I walked into the choir room, bleary-eyed. I HATE Wednesdays. Next to Tuesdays. Which is probably next to Mondays.

Okay, I really hate Thursdays, because they feel like Fridays but they aren’t, but the sleeping zombie curse came early this week.

“Hey Sonya.” I blinked to see Kris sitting on the ground. “Are you okay?” His grin seemed to be restraining himself from laughing as he studied from his calc textbook.

“Oh, yeah.” I rubbed my eyes. “Just lack of sleep and caffeine.” Don’t try to convince me coffee will be a life saver. That gunk belongs in the same category as the noxious flavor of alcohol.

As I sat down, Jonghyun and his friends surged towards the choir folder case. The same friends who had been with him when I put the first post-it note with a clue about my name. I opened my history textbook, trying to study.

Kris nudged me. “What time period do you have for your test?”

“World War 1.”

“Ahh. The Zimmerman Telegram. Where Mexico was promised back Texas.”

“I do feel kinda bad for them for losing that part of them.”

We fell back into an amicable silence, but I eyed the guys near Onew’s folder.

They had taken the third note out and were laughing it.

I almost saw red. I looked down at my textbook and tried to focus at the words that swirled at my eyes.

“So, Sonya, do you know who wrote this?” Jonghyun stood in front of me as the bell rang.

Those words haunted me for the rest of the week. Enough for me to write poems during math again.

Your Friends

It’s amazing.

Amazing how your friend could fill every crevice in this school.

And to tell the truth,

It scares me.

If I tell you the truth,

A secret I have wrapped my heart around fifty times over and some more,

How much will it kill me?

I should have known that

“loving” you would be this dangerous.

That you were actually untouchable, not just my heart saying so.

As they say in many dreams, memories, stories,

Even if you humble enough to stand before my eyes,

I would never be worthy because being myself means being uncomfortable

Uncomfortable among the strangers that are you friends.

I know they probably care, which is why they’ve seen every letter

That was penned with my hand with hopes and dreams

That’s I’ve written just for you.

And they read behind your back,

“just for you”.

My life could be torn by the very mouths that care so much.

Gossip.

The enemy I fear and employ.

Is it scandalous that I am too afraid to open my mouth?

That only words on a page that speak to you, and not my voice?

It’s true that everyone can hear.

But what will happen when I actually speak?