I should have known that Ms. Jung was a hopeless romantic. Of course, she’d thought of herself as a matchmaker for her students in her Intro to Engineering class, even when the last person I’d ever think of being a hopeless romantic is an engineering professor.

Now that I’m looking at the said woman as I’m sitting across her on her orange loveseat in her office, I realize that she’d always had an air of ditz around her, to begin with. For the whole of the first semester in my university life, Ms. Jung had sported a dark orange permed hair. That should have been the first clue. All the other clues were scattered throughout the rest of the semester, like her coming to class in a full-blown Victorian costume during Halloween because she said she’s too lazy to go home and change for a party she’s going to attend that night, and her sending personal e-mails to the whole class with a Starbucks voucher code attached in every single one of them to apologize for not being able to come to class that day because she had an appointment with a well-acclaimed tarot reader that she couldn’t miss.

“You must think I’m crazy,” Ms. Jung smiles, completing my train of thought, walking towards me with a cup of steaming hot tea in her hands. I try not to frown at her choice of beverage when it’s clearly scorching hot outside—we’re right in the middle of July.

“Kind of,” I answer truthfully, returning her smile with one of my own, although it might come out as a grimace. Ms. Jung had just told me that Minseok and I’s first meeting in university eight years ago wasn’t an encounter created perfectly by chance—she’d orchestrated the happening of our group project on our first week in university just because she thought that we “looked cute together”. Her reason, for what she’d done, is because she is a hopeless romantic.

I feel a little out of my element now that I’ve learned the truth to my meeting with Minseok. What I thought had been the product of the magical hands of fate herself for all these years turned out to be the handiwork of my cuckoo engineering professor.

“Well, you remember that blonde girl who used to come to class late your whole first semester in uni? She’s your senior—her name’s Krystal Jung by the way, if you were wondering. God, what a pretty name—” she stops to take a sip from her mug, “she came back last year to thank me for making her meet her husband. I had paired with her now-husband on a project too! Exciting, right?”

I don’t know if I feel like crying or laughing or doing both altogether. It’s hard for me to stay seated in her chair and continue to nod along to her antics when the insides of my stomach feel like it’s been put inside a blender that’s been blasted on high mode.

“Sure,” I reply, now looking at her with newfound indifference. I realize now that technically, she is the mastermind that created this life of misery I’m currently living in.

“With your case, though, it was a little harder to pull off. You’d been so quiet and Minseok was a smartass—I almost thought that you guys were probably not meant for each other. But then I saw how both of you answered your essay questions and it was so similar! Even before knowing each other. That’s when I knew.”

She smiles. Her eyes disappear into crescent moons and her wrinkles become more apparent. It doesn’t reach me.

“That day before class started I had e-mailed everyone to come fifteen minutes earlier and made a girl sit on the chair Minseok used to sit in. So, both of you were inclined to sit next to each other and—voila! Instant partners for the project. I remember seeing both of you together out of classes after the semester ended and assumed my masterplan worked. Tell me now, dear, how are things with him?”

I look at her straight in the eye. “Things are fine. Minseok is already married to another girl a couple of years ago, though.”

The shock that colors her face gives me a sense of satisfaction, but then that quickly goes away the look on her face turns into one of sadness. The sickness I felt inside my stomach is immediately replaced by a seed of guilt.

“Oh,” Ms. Jung deflates, failing in trying to make herself look not disappointed, “I must’ve overstepped my boundaries as usual, didn’t I? I’m sorry for all the babbling, I do it all the time. Even—”

“It’s fine,” I cut her with a smile on my face, the guilt making it hard for me to listen to the sound of her voice growing sad and sadder because of my lie, “let’s just get to why I’m here in the first place.” I force myself to chuckle. It comes off as awkward more than anything else, because now it seems like I’m cutting her mid-sentence because I’m annoyed at her.

“Right, yes. Of course—silly me. What did you want to meet me for, dear? Is it for a recommendation letter? Because if it is, I’ll gladly write one for you,” she significantly beams. I chuckle at her words, and this time, it’s a real chuckle.

“It’s been years since I graduated university—I think that having a recommendation letter now is a little too late for me, no?” she blushes at my statement, and it seems like the more I try to make lighthearted conversation, the more I make her feel uncomfortable. I feel like bashing my head at the fact that I’m visibly upsetting a forty-year-old woman with every word I say.

“Anyway!” I clasp my hands together for added effect in hopes of getting rid of the awkwardness for good with my now upbeat attitude, “I’m here because my assistant took a sick leave today, and your nephew had personally asked me to come here and get your measurements for his wedding. Since you had been uncontactable.”

Confusion runs through her face. I can practically see the gears in her head turning, reconstructing my sentence over and over again, trying to make sense of what the hell did I just say. She takes a seat next to me without ever breaking eye contact, brows furrowed, and her expression stretches into something along the lines of “what the ?”. I send her a reassuring grin.

“Sorry but did I… did I hear this right? My nephew is going to get married? Which nephew are you talking about—and why would you be the one they send here to get my measurements?” she asks politely as she settles her mug onto the coffee table next to us. Again, without breaking eye contact even once.

“Um, Baekhyun? Byun Baekhyun? He’s getting married and he said his parents had tried to contact you, but you were unreachable. When he found out that I used to