders and then to his soft cheeks. Those are the squishiest cheeks my hands have ever felt, and they’re comparable to buns with custard fillings. “Hello?”

“Hm,” he murmurs, “sorry.” His voice is groggy, and it’s a shame that it has only come to my attention now.

“Are you still tired from your exams?” My fingertips move over to his soft locks of hair that Joanne describes as jet-black and that the owner himself calls raven. On the weekends, he says he doesn’t style his hair, so it’s flatter, and he allows me the joy of running my hands through it without restriction.

“Very,” he slurs even those two syllables. “I want to sleep for the next decade.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My heart falls at the mention of his tiredness. “We didn’t have to play this game if you were that tired.”

“It makes you happy,” he whispers through his fatigue, “and I like seeing you happy.”

“That doesn’t mean you should sacrifice your own well-being,” I mutter shyly. “Go to your bed and get some rest. You need it. I’ll go.”

“No,” he whines, and he pulls on the wrist that still lies on his stomach. “I need you too.”

“Junmyeon,” I laugh, “you’re a sweetheart, you know that, right? But you don’t need to be like this. I can tell that you’re tired. Really tired. You want to sleep, and that’s completely fine. I get it. So, why don’t you just let me go?”

“Sleep with me.” He ignores everything I just said. “Please?”

My hand stops running through his hair, and they lay in those soft tresses for a moment.

“Okay,” I agree. “But we’re not going to fit on your bed.”

“Then let’s sleep on the floor,” he proposes a compromise. “I always clean the floor, so you can get my blanket, and we can have all the room we need.”

“Are you sure? Won’t that bother your back?”

“I actually prefer to sleep on flat surfaces.”

With the discovery of a new idiosyncrasy, I my way towards his bed which is fortunately very close. Still, stepping over books is a hazard. Although Junmyeon has a small apartment which is already shared with two other people, he sure has a lot of books. While it may be attributed to the fact that he’s also a med student with several textbooks and books related to his field, his library feels more massive than the one I have in audiobooks. Nevertheless, I grab his comforter, pull it off, and bring it back to where he lays—nearly tripping over his hips.

“Careful,” he breathes, “I’m softer than you think.”

“Should I attest to that?” I tease, trying to put the comforter over us evenly.

“Attest to it all you want.”

Junmyeon, when he’s sleepy, is quiet. Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? Of course, he’s quiet. But when he’s tired like this, he doesn’t run his mouth with insecurity. His words come and go and come and go in the same way clouds do. There’s no second-guessing, and it’s all shrugs. Like clouds, his words are pronounced softer, and they merely fade out when he’s finished with a sentence.

As the sound of his breathing fills the air, I lay down beside him in the closets way possible—nearly on top of him. Our legs have become vines, intertwining and tangling. He extends one arm outwards so that his shoulder becomes my pillow. In this position, he really is much softer. While this is not physically true in the literal sense, his aura of Junmyeon-ness dilates and subdues. The way he breathes is the velvet grace of a ballerina. The way he even smells is the crisp scent of freshly washed linen—just pulled and still warm from a dryer.  The way he pulls me closer when we’re already close to begin with is the satisfaction of pulling your face up to a crackling fire after spending time in snow.

He becomes vulnerable. We become vulnerable. Now, this is both physically and mentally true. When a person sleeps, they tell no lies, and the way they sleep tells more about them than when they’re awake.

My right hand lays over his slow-to-rise, slow-to-fall chest. It’s right over his heart, actually, and the beats are much like his breathing. They’re not at all fast, but they’re strong. The-bass-at-a-Rolling-Stones-concert strong. It makes it so much harder not to tap my fingers against it, against it, against it—

This isn’t a good idea. Junmyeon needs his sleep. So, I stretch my neck and leave a kiss on his jaw—a silent bid for sugary dreams to draw themselves in his mind. The bid is instantaneously won because after that kiss, his heart begins to race, and it doesn’t return to normal until after a good five minutes.

- - - - -

The day before his graduation or a week after sleeping on the floor, Junmyeon invites me over to his apartment for a “surprise,” he says. However, once he’s led me into the kitchen and instructed me to wear an apron, he’s quick to leave and confuse me.

“Jun,” I call out to him, “what are we doing?”

“We’re going to cook. What else?” he replies. His voice nears me, and he leaves a light kiss atop the tip of my nose. “You look so cute in my apron.” My face must have contorted on its own because he laughs and kisses my forehead next. “Even cuter when you make that face.”

“I can’t cook,” I explain as pots begin to clank against each other. “It’s literally the most unsafe thing you can do. I mean, a blind person and stoves that can catch fire? You’d have to be pretty dumb to put those two things together.”

“Good thing I’m not putting them together. Don’t worry, okay? I’ll take care of the flammable stuff.” A wooden utensil—a stirring spoon—is placed in my hand. Junmyeon takes my hands and wraps them around the handle. “Hold on to this.”

“Why are we even doing—”

“I talked to Joanne about you.”

This narrative has found its ending. Junmyeon? Joanne? Talking to each other? Yes, it’s the end. The apocalypse is now. The end of the universe. The end! Because when your boyfriend talks to your guardian/parental figure about you, it’s over.

“Oh?” My voice trembles, but Junmyeon doesn’t question it.

“She said that you were the most talented chef she knew. Every day of your life, starting from when you could use a measuring spoon, you were always cooking.” Pots clink and clank as he says this, and while the kitchen is small, his voice moves from area to area. “When you were eight, you made a brownie recipe. While she said it wasn’t very good, it was amazing for an eight-year-old. Coincidentally, you remade the recipe over the years, and now it’s my favorite of yours.”

“Favorite of mine? You mean, you’ve—” I swallow the lumps in my throat, suddenly feeling it close up. “You’ve tried my other stuff? Oh god. Please don’t tell me you tried the custard bun. Oh my, god—”

“Everything tasted beautiful,” he reassures me by placing a hand on my shoulder, “don’t worry. Why are you so insecure about stuff like that?”

“Because it can be better,” I sigh. “I can’t revise those old recipes in the way I want, and it drives me up the wall that I can’t.”

“What are you talking about? Revision? You could always just ask someone to help you. Not that it matters. You don’t need to change anything. They taste wonderful. Now, Joanne also told me you made great spaghetti—which is what we’re going to make.”

“Well, Joanne lied to you.”

“Well, she also showed me that picture of you winning first place in a cooking contest for your spaghetti.”

“That’s photoshopped.”

“Sunhee,” Junmyeon stops moving around the kitchen and places both hands on my shoulders, “why do you keep doubting yourself? It’s cooking we