It's March, and the start of spring.

The world outside Hana High is a blue haze; cool, filled with students and parents and crawling cars and lightly sprinkling rain.

I speed-walk toward the train depot, which is five minutes' walking distance from my school. My sister had picked Hana High precisely because of this. I make it just in time. I wheeze my way into the train. I spy two empty seats. I squeeze into the one at the window, leaving the aisle seat empty. I dump my backpack at my feet, and close my eyes. A minute later, I feel a shift in the air. The seat next to me groans; someone has sat down next to me. The doors slide close, and the train starts to move.

The train is filled with students. They chat with each other in low voices, peppered with occasional laughs, catching up on news they have missed out on during the long holidays.

I open my eyes. By reflex I look at the seat next to me, and then away.

Then again.

Then away.

It's him.

Na Jaemin.

I can't believe it.

Three times in a single day, he and I have crossed paths. What are the chances?

My heart starts to pound.

I sneak a peek at him under my eyelashes, taking in the long patrician nose, the sculpted cheekbones, the way his pale hair flops around his face.

He's staring down at his phone, a hand curled around it, the other running distractedly through that silky-soft hair. It's longish, the ends grazing the collar of his white shirt. The blue tips fascinate me. What do you call this shade of blue? Baby blue? Glacier blue? Ice blue? I smile to myself. It's a relief he can't read my mind. He'd be shocked at me obsessing over his hair colour.

He hasn't even glanced at me. Not once.

His eyes are shielded beneath his thick long lashes.

I remember those eyes: liquorice-black, pinpricks of silver dancing at the edges...

Stop, Aera. Do not go there.

I need to focus.

I reach down and pull out a bag of peanut M&Ms from my backpack. It's already open, I munched a few secretly this morning to keep myself from drowsing through Math.

The train suddenly jerks, and I am flung to the side. My bag of M&Ms flies out of my grip, and tips straight down into his lap.

He looks up, startled.

Oh, my God.

"Oh, my God!" I whisper. I want to die. My face is flaming. "I am so, so sorry."

I turn to him completely and retrieve the bag of M&Ms. In desperation, I begin picking up the M&Ms that are over his blazer and in his lap.

"That's alright," he says politely.

I look up for a second, taken aback by his unexpectedly deep, gravelly voice. Then I resume picking them up and settling them into my bag.

His hand grabs mine suddenly. When I peer down, I realize I've been a little too close to his nether regions. Oh, God. Can I hurl myself out the window right now?

"I'm sorry," I whisper. I'm sure my face is ten shades redder.

He smirks and picks up the remaining M&Ms from his crotch and legs and settles them into my bag. "You don't need to apologize. It happens."

God, that voice.

He looks at me for the first time and our eyes meet as I nod like a moron.

His eyes aren't dark, I think to my surprise. They are bright, lit up with amusement. He looks at me, and his brow creases. Is that recognition I see in his eyes? I look away, mortified.

I settle back into my seat, flustered.

He leans a little closer, angling his body toward me, and I shrink back instinctively, but not before I catch a whiff of his cologne. He smells like the ocean, salt and sunshine and coconuts, and my stomach tightens, for some reason.

He narrows his eyes at me speculatively. Maybe he does this when he's thinking. Or maybe it's part of his player arsenal ----- I bet he uses this look a lot to charm the girls. Because, honesty? It makes him look all wicked and dangerous and hot.

"You're from Hana High." He says it as a statement. He knows this from my uniform, I tell myself. Not from the incident at the cafeteria. He has obviously forgotten about it. About me. I feel a momentary twinge of disappointment. Am I so forgettable?

"Yes," I whisper. I wonder if he thinks this whispery mumble is my normal speaking voice. I stare down at my feet. If I don't, I will be staring at his face. And once I do that, I don't think I can stop.

"Are you headed home?" he asks casually.

I swallow.

"Yes," I croak. Great, Aera. Way to go. Impress the hottest guy in school with monosyllabic grunts. I groan inwardly. Kill me, somebody. Put me out of my misery, please.

Against my will, I stare at him.

His eyes meanders from mine to a girl sitting on the other side, across the aisle, who is smiling at him. His gaze lingers on her longer than I'd have liked.

Damn, he's interested in her.

