Mark silently thanked the school's architects for designing windows in practice room 6. He cautiously glanced inside, and his eyes were drawn immediately to the tall dancer whose face he knew a little too well.

He discreetly observed every move the other made, fluid and precise. Mark could watch and get lost in the graceful dancing of Kim Jongin forever. He couldn't help but take his sketchbook and pencils out of his bag and sketch. Try and capture the most striking movements.

Mark didn't know how it happened, but at some point, Jongin seemed to sense someone watching him intensely. Suddenly, he halted and turned towards the window, looking Mark directly in the eye.

He had not been prepared for that. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and as quickly as he could, he scrambled his art tools together and ran. To where, he didn't know. As far as possible from the attractive Kim Jongin.

"Hey!" He heard that honey-dripping voice call out somewhere far behind him. "Wait!" But Mark wasn't planning on waiting or going back at all.

"Oh God," he mumbled when he found himself at a safe distance. "Oh God, oh God, oh God. He must think that I'm a creep, a stalker. This is hopeless. I am hopeless." When he eventually caught his breath, he tried to calm down, but his hands were still shaking. Finally, he came to the realisation that he had forgotten his sketchbook. Why does life hate me?