Taeyong

            I stand in front of my car as I watch the girl stomp away, Ten following after her. I stand there in a disarray. What the hell just happened? The sounds of cars driving by whisk by taking my sanity with them. This day has been one malfunction after another.

            The memory of walking back to my desk after being slapped in the face is burned into my memory. Jaehyun was trying to hold back his laughter, but Johnny and Yuta didn’t seem to care at all.

            As soon as I sat down WinWin reached his hand over to my cheek. “Are you ok? She slapped you really good.” It was this that made Jaehyun burst into laughter. I leaned away from WinWin’s hand folding my arms across my chest.

            Johnny’s voice was barely able to get past his stifled laughing. “What happened to winning?”

            Yuta cooed in my direction as well, treating me like an injured puppy. Their teasing only made me groan. “Whatever, I’m still going to win. Just wait, I’m sure I can make her crack.”

            Despite how I said that then. Here I am now, standing in front of my car parked at the entrance of the crosswalk, stupefied by how stubborn this girl can be. In my imagination, she was supposed to have been in my arms the moment I put my jacket around her shoulders.

            She would wrap her arms around me, and look up with adoration in her eyes. “Taeyong…” Her voice would whisper, because even saying my name would make her blush. “Taeyong…”

            “Taeyong, what are you doing?” A voice from inside the car brings me back to the harsh reality I’m living in. This game would not be as simple as I originally thought.

           With a huff of my breath, I trudge back to the car door. I throw myself inside. “It’s nothing.” I respond a bitter tinge to my voice.

           Doyoung looks up from his textbook, which is neatly laid out on his lap. His eyes study me for a moment. “You know you’re a liar.”

            I scoff. “Just because you get good grades doesn’t mean you know everything.”

          My response forces his eyebrows to raise. He suddenly reaches forward, and rips something off my forehead. “I don’t need to know everything when you have evidence literally stuck to your forehead.” His hand lets the sticky note, the girl had slammed onto my forehead, float down to my thigh.

           It reads back, Cho Miran. “Ah, so that is her name.” I murmur, for a moment, forgetting Doyoung’s presence in the car.

            “Why are you so interested in Miran suddenly? You never even knew she existed before today.” Doyoung’s voice presses me for answers. It is in his nature to want to know everything.

           Even though I can feel his steady gaze on me I look out the window. “Don’t concern yourself with it. It’s my life.”

           His voice is stern in response, but not in a stoic way. He has this way of lecturing me, despite how we are the same age. “Even if it’s your life. We are going to be associates with each other in the future when we take over our parents’ companies. How your life goes could very well affect mine.”

            Yes, the partnership that forever sealed our friendship. Without either of our consent.

            I recall when I was in Elementary school, and my parents introduced me to Doyoung. He was shorter than me back then, and not as polished looking as he is now. His parents are the CEO’s of one of the largest, if not the largest, advertisement company in Korea.

            My parents befriended, and eventually, became business associates with Doyoung’s parents. All to benefit the future of our company, and since then it definitely did. Our parents know that the partnership of their companies is an undefeatable force in the industry.

            So, to continue that relationship Doyoung and I have been constantly force fed with the concept of friendship since childhood. Every day my driver drives Doyoung home, because his parents refuse to burden us with having to drive him to school too when they have their own drivers.

            If you don’t want to burden us, then why have us drive him at all? I often think.

           Despite my hesitance to all of this, Doyoung never seems to mind. He always treats me as a friend, although we don’t really talk at school all the time. I have my friends, and he has his. We are like two different people, with different interests and values, yet he has never treated me as anything, but a friend.

            That’s the thing about Doyoung. I could never find something to truly dislike about him. I couldn’t even find a sliver of a reason to hate him. The logical reaction I should have is to be his friend. Yet I find myself trying hard not to be, because if there is one thing I hate, it is that this friendship is just another fabrication of my parents’ design.

            The driver comes up to the large steel gates of Doyoung’s house. He packs his textbook away, and like he does every day, says thank you to the driver before stepping out of the car.

            I’ve had my eyes glued to my phone for almost the entire ride, as a method of avoiding conversation. However, even though he has stepped out of the car I don’t hear any sounds of departure from him.

            My eyes peek above the peaceful solitude of my phone screen, and I see his back. He hasn’t moved at all since leaving the car. “Taeyong.” His voice abruptly pierces the space between us.

