“…and I am VERY proud of you!” Nana jumped in my lap and squealed at full volume.

“Calm down, sissy,” I tugged her off me, “I’m still under the shock.”

“Did he kiss you?” she poked me, “did he, did he?”

I shook my head, and went to fetch myself a mug of coffee. A part of me was melting at the thought of going to a party with a guy like Yoochun, but the other was scolding me of doing so. It was like getting caught between the inner angel and demon of me: not cool.

“We’ll have to choose you a dress to fit that hot body of yours,” teased Nana.

“Are you going to it?” I asked, ignoring her previous statement.

“Hell yeah, sister, I already planned my whole night!” she replied arrogantly, flipping that gorgeous hair of hers as she claims.

And for the whole night, I sat in the living room, away from Nana’s thunderous snores, and pondered about stuff that happened during the day. I recalled the conversation we had in the detention room, and everything he said was clear and untouched in my head. He made me feel comfortable the way I was, unlike other guys I attempted to be with. Maybe I could learn to like him, or even love him in the future.

I smiled satisfyingly, and got up to go to bed.

You know that feeling you get, when the present seems to go by so slowly, yet the past seemed to have occurred so quickly, and the future lies way ahead from your reach. A few weeks passed by, and it was already the time for the dance.

“You should take the purple one, purple is for royalty,” suggested Nana from a pile of on-sale dresses.

“Why not the black one, it’s cheaper,” I said as I picked up a sleeveless black silk dress.

“No, it doesn’t match with you.”

“Well neither does the purple one.”

“…you really at shopping, do you?”

“…no, I don’t.”

 Finally, we settled on a silver one, sleeveless, with matching heels.

“How are you planning to do your hair?” mumbled Nana while nibbling a piece of pita bread.

It was Saturday, and we went shopping for the dance necessities. At noon, we were completely exhausted, and sat at a café for a quick brunch.

“Just… let it down… I’m not doing a perm of whatsoever.”

“Aw… no… tie it in a butterfly braid.”

“Which will take about one hour or so, and five minutes to get it messed up?”

“…”

She asked the same thing about makeup, manicure, and pedicure the next three hours. I yelled at her, and, finally, she shut up for good.