A wave of anger shoots through me. He's sitting next to me and he's checking out another girl. How rude is that? Not that I want him to check me out. Because I'm not the least bit interested in him. A player. Who obviously thinks all girls fall at his feet. But, still ---- I'm surprised by how hurt I feel.

"So you take the train to school." All his attention is drawn back to me. He's not looking at the simpering girl anymore. He's looking at me.

"Uh ---- yes." I compose my face into what I hope is a neutral, pleasant mask.

He looks at my mouth and then skims over every inch of my face.

The neutral, pleasant mask detonates into smithereens.

He leans back farther into his seat, long fingers laced together loosely on his taut, flat abdomen. The button near his thumb is half-loose. Oh, wait. I think it is the button. Minus the hair. Whatever my face does, it makes him glance down and rebutton it.

"The ride's a bit rough around the turns," he says, as the train jerks again, though not as strongly as before. "But," the corner of his mouth moves. "I'm here to catch you if you get flung into the air." Is he flirting with me? He's watching me, his eyes amused. Definitely flirting.

"I like being flung around," I blurt. Did I just say that? Seriously?

"Is that right?" His voice is liquid-soft, as his smile widens.

Suddenly leaning into me, he whispers, "You didn't need to do that."

I blink at him in surprise. "Do what?"

"You know what."  His eyes, barely a foot away from mine, stare into my own.

"You're incredibly beautiful," he says softly. "I would have noticed you even if you hadn't purposely dropped those Skittles into my lap. Next time a simple 'hello' would suffice."

My mouth falls open.

"You - you think I ----- I ----- I ----- " Did that on purpose is what I want to say. But something's happened to my tongue. It's coiled up in knots, and it's so thick and rubbery I can't get it to form the words.

"They're not Skittles. They're M&Ms" is what I finally say. Mumble, rather. Just give me a second and I'll collect my thoughts together, say something nasty, sarcastic, watch him squirm, hear him apologize -----

I open my mouth and begin indignantly, "I did not ---- "

"My stop," he cuts in.

What?

The train has come to a halt.

He stands up in a lithe, graceful motion.

"This is my stop," he says again, looking down at me, and strapping on his backpack. Then, mockingly, with an arch of those eyebrows: "It was very nice chatting with you."

He waits for me to respond, but I just stare mutely at him. Later, I will think of something clever, biting, to say. Later, I will wonder why I never slapped that condescending smirk off his arrogant face. But right now, I am a mindless, wordless thing, incapable of thought, of speech, of action. All I can do is sit like a dummy, one of those plastic mannequins with empty sockets that stare out of display windows at the stores, and blink stupidly at him.

He laughs, a husky, soft laugh. Lines fan out from the corners of his eyes.

Then with a nod, he turns his back to me, and slopes off to the doors.

I rub my palms down my forearms to flatten the tiny hairs that have sprung up as a result of that low, y laugh. I will not arch my head to try to see his retreating back. Even though I am highly tempted to do so.

I let out a lungful of air. Slump back against the seat.

And then I see his phone on the seat. It must have fallen out of his pants pocket.

I should chuck it out the window. Or stomp on it and ground it to dust.

I do neither of these things.

Instead, I leap to my feet.

And then I am plunging through the crush of people, shoving my elbows into a few bellies that stand in my way.

There he is. Stepping off the train, and -----

----- I grab the sleeve of his blazer.

Startled, he looks back. His eyes widen when they meet mine.

"Your phone," I pant, standing on the threshold of the train.

I can see my face mirrored behind him, on the window of the train parked in the next lane. I look like a crazy-eyed, wild-maned version of myself. My jagged long hair looks like I've spent the last hour ----- make that two hours ---- clawing at it.

I push the phone into his open palm. His hand brushes against mine, and a jolt of electricity zaps straight to my heart and all the way down to my toes.

He stares at me.

The air is suddenly thick and warm and humid, and I have the oddest sensation, like I'm swimming through it.

"What’s your name?" he suddenly asks. Rough. Urgent. As if he needs to know.

His eyes have gone dark and I feel a weird drop inside.

And ----

---- I step back.

The doors close between us.

He stands still, frozen to the concrete, watching me through the glass doors.

The train grinds slowly out toward the patch of open sky.

In seconds, he is out of sight.

 

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