            He turns around, as if he knows I am looking at him. “Don’t do anything you are going to regret later.” His voice says simply, and just as effortlessly, he smiles at me before waving and taking his leave.

            The door shuts and I am left alone for the car ride home, alone with stupid thoughts Doyoung has put into my head. My eyes shift down to the sticky note left in my lap, Cho Miran.

            My fingertips rub against the dents her handwriting has left in the paper. A part of me knows the game could have its consequences. What if I lose, and have to tell the entire school?

            Her face then reappears in my mind. The way her eyes looked at me with such disdain, and disgust. The walls of my heart cave in ever so slightly at the memory, causing a tight discomforting feeling in my chest.

            I crumple the paper into a ball. My fist has completely absorbed the paper by this point. A surge of determination jolts through my body. No, I definitely won’t lose. I won’t lose to you, Cho Miran.

Miran

            It has been close to a week since Taeyong has started acting weird around me. Perhaps weird isn’t the right word for it, although, I’m not sure what would be the perfect description. It is like he is a completely different person.

            Or at least, that’s what he pretends to be.

           At first, after the initial day this all started, I came the next day to class and found a bouquet of flowers resting on my desk. Attached to the flowers was a note.

            To Cho Miran, please accept my apology for forgetting someone as unforgettable as you. From, Lee Taeyong.

           The forced sincerity in the letter practically oozed off the note. My face couldn’t help, but distort in distaste. I looked up to see Taeyong casually looking out the window. Pretending like he didn’t care whether I noticed the gift or not. His light pink hair looked almost blonde in the sunlight.

            How can someone be so dramatic? I groaned as I paced across the room to drop the bouquet on top of his desk. The thud seemed to “catch his attention”, but to be honest he isn’t a very good actor. “I can’t accept this.”

            I ignored how his friends all made noisy reactions to my words. Taeyong looked up at me as if I had disturbed him from his train of thought, I’m sure he was pretending to have. “It’s my gift to you, as an apology for my immature actions yesterday.”

            This made me scoff. Just immature actions? “I don’t like flowers as a gift. They end up dying anyways.” I made up anything, just so I wouldn’t have to accept the flowers.

             His hands fold on top of the desk space in front of him, as he painted a smile across his face. “It’s not about accepting the flowers. I hope you can accept my apology.”

             “Well, I don’t accept that either.” I proclaimed before escaping from him, and his circle of friends. I hate seeing him smile, and hate is a strong word, but every time I have seen his smile it always feels synthetic.

             A perfectly trained smile to attract people to him.

            Despite my rejection, the entire week he continued to send gifts my way. I look in my desk for my notebook, and I find a box of chocolates sitting in there. Not the cheap off the shelf kind either. The kind I would see in catalogs, and aspire to one day buy.

           Sweets for a sweetie like you. At one point, he didn’t even have to leave his name at the end of the messages, because I already knew who the addresser was.

            Ten and I returned from lunch another day to see multiple Grade A box lunches stacked on top of my desk. On the classroom board in large letters was written: I hope you ate today. Please forgive me.

            “Wow, isn’t this a bit much? How many gifts have you gotten from that guy this week?” Ten laughed in disbelief, but he continued to take his seat behind me.

            I stood still and stared between the lunch boxes and board. “I think this guy may actually be insane. Either that, or he really has a lot of time on his hands.”

            The various gifts never let up. Throughout the next few days I kept discovering one present after another, all of them worth more than the pay I get from my part time job. All of the gifts ended up being returned though. Even being offered those gifts, nonetheless possibly keeping them, is overwhelming. Yet, the part that deters me the most is that this is his way of getting forgiveness.

             It is Thursday now, and I stand under the awning at the front of the school. Rain pours down from the sky, and I watch as the ground continues to shift to darker shades of colors as it dampens. Ah, the news did say there was a chance of rain. I didn’t think it would start now though…

            Ten had to go home early today because he was feeling sick. Probably from the sudden weather change. I sigh as I stare out. “Well, that .”

            “I know if only someone had an umbrella.” A voice suddenly is next to me.

            I jump at the abrupt, unexpected voice. When I turn to look to my side I see Taeyong staring back at me with the same smile that he uses on everyone. “Lucky for you, I brought one!” He then conveniently whips out an umbrella from his bag.

            He triumphantly opens it, and leans it in my direction. “Shall we? I mean you didn’t bring your umbrella today… So, we might as well share it.”

            “Don’t you have someone to drive you home?” My eyebrows furrow.

            “Ah!” He suddenly exclaims. “That’s because I wanted to exercise.” He nudges me, which makes me take a step away from him in confusion. Despite my reaction he smiles down at me. “I noticed you were here too, and I didn’t want you to walk home in the rain.”

            I can’t help, but laugh at this. Does this guy not get it? “I have an umbrella. I’m not stupid enough to not check the weather.” A frown creases his face as I pull out the umbrella I have tucked inside my backpack. “Please just leave me alone.”

           His mouth opens, but closes again. I don’t stay behind either to see if he would find his words. People like Lee Taeyong always have something to say, and expect you to listen to them. So much, that when someone for once refuses to listen they don’t know what to say anymore.

           My key unlocks the front door to the apartment I call home, and as soon as I twist the door knob open I hear footsteps hammer down the hallway. However, it is a short hallway.

           “Miran!” A voice I recognize yells. Before I can open the door completely someone on the other end beats me to it. I see my youngest brother Jisung. “You’re home!”

           Even though he is only a first year in middle school he is a whole head and a half taller than me. He wraps his long arms around me and carries me in. I laugh pinching his cheeks. “Hey, put me down. I have to get dressed for work.”

           “Aw, what about dinner?” He pouts.

           I peel away from him, and make sure to close the front door. “If I don’t go to work then we won’t have money for dinner. Besides, I brought you guys those lunch boxes home. There should still be extra ones left over.”

           I couldn’t return the lunch boxes. That is food and something like that could be put to good use. So I told myself it was ok to bring them home for my brothers.

           Another voice from down our short hallway calls out to me. “Where did you get those from? There’s no way your cheap bought something that expensive.”

           Haechan, the middle child of my family stands at the end of the hall with his arms across his chest. Out of my two younger brothers if Jisung is an angel, Haechan is the trouble maker. He always picks a fight with me.

            “Hey, just be grateful for the good food. Don’t worry about where it came from.” I sneer at him, but when I look at him I still feel the urge to make sure he is taken care of.

            I have taken my shoes off and continue to tear down the hall so I can get changed fast. Haechan catches my arm with his hand. He has a concerned look on his face, but when I hear the over exaggerated drama in his voice I know he is being sarcastic.

            “Please don’t tell me, to get the food, you…” He looks down at my body, which spells everything out for me.

            I groan and pull away from him. “Oh my god, where did you even learn things like that from?”

           He follows me to my room at the end of the hall. “I’m a third year in middle school Miran. Next year, I’ll be in high school.”

           Quickly, I throw on my work clothes. Haechan yells. “Ah! Warning please!”

           I’m changed by this point, and shake my head as I walk past him covering his eyes with his hands. I flick his forehead. “What was that about being in high school next year?”

           He winces, but continues to follow me around. “At least I’m taller than you.”

           I scoff as we enter the kitchen. Jisung looks up from the kitchen table where he is doing his homework. “Jisung is taller than you.”

           Haechan collapses into the seat next to Jisung. His face twists in offense. “How could you say that? Jisung is two years younger than me. He still has a baby face, and mine is matured. Height doesn’t matter.”

           I smile at how defensive he gets. He always gets this way when I bring up Jisung’s height. To be honest, Haechan always is just blowing off hot steam. Deep down he is just a kid. Maybe that’s why I want to take care of him, despite his attitude.

           “You’re right. Jisung is cute, but you’re handsome.” I pat his head after packing my dinner.

           “Gross!” Haechan fixes his hair.

           “Anyways, I’ll be home later so don’t stay up late. You have school tomorrow.”

           “You do too, idiot.” Haechan mutters. “You shouldn’t be staying up late either.”

           I look down to see how he tries to hide the expression on his face by keeping his focus on the table. Ah, he can be cute too when he is like this. I lean into him with a sly smile. “Was that worrying I heard just now?”

           “No, it wasn’t! Ugly!” He yells back.

           “Whatever.” I say simply, but my heart feels light.

           “Miran, have you heard from mom and dad?” Jisung’s voice pops the comfortable bubble of the room. He gazes up from his homework, and his eyes look at me hopefully.

           The mention of our parents causes my chest to constrict. I see how Haechan looks up at me as well. I’m unable to hold their staring, and let my eyes escape to the refrigerator. “They haven’t talked to me recently.”

           My eyes spare a glance in their direction. Their faces fall. “Oh.” Jisung’s hand flattens his papers along the kitchen table.

           I hate this conversation. “I’m sure they are working hard to earn money though!” I